The Effects of Pharmaceutical Methamphetamine on a Girl Boss
It takes a second for your medication to hit.
You’re going to crush your meeting today. First, is there time for coffee? If you leave in the next two minutes then you can go to the place on Broome. No, that place always has a long line and the baristas talk too much; go to the place on Prince St. instead. Perfect. Walking down into the lobby of your building, you should stop and check your mailbox but no, no time, focus. You’re nervous about the meeting—no, you can’t admit that, you lose a little bit of respect for yourself each time. “You make yourself small when you look up to others.” That was either Buddha or Naval.
Walking outside, it’s the whole world. You nearly bump into a homeless Chinese woman pulling a giant cart of crushed cans. The air is tinged with hot garbage. A siren shrieks maybe one block away causing you to look around. It’s almost overwhelming. Holy shit, it's a beautiful day. This summer has been so bad, just wet and rainy, and now it’s hotter than it’s ever been and like it’s already hard enough living in New York City and it’s been a bit depressing if you’re being honest but there’s no other place you’d rather be; well, maybe a cabin in Connecticut or a retreat in Sedona or even just a girls’ weekend in Tahoe, unplugging, but other than that you’re happy being here. “It’s not about being happy, it’s about being productive.” That one was definitely Naval.
Four blocks from the coffee place, you double-check the flowers you ordered for the Chicks Can Program mixer tonight. This year’s CCP cohort was kind of a waste of time but it was nice to have a part of your life that was altruistically good, which is rare and worth the two hours a week, usually. The last Monday of every month was a catered mixer where you tried to introduce the girls to all kinds of culture and things in life they wouldn’t normally see. Most of those girls probably don’t even have a place they can get a boxed water and just vibe for an hour so you’re happy to give them that.
You get a text. Your meeting was moved up. Don’t panic. That’s fine; you can make it work. Besides, respond saying you should move the meeting to the Garden around the corner and you can show up looking very smart with your coffee.
But then, just one block from the coffee shop, within sight of the door and sign out front that always has a cute little message, you get an e-mail from the caterer cancelling. You’re stunned. You can’t walk. You dip inside of a Duane Reade to get your bearings. You knew you had a bad feeling about ordering Mexican. There’s no time to find a replacement. Write a long-worded response saying you understand—well it starts as understanding but you kind of let it morph into something between an embarrassing plea and a threat. Whatever, you can just order some pizzas.
Back outside, there’s a line for coffee as if things can’t get worse and there probably isn’t even one at the other place. Who are all of these people? Tourists and new transplants from the suburbs of Chicago; ugh, go home. You notice you’re sweating pretty intensely. That reminds you how last night you found a grey hair; and not just one but at least six. You went to ask Grok what to do and you saw a notification from a GP at a VC who has a son older than you asking about mentoring you and taking you to dinner. You still haven’t responded. If you do take the meeting, you won’t tell your boyfriend about it this time. You order a large black coffee and a blueberry muffin. The cashier tells you some number you don’t even hear and you nod and smile, incredibly calm, and tip the suggested 30% like you’re being held at gunpoint.
Walking to the Elizabeth Street Garden, you’re getting nervous and maybe it’s the approaching meeting that’s making your heart race in your chest, skipping beats so it can’t possibly go faster. It feels like you’re floating, above everything, so people walking past on the sidewalk are on some level below you, down with the grime.
The Garden, as the unforgiving humidity of the city comes alive, is the most beautiful place in all of Manhattan. A sign on the giant iron gate begs residents to SAVE THE GARDEN! with a QR code for anyone wanting more information. Just inside, a yoga class of white women in hijabs is in the midst of Child Pose, mats arranged too closely together across the grass. Giant empty clay pots are scattered around, wanting for any of the nearby flora. All around the corner from the best shopping in the world. This is Eden. How dare they try and turn it into housing for the elderly.
There, always able to snag one of the coveted metal tables, your fate awaits you, smiling in the sweater you got him last Christmas, hair messy so it’s almost offensive to mom that he left the house looking this not put together. The muffin is for him and you hand it over, ready to let it run interference while you perform the pitch you’ve been rehearsing in the back of your mind all morning about how this will be the last, truly, last time, but as he says “thanks princess” and bites into the blueberry pastry, you know an ACH transfer is coming your way. It will all work out. Good. Sip your coffee now. Good.
