You know you are getting old when the only items on your Christmas list are suits, nice jewelry and other accessories that can and should be worn in the work place. I asked for these things mostly because I was tired of being mistaken for an Occupy DC protestor at the office, and I just don't have a grand to drop on clothing right now. (But I do have a grand to drop on a computer, which was part of my two-month hiatus -- sorry.)
So in true growing up fashion, I decided to start my "New Year, New You," campaign today. I think it might be time to cancel my cable because I assume that is the only place I get these absurd ideas. Anyway, I wore my first skirt suit today. Yup, not just a suit...I had to go all D.C. and get a skirt suit. Don't worry though, I will NEVER pair it with sneakers and pantyhose. If I start doing that shit, you can slap me.
Well needless to say, halfway through my walk to work, I realized that I am not quite comfortable with my new found adult status. About three blocks from work I realized I looked like a total turd. A real big turd -- the kind you can't polish. I couldn't go home though, I was already running late (of course).
Now, this is a mighty fine suit, but there were aggravating factors that made this outfit look like something Mary Poppins might wear had she graduated from the Professional Bag Lady Academy. The skirt was down to my knees, if not longer. I had to switch to flats mid-day because my feet were achin', and my hair was in a very haphazardly arranged ponytail. Oooh, and I had to carry my lunch in a resuable grocery bag because my new purse is a wee bit small.
Actually, now that I think of it, it was some Benjamin Button shit. It is like a 50-something crazy cat lady being nominated for "What Not to Wear" and a 5-year-old girl trying on her mother's clothes, playing secretary at the kitchen table got stuck in the Freaky Friday machine and spit my ass out. So upon realizing this, I decided that maybe, just maybe, I will wait to break out my Laura Bush skirt suits until I have them properly tailored, or until I wait and wait and wait and realize I have a huge meeting coming up.
And although I don't think I am quite a grown up yet, I do believe I am coming down with a mean case of senility.
In typical Jamie fashion, I decided to get a head start on this year's panic attacks by losing my wallet whilst completely sober. I mean, this tends to happen every other weekend, but this time it was a doozy. Sit back and enjoy:
'Twas two days before New Year's Eve and all through the city, people were getting drunk, people were getting shitty.
So Jamie decided that since no one would be in the office on Friday and it was a half day because she was heading to the "Switzerland of America" (aka Colorado), she would actually get her ass ready and go out on a weekday!
After checking her suitcase for the 359th time, Jamie decided she was done packing for the night. Surely she had everything she needed, even an emergency dress in case she wanted to get sexy in a cabin in the middle of nowhere. (You never know who you might have to impress, ladies.)
She hopped in a cab and was off like a rocket as she searched frantically for cash in her purse and her pocket.
She managed to find a twenty tucked neatly into her wallet, so she paid the dear taxi driver and wished him a good night. She then scampered out of the cab and up the steps to the bar to meet her friends. When she got to the doorman she realized something, something horrible. Her ID wasn't there.
Oh and not just her ID, her entire wallet.
She ran down the stairs with tears in her eyes, poured out her purse in the street and cried "Lies! Lies! Lies!"
She realized she must've left the sacred billfold in the backseat of the cab -- all alone in that backseat with dried bits of vomit and the dignity of others. She paced up and down the block with her hand over her open mouth. In a state of utter shock, she began texting people, letting them know what happened, begging and pleading for their advice and generally being a miserable mess of irresponsibility.
Some offered money for a cab ride home, others offered solutions like calling the cab association. It was no use. She could barely think straight. I mean, she had to get on a plane the next day and she had no ID....and god forbid she ever go on vacation and NOT be able to drink! How dare you suggest that!
Realizing that the DC Cab Commission operating hours ended at 4 p.m. and that she had no idea which one-man cab operation she took to the bar, Jamie shrunk to the ground, sat on the curb and pretty much quit.
Then out of nowhere came a valet in blue, a man with an accent, a man with a clue!
He said to Jamie, "Miss. Your ID. You drop. I give to cops." After getting over the fact that it took him about twenty minutes to bring this to her attention -- despite her walking the streets on the verge of tears and mouth all agape -- she ran to the Russian valet and asked for more information. He explained that he found it in the intersection right next to the cab and turned it over to two 'undercover' cops in a white Impala.
Oh great, Jamie thought. He gave my wallet to two strangers. The wallet could very well be making its way to the liquor store right now, only Jamie would not be partaking in this party. She was busy trying to figure out how to get her wallet back.
Then at the corner Jamie noticed blue lights a-flashin', and she ran over to the car in a maniacal fashion. She knocked on the window, knocked on the door. The policemen must've thought, "Who the hell is this whore?"
The officers rolled down the window and the valet told them his story. They seemed to know exactly who these two undercovers were. And the officers agreed to call the other pair and see just what happened. They had Jamie stand in the light of their patrol car, in the middle of the street in downtown DC. Passers-by assumed the worst -- busted for drunk walking! But they were oh so wrong, for Jamie had not even had a beer yet.
They called her back over and delievered the good news. The undercovers had her wallet and were en route to her apartment. Instead of leaving the wallet with the front desk at Jamie's apartment, the undercovers agreed to swing back around and personally deliver the goods.
Jamie waited patiently on the side of the street, when the white Impala pulled up and handed over her black leather billfold, all together and neat. She thanked the officers and valet profusely, and headed back to the bar holding her wallet every which way but loosely.
Now, there is your heartwarming holiday story. Goodnight, kiddos!
