Carrie On

"After years of living in the city, I assumed that if my friends and I ever got our fairytale endings, that would be the end of the story. But real life always has a twist." -- Carrie Bradshaw

The mid-summer sun shone warmly over First Avenue as my colleague and I left our building for a mid-afternoon caffeine run. A crowd was gathered just outside our doors, and after sidling to the front of it, the reason for the traffic jam became clear: despite the sun, the skies and streets were slick with pouring rain. My colleague and I glanced at each other, smirked, simultaneously pulled jewel-toned mini-umbrellas out of our bags, and continued on our way.

We were paused at the corner of our block, waiting for the light to change, when it happened. A bus sped through the yellow traffic signal, crossed in front of us at top speed, and sent a sheet of puddle water straight at us. Neither of us were quick enough to lower our umbrellas against the deluge or even jump back out of its range, so we were completely drenched by it. We're talking wet hair, dripping hems, splatter-painted dress pants, and semi-transparent blouses here.

I spat a mouthful of puddle onto the sidewalk as my colleague stared after the bus, water dripping steadily from her chin. "That's never happened to me," she said. "I've seen it happen in movies and on TV, but it's never happened to me." I concurred; the opening credits of Sex and the City flashed through my mind. The light changed and we continued on our quest for coffee, soggier and strutting slightly less than when we started out. With my luck, I thought, watch me run into Mr. Big, Aidan, Smith, or Dante while I'm drenched and disgusting.

We entered the coffee shop and, luckily, it was full of middle-aged women. My colleague placed her order with a squat, smiling lady, then she stepped aside to make room for me at the counter. I tried to catch the barista's eye, but she moved away and headed towards the shop's back room.

Six and a half feet of olive-skinned, muscular man took the barista's place at the counter. He flashed me a brilliant smile with at least one dimple, tossed back his glossy black curls, and asked for my order in a stereotypically perfect French accent. I mumbled my request for a fresh mint tea -- my 'cute guy, ignore really hard' instinct had kicked in by that point -- and I fled the scene as soon as humanly possible.

Halfway back to our building, my colleague started laughing. "We got soaked by a bus, then we went to a trendy Upper East Side coffee house and a hot French guy appeared out of thin air to take your order. I believe we just had a Carrie Bradshaw moment." I chuckled and revealed that I had been thinking along the exact same lines.

Ten minutes later, as the fabric of my pants dripped little puddles onto the carpet under my desk, I thought of all the times I've openly laughed at women for moving to New York City in an effort to become like Carrie. To be honest, though, my ten minutes in her shoes felt like time well spent.