Not the prettiest day ever

It was all right on the walk up to the nearest decent grocery store to do my duty as a good roommate. The unsettled wintry weather was even kind of interesting. Big grey cumulus clouds intermittently obscured the cold sun. Lost snowflakes swirled furiously in the weak Sunday afternoon light. I pulled my scarf tighter around my neck and brushed the hair out of my face, glad to be moving my legs.

At C-Town, I even exhibited patience with the Park Slope parents, saying nothing when the little girl in front of me banged the pedal of her bicycle into my shin. (Yes, she had a bike in line at a food market. Don’t ask me. She was also wearing Crocs.)


But as soon as I began the trek back, the tote bag of groceries on my shoulder felt very heavy, and the twenty blocks home stretched out miserably in front of me. A wicked wind blasted me with city dust, and the dregs of Brooklyn--plastic bags, shreds of cardboard, beer cans--threw themselves at my ankles. I leaned into the frigid gusts and tried to avoid flying objects and kept my mouth grimly closed against the grime.

That’s when I realized there’s much that’s unpleasant about this lifestyle.

And no wonder New Yorkers eat so much take-out.

(Photos of swirling trash and bleakness in my neighborhood this afternoon by me.)