Chase (v): To follow rapidly in order to catch (this could pertain to my career), to go and follow in pursuit (I think I’ll assign this to love)

I wish I had a PhD in life, unfortunately I don’t. It’s a hard thing to do and being an independent woman in Boston doesn’t make it any easier; I’m a triple A, work till I drop, laugh a lot because I can, walk fast, talk fast kinda girl. I do it all and I do it in 5 inch heels.

You would think navigating a career and a new relationship while breaking the age barrier of 30 would be as easy as getting home in a timely manner during a sox-yankees series (this ladies and gents is sarcasm at its finest). However it is not and I am stumbling through this cray cray life one day at a time with a iPhone in one hand and a glass of wine in the other.

These are my daily musings; my everyday observations. I am here to rave, rant , tell my stories and perhaps laugh at those times when wine and over priced shoes, tears just aren’t enough.

So what happens after you caught Prince Charming? You could say I’m still Chasing Boston.




Monday, December 5, 2011

Season 3: Episode 19: “You Spin Me Right Round Baby”

My day job consists of 2 things: commuting through the suit jungle of downtown and (as I like to say) Bossing around 3 Corporate VIP’s. I was super hesitant to get on the 8am train to Corporate America for one particular reason; nothing in my wardrobe was really professionally appropriate. I’m lucky that I work in a small office where we are the rebel step child of big brother, so my purple taffeta mini gets much mileage, as do my 6in velvet platform T-straps, not at the same time of course….Moving on!!

It was a Tuesday and I was in full commute mode through downtown crossing. I was strategizing my day and rocking out to Huey Lewis & The News, when I realized a semi tall, semi good looking guy walking semi behind me. It took a few blocks to notice that every time we crossed the street he would move to either the left or right, depending on which direction the traffic was coming and escort me safely to the other side. As we navigated through the buildings that Occupy Boston is currently protesting, he would rush to hold any doors that got in our way. I see a lot of shocking things, but I was slapped in the face with surprise; could it be? A real gentleman, wearing a real suit fully equipped with a pocket square none the less?!?!, be still my heart!! We arrived at my building and it dawned on me that it was actually “our” building. There was one thing that stood between us and a perfect elevator conversation and it was one revolving door.

The Stately Rule book of Gentleman-hood 101 clearly expresses that the man should enter the revolving door first, thus engaging the inertia of energy forward so that the woman doesn’t have to push so hard. So when he motioned that I go first, I was willing to overlook this as sometimes that act can be taken the wrong way, specifically from those “uneducated woman” this was a classic case of Men Thought vs. Woman Thought. I had conjured up the perfect sassy conversation starter and as I was rehearsing my flirtatious smile, my oversized bag became lodged between the door and the wall…..

The door came to a screaming halt.

(The following sequence of events happened within a mere 3 seconds…)

I naturally wanted to get my bag unstuck so I tugged as hard as I could, and as I tugged, Mr. by the Book came slamming face first into the glass panel behind me. Being the taller man that he was, the weight of his face plant partnered with the fact that the noise sent me into a terrified jerk, UN lodged my bag and sent the door into a full on revolve. In 5 inch stilettos and a short skirt, I came flying, spread eagle style, out the other side. I shot across “our” lobby; face down ass up, my skirt was well above my waist and my obsession with expensive undergarments exposed for all on the marble floor of 100 Federal. A happy Tuesday it was.

I lay on the floor praying to Lord Stanley that what had just transpired was a huge figment of my imagination….then I felt 2 hands flip me over and as I opened my eyes one by one, Mr. BTB was staring at me with 2 bruised peepers, a swollen lip and a nose that was freshly broken. With one hand holding his face and the other extended to help, even through mass trauma; he was still following every rule.

After the shock wore off, I started to hysterically laugh. I think I muttered out an “I’m so sorry” but it was completely muffled throughout my giggles and it didn’t help when he recanted that he had never seen a girl eat so much marble. Once semi calm I offered to get him some ice or at least hail him a cab to the doctors, but he, in true gentleman form declined. He escorted me to the elevator and through a laugh spoke of hopes that he could run into me again.
It wasn’t until an hour later that I realized that he wasn’t laughing at the situation, but moreover that my skirt had gotten lodged in the elastic band of my underwear and my makeup looked like I was the second coming of Ke$ha.

I never did see him again, but that’s ok. All of the security guards now hold my door for me every morning upon my arrival…………I can only imagine how many times that security tape has been played.