It is 8:25 and I am setting off for work, on foot, because Fatty is once again trying to take over my body. (Fatty is one of my many alternate personalities, the others being Party Jen, Jennie Smash and Wolfgirl. You’ll note that they all seem to be Id-based.)
It’s two miles, more or less, from my home in the Lower East Side to Chelsea, where my office is. If you don’t hear from me by, say 9:15 or so, call someone.
Why do I say that? Because I will be wearing my Red Sox cap on this particular jaunt.
Mind you, last year I wore my Sox cap in New York at this time of year, and had no problems. But there’s been a particularly nasty shift since then, and well, let’s just say I might be taking my life into my own hands.
A couple days ago, I had a particularly tense discussion with a friend of mine over IM, who wondered why I wasn’t wearing my cap, to which I responded, “Well, we don’t so much wear hats in New York. It’s not like Boston that way.” This did not go over well. (Note: If you’re from Boston, and speaking to a Bostonian who still lives in Boston, do not say “we” when discussing New Yorkers. You will be flayed alive over the Internets.)
And it’s true: People in New York do not wear caps, especially to work. However, after last night? I’m desperate. If looking like a fool will help my boys, well, it seems like the least I can do. And since I firmly believe in magical thinking, you’ll have to excuse me while I go adjust my cap.
ETA: I love New York. No one said a word to me — except for one dude in a Sox cap who yelled, “YAH, Boston!”