My mother told me it’s OK to refresh your lipstick in public.
But no more than that. Everything else – mascara, concealer, eyeliner – should be saved for the restroom.
I winced each time the subway jostled this lady while she had pointy things by her eyes.
Fortunately my regular train, the L, is back in service now.
Recently I loved this city a little less.
Well, that’s not entirely fair. Recently I hated the L train and an animal* that rode the crowded subway next to me.
“A crowded train is no excuse for unwanted sexual contact” the MTA announces via recording periodically, suggesting riders report issues to station managers or train conductors.
Four months later, it still happens.
Sometimes it’s when I’m leaving the office for the night, and I’m surrounded by skyscrapers gleaming against an early evening sky. Or taking a cab across the Williamsburg Bridge.
But more mundane moments do it too. Like riding the subway…
Or noticing my coffee cup’s Brooklyn, NY stamp.
Or looking up at the light-up sign showing the subway’s east-west progress.
That’s when it hits me: I live here. I’m not visiting.
New York City is home again.