I had a lovely evening last night.
In the spring, on one of my rare departures from Chelsea, I met my cousin for a drink in SOHO and started chatting with the lovely couple that was seated near us at the bar. Business cards were exchanged and somehow we stayed in touch over email. Last night, I saw them again for the first time since that night and it was delightful.
Despite the bad rep that New Yorkers have outside the island, we are a friendly bunch. Sure, sometimes it can be attributed more to nosiness than friendliness, and/or it might be an inevitable side effect of living in a crowded city (I have trouble writing that last bit with a straight face. NYC is hardly crowded after Beijing and Hong Kong), but regardless, we are a talkative, friendly bunch. Especially in a bar, with a couple of drinks already tucked away.
Of course, many of us are freaks. So rarely does a friendly chat at a bar turn into a real friendship, or even an invitation to additional "sightings."
But sometimes, it is glaringly obvious that the people you are talking to, are LOVELY. And that's not something that happens every day.
They are going to Westchester on an upcoming Saturday to run around the countryside with shotguns. Now don't get the wrong idea. This isn't a common activity in their world. And I have been invited.
I am so excited I can barely sit still. I've gone skeet shooting only once before, flaunted a badly bruised shoulder afterward, and loved every second of it.
It is practice for when I am old and perched on an Eames Lounge chair, clad in Prada, wearing Chanel N°19, chain-smoking through a foot-long cigarette holder, and taking shots at all the ugly fat people I see with my 12 gauge.
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