Last Sunday we woke up to a fridge so empty that even I – who eats the most random and disgusting of combinations – couldn’t find a thing to eat.
Since sending Ali to the grocery store has proven to be an exercise in answering 1,000 questions about products on the grocery list and their exact location on the grocery store shelf, fielding several phone calls about how something simply does not exist, and then lamenting missing items upon return, I decided to hit the grocery store solo.
And 5 steps later I learned exactly what freezing rain is.
At this point I realized I had to make a decision. Continue walking the ¾ of a mile to the store and risk breaking my neck? Or just be hungry. And deal with a hungry (and therefore cranky) Ali and Maya as well.
Obviously I had no choice but to go with Option A.
20 minutes later I nearly jumped for joy when I safely reached Trader Joe’s. I quickly bought whatever I could carry, congratulated myself on missing the usual weekend TJ-chaos, and headed home.
But my congratulatory mood was a bit premature because when I was no more than 5 minutes from our front door, I slipped on ice, fell on my @#$, and watched as Maya’s coveted hash browns rolled down the street.
The worst part of the whole situation wasn’t that my groceries were all over the filthy NYC streets, or that my beautiful new messenger bag was soaking wet, or that I felt like the world’s biggest idiot because every time I tried to stand up I slipped again.
No, the worst part was that the man walking his dog in front of me, and the guy two feet behind me couldn’t have cared less that I’d fallen and couldn’t get up. Forget offering me a hand, or even calling out a “Are you okay?” They didn’t even glance over twice.
I think it’s safe to say that chivalry is officially dead.