Personal Yummy #46
I don’t have a lot of time to get ready, so I take a quick shower, wash my hair, dry it as fast as I can, straighten it with my flat iron, and then pull it into a sleek, low ponytail. I do my makeup next, applying a lot of liner, mascara, and shadow—a combination of hot pink and blue—as well as a dark pink lipstick. I usually don’t wear this much makeup, but it is a cold, Friday night in February, after all, so it calls for something extra.
I look through my jewelry box on my vanity table, and I decide upon a pair of big, fancy, teardrop-shaped rhinestone earrings that I haven’t worn in a long time, and which I originally bought to wear for my ballroom dance competitions. I think they look particularly good with my hair pulled back, and they will certainly complement the deep blue, form-fitting lacy dress that I am wearing.
When I am almost ready to head out the door, I catch my eyes in the living room mirror and am happy about how I look. I am also happy that I have plans to meet five of my friends at a beautiful restaurant for dinner. I spent most of the day editing a complex article for a medical journal, so I am eager to have some fun.
I exit my building and then walk the six blocks to the 5 train on Lexington Avenue. I plan to take it to 14th Street and then switch to the 6 train, but I actually end up getting off of it at 42nd Street because a large crowd of people are waiting to get on, and I really don’t want to be crammed in. I may be somewhat late for dinner, but that’s preferable to being uncomfortable.
As I wait for the 6 train, I check my phone, and there is a text message waiting for me from the friend of mine who had organized tonight’s outing. It was sent not too long ago. She said that they all were running late (they were planning to take a cab together from Brooklyn), so she had moved the reservation from 6:30 to 7:00.
Immediately, I can feel myself getting a bit miffed—because this isn’t the first time that this type of situation has occurred with this certain group of friends—but then I purposely switch gears and tell myself that it is all cool. Fortunately, Tony Robbins’ words of wisdom come to my mind.
I had listened again to one of his instructional videos just a few days ago, and his advice on how to handle potentially upsetting situations like this one had struck me hard—it was just so perceptive and wise…and maybe not so easy to accomplish in every case, but definitely helpful.
He said, simply, that any particular occurrence always takes on the meaning that you give it. In other words, the meaning of how someone treats you, or what someone says to you, completely depends on how you present it to yourself: that is, the story that you tell yourself about it.
Thus, in this current situation, I could get angry and take it to mean that my friends don’t really respect me or my time, which would ultimately make me feel bad about myself. And I could also focus on the reality that I wouldn’t have had to rush to get ready if they would’ve let me know sooner that they had changed the reservation.
But, instead, I decide to take it to mean that they are, in fact, all running late, and that is it. Besides, it is, in all truth, actually better for me. I no longer need to hurry.
So I get on a not-crowded-at-all 6 train, and I feel calm and very at ease. I take out my book—Committed: A Love Story by Elizabeth Gilbert—and read it all the way to Spring Street, and I enjoy the ride.
When I reach the top of the steps and exit the station, I can’t believe how utterly frigid it is! It feels like the temperature has dropped about twenty degrees from when I was on the Upper East Side.
It takes me a moment to find my bearings and my direction, but then I see Balthazar ahead on my left (known as “Balzac” in an episode of Sex and the City), so I know I am going the right way. Needless to say, because of the weather, it is rough walking the many blocks to get to the restaurant, but at the same time it somehow feels exhilarating. Even though my nose is starting to hurt from the cold, and the wind is ripping through me as I stand waiting to cross the street (among many other cold New Yorkers, some without hats and gloves on!… Are they crazy?), I am so happy to be on my way to Pera Soho for an elegant dinner and conversation with friends.
Furthermore, as usual, I can’t help but look through the windows of all of the diverse and quaint cafés and shops. I am especially pleased to discover a Kusmi Tea boutique along the way. Without a doubt, I will come back soon and spend a lot of time in there.
When I get to Thompson Street, I’m not sure which way to go, so I turn right. I walk about half a block and then realize I am going the wrong way (this happens to me often), so I turn around.
Nevertheless, I eventually arrive at 54 Thompson Street, and the restaurant looks perfect from the outside. What’s more, there is a tiny, charming courtyard that I have to pass through before I get to the main entrance.
Both a man and a woman greet me when I walk in. The man is baldheaded and attractive and French (with a suave accent), and the woman is sophisticated and sexy, with long, wavy, black hair.
As I expected, I am the first one of my party to arrive, so the hostess leads me to a shiny, black, opulent, rectangular table in the back of the restaurant. It is in its own secluded corner, next to the wall, and is flanked on each side by a tall, silver lamp with a circular, black, and very rich-looking lampshade. This section of the restaurant is dark and intimate and regal, made even more romantic by the soft light of the lamps. Moreover, the table’s six chairs are beautiful, spacious, and comfortable, with cushy padding and armrests.
It actually feels good to be the first one to arrive and to have this table and area all to myself for now. Plus, it gives me ample time to check my coat (actually, the hostess graciously does it for me) and to go to the restroom and wash my hands and apply more lipstick. In any case, I always love checking out the restrooms and lounges in upscale restaurants anyway—they are usually so lavish.
Feeling fresh and relaxed, I return to my table and leisurely study the menu. Everything sounds appetizing, but I am leaning toward ordering the salmon—one of my favorites.
I sit there for quite a while, taking in the quietness of the scene, but then I really start to crave a glass of wine. I had planned to wait for my friends to arrive before ordering a drink, but when I check my phone and see that it is already 7:15, I decide otherwise.
Most of the time I prefer red, but tonight I order a glass of buttery Chardonnay, and it is delicious—just what I wanted. In addition, it is a rather generous serving, and I can’t help but think that my abundance mindset must be working… So I continue to sit there, simply enjoying being alive and young and dressed up and satisfied, surrounded by calmness and luxury.
More time passes, and, naturally, I am feeling more and more sensual and joyful as I drink more and more of my wine.
Therefore, in this state of Chardonnay bliss, I don’t feel apprehensive about tuning in to the conversation of the couple who are sitting at a table not too far away. They are chatting about their day, exchanging tales regarding their mini triumphs and successes.
They are waiting for someone too. He arrives shortly, before my friends arrive, in fact, and from the way the couple greets him, I can tell that he is their son.
They catch up with him for a bit, and then he says that he is really in the mood for some hot tea. So when the waitress arrives at their table, she runs through all of the choices, and there are many: “We serve Earl Grey, Darjeeling, English breakfast, green, chamomile, rooibos, black currant, hibiscus, sencha, chai…” and on and on and on…
“Well, let me ask you,” the young man says, after she finishes her exhaustive list, “are any of the teas you just mentioned…do they come in loose-leaf? Any of them, perhaps?”
She pauses for a moment.
“Well, no…no, I don’t think so…”
And it’s apparent from the sound of her voice that she hasn’t been asked this before.
He sits there for some time, obviously rather overwhelmed by all of the choices. But then, the expression on his face changes, and he confidently says, “Well, in that case, then, I think I’ll just stick to water tonight. But thank you.” He picks up his menu and starts reviewing it.
But the waitress doesn’t leave.
“Uh, may I ask? You…you…you don’t like any of the teas we offer?” she wants to know.
I want to know too. There were just so many to choose from, and I actually like all of them.
“Oh, no, no… It’s not that,” he explains, putting down his menu. “It’s just that if I am going to go to an expensive restaurant and pay for tea, it has to be loose-leaf… I mean—you know,” he continues, earnestness all over him, “you can get a cheap tea bag anywhere…”
The waitress nods, seemingly quite satisfied with his answer.
As for me: Hmmmm…….. I certainly wasn’t expecting that intriguing reply.
So I sit there, pondering what just happened.
And, hey, sure, I finally get it.
It’s a good thing to be easygoing and flexible, as I am the majority of the time, and as I’ve achieved so far this evening.
But this young gentleman reminds me, as others have reminded me before, that sometimes it’s wise to accept nothing but the best—and especially when it comes to tea.
There’s no denial in that.
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