The morning after a night out in New York City feels like you’re walking through Jell-O. Everything is muffled. The imprint of last night’s camera flash and club black light is burned into the backs of your eyelids. Everything is hazy. Threads of sunlight peek from under your bedroom door.
Even though I’m spent from the night before, my body always wakes up before noon as I’m peer pressured by my own FOMO of the city. I drag myself out of bed and drink a whole Nalgene bottle of lukewarm tap water my past self so graciously prepared for this current weathered version of me. Suddenly every texture of my bed is magnified. I feel every tuft in my mattress past all the folds of cheap Ikea sheets. My hair stains my pillows with the smell of cigarette smoke, sweat, and hairspray.
I’m usually out the door after a bit of restlessly swiping my bare feet under my sheets and rolling around so I don’t fall asleep again. After brushing my teeth and pulling on the first pair of sweatpants I see on the floor, I make my way to my regular bodega. I tasked myself with getting both Luca, my roommate and twin, and my hangover cures. Bodega is a term my Brooklynite parents never heard of until I myself moved to New York. They always called these places the deli or the corner store.
Suddenly I’m a hunter-gatherer. Luca is usually incapacitated at this point so I’m now on a quest. I order two bacon, egg, and cheeses from the counter. I already know my face is grey, my eyes sunken, and my hair lifeless. The deli man must know how my night went. I grab two Gatorades, two packets of Advil, and a hot black coffee for myself to concentrate on holding–the one anchor keeping me from keeling over.
Waiting for my sandwiches is another quest in itself. I’m overstimulated by the various snacks and drinks. Peanut M&M’s, pretzel M&M’s, lemon loaf slices, black and white cookies, honey buns, every flavor of pocket-sized packets of Halls cough drops. I profile every person that walks in and guess what they might order. An old man scuttles in, clad in a fisherman’s sweater and windbreaker–turkey, cheddar, tomato on rye. A man in running attire– tuna salad and onion on an everything bagel. A millennial transplant with a New Yorker tote bag–sesame bagel, scallion cream cheese with tomatoes.
The deli man calls me over and puts everything in a banned plastic bag. He gives me a sleeve for my coffee that I haven’t registered is walking on a thin line before scalding my hands. I make the short walk back to my apartment, barely walking in a straight line. I observe every face I pass thinking they don’t know my little secret–that I have yummy treats in my bag.
I come bearing gifts, I say as I unlock the door and alert Luca with the sound of my keys jangling around. I feel accomplished as I devour the salty sandwich in just a few minutes, washing it down with interchanging sips of coffee and my favorite yellow Gatorade. Post-Advil, I slip back into my unmade bed and nap until 2 pm. Mission accomplished.
That’s it for this week! Until next week. Peace and love.