Running in Heels
Thursday, July 12th, 2007I had exactly 12 minutes. And 8 city blocks.
Earlier this week, I began my second quarter of the Fashion Merchandising program in which I’m enrolled. I should have been excited to get back to something I’m so passionate about, but after a couple of late nights and another boring day wasted in a cube in the burbs, I just couldn’t get enthused about sitting in class for 3 hours. Plus, it was going to rain and I didn’t have an umbrella with me. I began to formulate a plan to bail on my first night of class to go home and crawl into bed.
Instead, I found myself running down Madison at the peak of rush hour, trying to outrun the impending storm. I was self-conscious at first…are people looking at me strange? Can they tell I’m not a ‘runner’? But as the rain began to fall, and the drops grew bigger and more frequent, I clutched my handbag and let loose.
Pearls flying, I sprinted like Carrie running in her Manolos to get her dry cleaning (me sans Manolos of course). Laughing and slipping, I lunged through the crowds of grumbly commuters, dodging their tottering umbrellas and nomad-like knapsacks. I darted from awning to overhang, hopping over greasy street puddles, timing the crosswalk lights and traffic. I was short on time with a very important place to be.
Panting and out-of-breath, I arrived a mere two minutes late with wet hair and a soaked floral sundress. I looked about the classroom filled with impeccably dressed future designers and color-coordinated merchandisers, realizing just how out of place I appeared.
But for once, I didn’t care a bit. For once, I knew differently.
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