Jessie here. There are a few vital things you need to know about me, and most of them will come out eventually. However, the first thing you MUST know in order to paint a full picture of my role in every situation in which I find myself is this-
Not, like, Zooey Deschanel, breaking a heel and/or falling into [an invariably gorgeous male] someone’s waiting beautiful lips. REALLY awkward.
Like the time my ex was holding a limbo bar and coyly said I “had” to go under it to get past him. And I fell on my ass. In a short skirt. And exposed my crotch to the fifty (give or take) attractive 20-somethings present.
Or the time I fell UP the stairs of my office’s marble lobby,- wearing flats, mind you- creating an impossible-to-ignore crash, spilling a giant iced coffee, and FINALLY getting the attention of my office crush…who, by the way, is the only straight male in the building.
Or the time I went to gently tap a business acquaintance “hello,” lost my balance, and instead fell into him in what I am sure he took to be an attempted eager embrace.
Or the time…ok, you get the idea.
It is for these reasons, amongst others, that I was originally dubbed The Jessie of the Group. The Jessie is the runt of the litter, if you will. If someone is picked on, it is her. If someone falls over in a spastic fit of weirdness, it is her. She is, without a doubt, the most predictably unlucky one of any bunch, but she is loved fiercely (and she knows it!).
So we started this blog, and this seemed an appropriate introduction to who I am as a member of this wonderful group of girls. Then, Monday morning happened, and your introduction to me became way more colorful.
I left my apartment this morning at 6:05, ready to catch the downtown train for a 6:45 spin class. Upon reaching the subway hub, I realized I had just missed my train, and would miss my class unless I opted for a cab.
The taxi driver who picked me up clearly had no idea where I was going-
Me: “Broadway and Vesey, please.”
Me: “Yes, Vesey…”
Driver: “…I know where Broadway is!”
Me: “…Broadway is a very long street. Can you just drop me at Broadway and Barclay? It’s right by Park Row.”
Driver: “Ah yes I know where Barclay is! Great!”
The driver proceeded to drive three blocks past Vesey, at which point he’d still made no indication of slowing. I had him pull over at that point and began to exit the vehicle.
I was carrying three bags- purse, laptop bag, tote full of work clothes- and as I opened the door, my tote started to tumble. It hit the ground, upside down, in a puddle of dirty, soapy drain water that had just been power hosed down the sidewalk. Lovely.
Fast-forward an hour and a half. I’ve spun the crap out of my stupid little bike in my stupid four person class (!!!) to stupid techno music (I’m sorry, if you play techno in a spin class you should seriously be barred from ever teaching an athletic class and/or having an opinion on music at all, EVER), I’ve showered, and I am on my way out the door. Cue the downpour. It’s cool, guys, i’m just wearing a thin white tank top, en bee dee. Certainly a venti iced coffee from Starbucks will cure what ails me!
I stop at Starbucks, grab my coffee (shockingly fast service today), and run to work. I’m drenched, but whatever. I somehow don’t look dirty and am moderately presentable so it’s all a wash, right?
I look down at my savior, my icy cool source of caffeine, about twenty minutes later, and I see something. Little specks of white, floating atop my iced Pike’s Place.
It’s half and half. There is sour half and half, drifting happily at the top of my [half consumed] coffee.
And that, my friends, is the role that I occupy in the International Super Friends.
Oh! I’m also the one who talks a lot.