Tears in the Concrete Jungle
I was crossing Park Avenue today and I ate it. I faceplanted in front of yellow cabs and the rich and famous high above in their penthouses.
I stepped on a piece of clear trash — a flat plastic thing — and went flying head first. I didn’t realize what had happened until the pavement was an inch from my face.
I slowly pushed myself up as I grabbed my nose, checking that it wasn’t broken, and sat there for a second in disbelief.
All at the same moment, the jolt and scariness of it hit me as I realized I’d ripped a hole in my jeans and skinned my knee. Again, I checked my nose to see if it was bleeding and I began to cry like a child.
A nice driver in a shiny black escalade stopped and asked if I was okay and if I needed a ride to the hospital. It seemed that I was in one piece so I thanked him and explained that I would be okay.
But it didn’t stop me from crying a full-out ugly cry complete with hyperventilating. I was one of those crying in the sea of people that is Manhattan — like a little girl, who left her “grown up mask” on the street.
I’ve only recently become aware that people cry on the sidewalks in New York City. It makes sense. I mean, where else would they do it? It just means their grief outweighs their possible social embarrassment, therefore, their pain comes into your personal space.
I just think my fall tonight was kind of a good insight into my life in New York City…it is a tough existence — at any moment I can fall flat at work or personally. I can be hurt beyond words. Shocked even. But still, I get up.
And I am so thankful to the man who checked on me because it reminded me that there will always be someone around who cares. Not only is the city is full of people who will come to the rescue of someone in need or in pain, but so it is in my own life.