Caution: Objects may be closer than they appear. (Especially if you have big ol’ hips.)
We finally said goodbye to our Christmas tree yesterday, and thank God for that. Vin teared up a little, but I was ready to see it go. The month of December was like one one big reminder that I have child-bearing hips and no spatial awareness. Putting a six-foot tree in our small living room was like trying to park an RV in a two-car garage. It changed the dimensions of our living and walking space in a dramatic way, one that I never quite adjusted to. Every time I tried to make it to the couch I’d brush against the pine and stiff needles scattered like confetti. The ornaments hung on for dear life, waiting for me barrel through the room and hip-check them to the ground. The puffy cotton ones merely braced themselves for impact, like tiny colorful airbags, but the vintage glass balls actually held their breath and quivered. They knew their days were numbered sharing space with me.
This is a common problem in New York because every place (with the exception of the parks and the libraries) is about four times smaller than it would be in any other city. Restaurants are so tight you could easily go family style with the next table. Coffee shop seating is so limited you usually can’t get a seat until you’re already on your second cup. There’s a famous bakery called Levain that makes the best $4 chocolate chip and walnut cookie on the planet, but to get one you must endure a 15-minute wait on the sidewalk before going down three cramped concrete steps into a dark basement you’ll share with two stools and 20 people. And don’t get me started on grocery stores here. Only one cart can squeeze through the aisles at any given time, and you have to abandon it altogether to acquire certain merchandise. I’ve knocked entire rows of chips off the wall at my local Trade Fair trying to let someone by.
Yesterday we ate at a restaurant so tight I had to remove my winter coat in order to get to my chair without knocking someone out. We were stuffed into a tiny corner of a busy place, and it was one of those game-time decisions when I had to decide whether it was better to give the girls at the next table a view of my butt or a view of my crotch (#team butt). Once seated, I made sure to stay put until my meal was complete and they had already taken off. I used that opportunity to move their table over before shimmying out, and I STILL managed to knock three pieces of silverware off our table. I then went to the bathroom and proceeded to turn on the hand-dryer three times just by being in the room. Still, I am used to this dance; my own bathroom is so tiny that I knock the toilet paper roll off the wall every time I bend down to grab something under the sink.
(My bedroom in its rawest form. I’ve yet to find bedside tables to fit (currently using plant stands) and I’m terrified to hang anything on my side of the wall that involves glass. Those 2 a.m. pee runs could get dangerous)
It would be easy to blame all this on tight spaces and big hips, but I’m starting to wonder if perhaps there is another problem at play. This morning I managed to get my thumb stuck in the back of my alarm clock while turning it off. It took me about thirty seconds and some soft whimpering to get it out, but I can honestly say I haven’t felt that awake first thing in the morning in a very long time, so that was a pretty good start to the week already. But the real win was walking through the wide aisles of my tree-less living room without brushing anything to the floor.
Thank God it’s Monday.