Girl Trouble

Tag : trendy t-shirts
It’s the time of summer we all dread. Here in Manhattan,it’s become the anti-Mecca, the yearly event we know iscoming but are helpless to stop. Oh sure, we lock our doors, turnout the lights, stock up on bottled water and flavored enemas.Regardless, it finds us, reaches us, and we are helpless to theterror. Yep, on August 13, "Tropic Thunder," the nextmindless Ben Stiller film arrives at theaters and all we can do ishide in our bunkers till the damn thing hits DVD shelves...twoweeks later. So desperate to escape the carnage of insipidness, weeven blare white noise singer Leona Lewis to shut out fright noiseactor Stiller whenever they show one of his epileptic fits onpromos. Poor Stiller and Meara: Talent didn’t exactly skip ageneration, but God did it waste a good thing.

Determined to provide my usual good cheer, however, I’vedecided not to focus on the negative, and to write about a problemwe might actually be able to solve without a Writers’Blockhead Strike. Something that, with a little perseverance,know-how, and good old-fashioned ingenuity, we can fight together -the Invasion of the Morons.

Rudeness is New York’s true state of mind. Stupidity is thetourists who listen to Billy Joel because they think it will helpto understand us better. Each summer, they come from all over, andmake a mad dash to the same spot - the entrance to every rush-hoursubway stop in Manhattan. Blocking the throng of commuters tryingto get home, they plop themselves in a group, get out their MadameTussaud’s souvenir maps, and plan their day. Oblivious toinsults and shoves and weaponry pointed at their heads, they huddlein their clog flip-flops (not the trendy, plastic ones, but actualclogs), plaid shorts (not the stylish new kind, but the same pairthey’ve been wearing for twenty years), bellies popping overthe waists, butts creeping out under frayed seams, and saggybreasts hanging out in too tight "Legally Blonde"T-shirts. And these are the men. After a few hours - and a goodhour before they’ve noticed that little Timmy’s beenrecruited by Show World talent scouts - they make a surefirerendezvous plan to regroup at a designated, convenient,easy-to-locate place where they’ll be sure not to get lost.You know, like Times Square. Or Ray’s "Original"Pizza.

It’s not that New Yorkers aren’t friendly; we just havebetter things to do then get poked in the groin by those people whothink rainfall means you can stick your oversize umbrellaperpendicular to the street and charge forward without lookingahead. But I digress, as that’s a tactic employed by everyNew York career girl who writes down "I mean, like" asher second language. Contrary to urban myth, street gangs andhomeless thugs and those dumb muscle queens who bump into you whileyou’re politely waiting for the train (actually, that wouldbe me bumping into them with the hope of copping a groin feel)aren’t the biggest threats roaming our streets. The truethreats are Urban Outfitted girls who shove you in the gut as theyrun for the subway, then give you a "But I’m agirl" snotty look as justification for your broken ribcage.

At my UES cardio-sculpt class, there consists a group of aboutforty women, three men (me and a gay couple), and my gyminstructor, who...well, let’s just say he checks off the"male" box on paperwork. The girls arrive at the lastminute, and push aside anything (i.e., me) within a two-foot radiusof their towel, change of clothing, cell phone, chick-lit novel,blow-dryer, and six types of bottled water. When they realize theydidn’t grab the right weights for the exercises, they smileseductively, not an easy task when you don’t actually openyour mouth or utilize facial muscles, give me their "ButI’m a girl" helpless look, and snatch one of mydumbbells. In all fairness, they do give it back - after class isover, so I can neatly stack it away for them while they head off totheir weekly reading group (it’s an Existential-themeddiscussion forum: Once "Hamptons" magazine is perusedfrom start to photo finish, they pick it up again). These are thetypes of girls who think movies about Gotham City are a waste ofintellectual time; reading "Gotham" Magazine, however, isessential education.

The Girls of New York Summer have gotten so out of control, theymake those ’80s Wolfing Gangs seem like a walk in the park.They barge into every movie 20 minutes late, chat incessantly - totheir friends three rows down - then refuse to budge if you need topass by one to go to the bathroom or find an aisle thatdoesn’t smell like you’re flipping through"Vogue" perfume ads. At the supermarket checkout line,they text friends and talk on the phone, flip through "InTouch" and"People," then give the person in front of them a damninglook when he’s been charged for their Yoplait, as they alsonever bother to put down one of those food dividers, assuming,naturally, that more pedestrian types should be responsible forsuch menial tasks.

When the checkout girl reminds them of the bill, and that 30 peopleare being held up behind them in line, they tell their friend to"okay, like, hold on!" give the woman a dirty look forinterrupting her chat/call, swipe their credit card, and dash offwithout saying thank you. Within two minutes they’re back, asthey inevitably took the wrong groceries, and cut in front ofeveryone else and rummage through their bags, all the while givingthe crowd a "But I’ve got a real job" look. Then they rush back to their trust-funded homes.