I’ve had some pretty remarkable things happen to me over the course of the past three weeks. Here’s how it all went down:
1. February 14th, 2009: I’m tucked into the back of a black towncar speeding my way through Times Square, reading a dirty text from last night’s date on my old-school, first-gen Razor that refuses to give up on me. I’m cursing the traffic that is making me late to the Alexander Wang fall runway show, twittering via BB, flirt-texting, going over the rest of the day’s shows, and responding to rapid-fire emails from the office simultaneously and with the ease that only comes with being a seasoned, multi-tasking New Yorker. My driver screeches up to Roseland. I eject myself swiftly from the car. I double air kiss no less than five people enroute to my seat. I make small-talk with my neighbor. I nod my head to the beat of the music while waiting for the show to start, wishing I could get up and dance. I strain forward as the first models come stomping out, trying to get a better look at the shoes. I applaud wildly at the end. I run out and leap into a cab to the Tents milliseconds after the show’s finale. I dig through my little black Chanel bag to continue previous flirt-texting exchange with Bachelor #2. I realize my old-timer Razor is gone, gone, gone.
END RESULT: Three long, Razor-less days later, a man comes driving up to my office, walks in and hands me my phone with no prior warning. Said man turns out to be my driver to the Alex Wang show, who had been trying to track me down since he realized I’d left my phone in his car in a fashion-week-frenzy. He called my mother and my friend Joy to obtain my work address and decided to simply deliver it himself instead of contacting me to arrange a more convenient (for him) pick up.
2. February 28th, 2009: I’m in the middle of a gorgeous, cavernous Upper East Side home at a Saturday night cocktail party that could’ve been taken right out of a scene from Gossip Girl. I’m sipping my vodka soda with lime, laughing and chatting with my date. The conversation suddenly moves into a rapid downward spiral into “complicated and uncomfortable” territory in which we’re trying to figure out where things stand. Questions like, “Do you want to date me?” are posed. Lies are seen leaving my mouth. I swallow three more vodka drinks as though they were Evian spring water. My descent into out-of-control drunkness begins. Fast forward three hours and just as many moments of awkwardness, and I’m at B Bar throwing back Patron shots at 4 a.m. trying to drown the conversations out of my head. My date escorts me out despite my adamant protests and carries me into bed. I wake up the next morning, bleary-eyed and contrite, and in between bites of scrambled eggs and bacon and half-hearted attempts at humor, I reach into my bag to try to piece the night—and my belongings—together. I realize my Blackberry is gone, gone, gone. And probably, so is Bachelor #1.
END RESULT: I get a call from bff Kelly on aforementioned old-school Razor the next day informing me that the manager of B Bar bbm’ed her to let her know that my Blackberry is with him and that I should pick it up anytime after 11 am.
3. March 6th, 2009: I’m wrapping up a first date with Bachelor #3 at the Bowery Hotel, when I get a text from bff Tina saying, “Where are you?? Join us for dinner? Zach’s in town! xoxo.” And just like that I’m off in a cab whizzing towards Goldbar for some apres-dinner, especially-well-made, cocktails. I arrive on the scene 14 minutes later and the drinks are flowing, the music is blasting, and the kids are partying hard, even for us. (Sometimes, it feels like we’ve got a bit of a death wish, doesn’t it, darlings?). After a few hours, we’re making our way to The Randolph for a nightcap. A glass of champagne materializes almost immediately and I lift my glass, make a silly toast, and giggle before tilting my head back and polishing it off in seconds. I put myself into a cab and call bff Kristian on the way home, launching into a vague, murmured account of the night before the driver pulls up in front of my downtown apartment building. I reach into my bag for something to pay him with. I realize my credit card is gone, gone, gone.
END RESULT: I get a Facebook message from a stranger named Chris Russell the next morning that reads: “Did you by any chance lose your credit card on Broome Street? I have it here at my firehouse. If it belongs to you, come on by and grab it.”
Three weeks, three lost personal belongings, three random acts of kindness from total strangers. I’ve always been a pretty lucky person (my mother always says I must’ve been born under the right star), but this seems extreme, especially for having taken place in NYC. Either my karma is getting stronger (I’ve been making a conscious effort lately to be a better person and do the right thing) or someone up there is trying to force me to count my blessings. Either way, I know I’ve got to “pay it forward,” keep the good vibes rolling, make someone else’s day, and be happier for it. It’s a chain reaction: like begets like.
So go bake cookies for your office, return that lost iPod you found in the back of a taxi, call your mom just to tell her you love her, buy the stranger in line behind you their Starbucks coffee for the day. Like I said, like begets like, happiness begets happiness, and love begets love. And we could all use a little more of that.
