Miss Thing

Tuesday on the subway running from a meeting with the client to a meeting with my daughter’s psychologist (psychiatrist? Counselor? I probably should know that…). 2 in the afternoon, never had lunch (justifies the extra muffin), not going to get lunch, (justifies the cookies and mixto at 4:30 (mistos? How do I get through my life with this little attention to detail?)) and I’m huffing up the stairs at the 77th street station, five minutes behind schedule because the 6 is always….just….leaving… Grand Central as I flythroughtheturnstileanddownthestairsgetoutofmywaypeople…rats! And going up the stairs right in front of me is the most tight-jeaned, jherri-curled, cropped-jacket, big-earring, trendy-bag young woman that ever sauntered at a leisurely hip-swinging pace in knockoff Manolos. Everything about her screamed ‘I’m just walking because my butt looks good doing it.’ As I cut ever so Legolas-lithely around her (huff, huff) I whispered under my breath, “Excuse me, Miss Thing. But I’m Miss Things To Do.”