Weekdays always start at 5:30 a.m.
As I get dressed, grab my pre-made lunch bag, warm up my pre-made coffee, and drive focusing on my BlackBerry's emails rather than the road, I catch the 6:15 a.m. PATH to 33rd Street. As I sit on the warm plastic seats, I catch my tiny reflection on the squared screen of my BlackBerry to see my previously straightened hair now intensely frizzy. I try to make it better by putting my side baby hairs behind my ears, but it doesn't make much of a difference. I sigh, pushing my hair back, and think to myself "what's the use" and return to squinting my eyes back onto the small screen.
After 14 minutes exactly, I walk my way to the escalators, while rubbing germ-X on both of my sweaty and clammy hands. I make my way through the hundred humans and finally arrive at my office. As I sit on my wine colored leather chair, I spend hours staring at the millions of pixels that formulate my computer screen. I answer phone calls and feel my office warming up as the sun rays steam intensely through the glass windows.
I go outside for lunch across the busy street, where I can finally take off my light grey blazer, but I embarrassingly realize my white tank top under me is stained from my own sweat. I gulp down three ice-cold glass cups of water quickly and begin to feel my body starting to cool. I munch on a chicken caesar salad today and watch strangers walk by outside through the windows of the restaurant. I see two little boys eating ice cream - the blonde one has what seems to be chocolate ice cream, dripping down his royal blue Ralph Lauren polo shirt.
Meanwhile, the other young blonde boy, a bit taller than the first, swirls his tongue around the edges of the vanilla coned, pink-colored ice cream, which I assume is strawberry flavored. I watch an elderly couple pass by holding hands and carrying large water bottles. I see a young shirtless, toned man running at a steady pace. His iPhone is attached to his muscular arm and is the source for his headphones, in which I assume are playing some sort of upbeat music. I pay attention to his back since he is profusely wet until he disappears.
I have 14 yellow Post-it notes waiting for me on my desk when I return, all written in the same messy cursive and almost illegible handwriting from my secretary Mindy. I call her inside and ask her the reason behind this sudden chaos, and while she begins to explain, I am distracted by the pungent pheromones due to her presence, along with her long dark curly hair, forcefully wet on the top of her forehead. She wipes off the drips of water on top of her red painted lips as she speaks.
On my way back home in the late evening, I look up from my tiny squared screen and close my eyes for the last few minutes on the crowded transportive cart. I feel my pores discharging my naturally produced moistures on almost every corner of my warm body until I finally get home and dip my feet in my ice cold tub.
