52 Recipes for Disaster: Bitter British Breakfast Boot

Ingredients

Wine
Cheese
Pimm's
French bread
Fancy organic artisanal cupcakes (2 Yelp $ signs, if you-gnome-sayin)
1 dilapidated, grotesque walking boot
An short-lived but glorious Instagram life in the boot's last appropriate days
A pair of the kindest, sweetest, softest grandma Dr. Scholl's sneakers you can find; please wear them with a dress
Three days running (if only) around like a madcowdiseasewoman to hunt an apartment
Hours upon websites upon emails upon wasted time looking for apartments; you'll never get your dignity or innocence back
The satisfaction of ~~bitchingout~~ standing up for yourself in a 100% warranted way against a broker who dares to go by the first name Gurkan: Good ol' Gurk leaves you waiting 40 minutes in a median of Broadway at 9 AM on a Saturday morning. (I left! OK, Gurkan?! I wasn't waiting another 20 minutes for you to arrive, Girdle, because you have poor communication skills, Garkofit!)
One long trip to a Brooklyn apartment that you don't reach because who puts apartments >15 minutes away from any train station. Who. (*Was it Gurko?)
*No. Regardless, it was the end. Because, in that walk, you (& your roommate in your cellphone) decide that you're done looking for apartments. Only after 3 vigorous days spent solely delving into online apartment databases, meeting Gurkans upon worse Gurkans, finding an apartment without a sink in the bathroom, and venturing upon a 15 minute walk to an apartment you never reach. As you descend further into Crown Heights and wonder if you'll ever see the light of subway again, all reality disappears and subletting suddenly seams sublime. Your thoughts bleed together-- finally-- and the solution becomes conversely clear: September 1st. Just WAIT.
(I could've simply put it this way: ) Trying to hunt for a New York City apartment in 3 days on a broken foot right before leaving the country
1 box of breakfast cereal because you have to use up your almond milk before going to COSTA RICA
Speaking of Costa Rica, a random non-profit I've never heard of called Far Corners Community Musical Theatre put on a translated Spanish version of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee this past weekend in Monteverde, Costa Rica. In spirit of organizations that have nothing to do with my boyfriend or why I'm going to Costa Rica, I give you your last ingredient: Confidently mispelled words. Mispelled. Things I've spelled wrong this week:

Vission (4 times)
Monsterously
Laundry mat
Cappicinno/cappacinno
Happenning
(just now) Delapidated

Instructions

The title pretty much says it all: Have a great British birthday, wobble on the struggle bus with your Boot, be broadly Bitter about brokers, and buy some Breakfast cereal. ...? Try again:

Three days ago, my foot hurt so bad that I gave up free play tickets to avoid leaving the house again. Two days ago, I officially retired my 3-month boot-- not necessarily because that's a good idea, but because it makes me look homeless. Two nights ago, my heart was pounding so quickly that I thought it might generate electricity to lift my bed into space. Yesterday, I ate a microwaveable meal. Today, I got a new boot. I mean, what do you think this says? Let's talk about stress: Forcing myself through the pain of a thousand warriors in my heel; re-learning how to walk-- in public, too, which is great because I look like a just-born giraffe; individually searching for an apartment as an unaccompanied, small young woman; and rounding out the almost 3 months I haven't seen my boyfriend are, combined, strangely taxing on my uneventful & unemployed daily life.

Isn't it strange how sometimes having less to do makes you more anxious? You're so concerned about filling every second of your time with grand efforts to have something to do. I was less stressed on tour, not (only) because I was in sunny California, but also because I finally felt free to do the thing I was doing and do it well and just do it. Just... Nike.

We can't always Nike. I rarely do. But, man, when you finally get to Nike-- without any preoccupations or guilt of not doing something better-- that's the stuff. My birthday was like that-- and I didn't even care that the day after was spent catching up to all the emails & crap I'd avoided on my Nike day! In 3 days, I get to wear my Nikes again, as I fly to Costa Rica to spend totally unplanned days with this kid at the non-profit I've never heard of. He doesn't even have WIFI in his house.

It doesn't take much to stress you out in this city-- or anywhere, really. Just give yourself a monthly rent, mortgage, kids, clients, or a Netflix queue you feel obliged to take advantage of and you'll be anxious in no time. It's called having a life. Sometimes what's stressing you out boils unnoticed until you actually sit down and try to relax-- only to find you can't. Sometimes it pops up when you think you're sufficiently happy. Ya never know when one of these little bitch stressors will try to get out, or if they'll all boil over! Unbalance your flow! They're stupid little Bitter British Breakfast Boots and, unfortunately, they're like replacing the battery in your laptop: inevitable. Going to Costa Rica helps, but there are other ways.

If not, we're all screwed. Except me.

Here's one way:

The other day, I put both shoes on for the first time in over 2.5 months and I took a walk down the street. After buying some ankle supports and heel cushions at Duane Reade, I was almost home until I saw Lincoln Center. I don't usually think much of it during the day, but at night it's a palace of chandeliers and fountains, vast glass windows and arched columns. There are many people on the steps, but it's peaceful. Quiet. I've always wanted to see it at night but have somehow missed it, so I hobbled over from across the street. Twenty minutes later, I make it. After months of not walking, I walk up the steps-- I could've ended right there. Yet, I spent time sitting on the edge of the fountain, staring up at the sky, looking out into the city nightlife, taking photos of my two shoed feet. And I could've ended there, too. Then, something purple, blue, and red caught my eye-- there was a free concert going on. Eh. I thought I'd meanderwobble over, just to check it out; there must be some sort of cool booth or giveaway, seeing as there were so many people but these free acts are many times estranged ensembles no one's heard of. However, the deeper I walked into the activity, the more unbelievable it got-- stringed lights, food booths, people picnicking on the ground, a VIP drinks lounge, and the humungous purple, red, and blue-lit white tent swarmed with the happiest of chill people without being in Williamsburg. I sat down, again, and deeply appreciated how lucky I am to be staying here. To be walking. (Ish.) And I could've stopped there! But this is a story so it keeps going.

I hear a recognizable tune and frantically Google search the free concert schedule: Jose Gonzalez!! What the what! I listen a bit longer, then notice signs of a mass exodus as huge applause begins-- AKA I need to get my giraffe legs the heccckkk out of there. I could've ended here-- You know I didn't. I stopped. I waited. And, yes. He began to play an encore-- his most famous song and also one of my favorite songs ever. I'll admit that I teared up-- because, amongst the samurai swords in my foot & whatever drama occurred that day, I'd actually relaxed.

I've heard that not everyone has heard of Jose Gonzalez. Remedy that. I've heard that not all people know that an NYC broker shouldn't be charging you a 15% fee and you shouldn't accept higher than 12%. Remember that. I've heard that some people have not yet experienced Pimm's. Drink it. This is a post simply to remind you to stay sane; that the need for your absent air conditioner is almost through; and that, when the chips are down, you can still see the Non-Dog Dog.