4:30 p.m. The sky turns a shade so dark that everyone turns from their computer screens to comment. Rain pounds the office windows like wet laundry thwapping from a clothesline. Coworkers agree apocalypse could potentially be upon us.
5:15 p.m. Joe (work husband) and I venture out, using the underground passageways that snake beneath and around Rockefeller Center. I think: it took me one year to learn to deftly navigate this subterranean labyrinth, but I’m officially a real New Yorker now! Minutes later, I accidentally lead us into a law firm around 51st street and we’re forced to make a hasty retreat to the street.
5:45 p.m.: I drink a champagne cocktail too fast at a work event.
6:30 p.m.: I catch a cab with an extremely chatty driver. He is saying something about hail and cutting through Central Park and a previous passenger who did not like the fact that he parked under a tree. I am intently and drunkenly texting Dave about his evening plans (going somewhere called The Pony Bar) and then intently and drunkenly texting Bridget, who confirms that The Pony Bar does, indeed, sound like the name of a place where women take off their tops for money.
6:45 p.m. I arrive home to manic puppy (on the upswing.) Dave gets out at a reasonable hour and we take her for a walk together. I am high off of the champagne cocktail and the leaves shaking the dregs of the rain onto York Avenue and the fact that I’m walking beside my husband in New York City on a Wednesday evening in the summertime. But mostly the champagne; that was a serious drink.
7:30 p.m. Dave pulls up the Pony Bar website, proving it’s actually a craft brewery. Who knew?
8:00 p.m.: Dave leaves for the titty craft beer bar. I make myself Danish pancakes. (Frozen, from Trader Joe’s, with apricot jam.) They’re more donut than pancake and I love them fiercely.
8:40 p.m. I start fucking around online.
8:41 p.m. I remember Megan now lives across the street.
8:49 p.m. Megan arrives at my door. We now get to fuck around online together – rearranging my wedding photo album proofs, scrolling through Time Out New York’s activities calendar, getting giddy over the idea of crafts classes and Brooklyn bike rides.We also do a midweek update, hashing out the events of our respective Sundays, Mondays and Tuesdays in a manner I assume is typical of sisters, though I’ve never had a real one, or perhaps of best friends who are also certified psychoanalysts. We haven’t seen each other since Saturday night and there’s a lot to talk about. The champagne’s faded by now but man, I’m still high on this silly little life of mine.