I woke up on Sunday with my eyes swollen shut, and yet still allowing liquid to ooze through and roll down my dried, itching cheeks. I pried upon my eyes to look at my phone, play a game of scramble, and answer the barrage of texts confirming Cinco brunch plans. I accidentally overdosed on allergy medicine, took two scorching gulps of coffee, and ran out the door. A piece of my hair stuck to the dried ooze on my left cheek, and, winning the title of the world's most attractive person, I was ready to take on the day, one Bellini and Mexican-inspired falsehood at a time.
Of course, as with all New York City plans, ours viciously fell through. We put our names down at every brunch place within a twelve mile radius of our initial meeting place, to the point where the only place we could avoid an arbitrarily hiked prix fixe or a two hour wait was an American Italian cafe on Staten Island. We finally discovered an uncharacteristically empty bottomless brunch joint, Bell Book and Candle, whose hostess was completely unaware of the brunch deal fine print and unintentionally roped us into paying $15 more than we'd anticipated. Exhausted and in need of something with which to celebrate this arbitrary day in May, we accepted.
It was glorious. Several different groups of friends joined, and I was bestowed the beautiful gift of seeing everyone I loved in one panoramic swoop. We toasted to nothing, cheered to everything, and enjoyed surprisingly stellar breakfast burritos. We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the rest of the west village, imbibing in a made up culture and congratulating ourselves on our open mindedness and internationalism.
Of course, as with all New York City plans, ours viciously fell through. We put our names down at every brunch place within a twelve mile radius of our initial meeting place, to the point where the only place we could avoid an arbitrarily hiked prix fixe or a two hour wait was an American Italian cafe on Staten Island. We finally discovered an uncharacteristically empty bottomless brunch joint, Bell Book and Candle, whose hostess was completely unaware of the brunch deal fine print and unintentionally roped us into paying $15 more than we'd anticipated. Exhausted and in need of something with which to celebrate this arbitrary day in May, we accepted.
It was glorious. Several different groups of friends joined, and I was bestowed the beautiful gift of seeing everyone I loved in one panoramic swoop. We toasted to nothing, cheered to everything, and enjoyed surprisingly stellar breakfast burritos. We spent the rest of the afternoon exploring the rest of the west village, imbibing in a made up culture and congratulating ourselves on our open mindedness and internationalism.
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| cheers, loves |
The day ended with my stealing a Mexican sombrero and assertively ensuring the presence of nachos at our last adventure. I woke up the next morning, eyes swollen shut but oozing, wheezing, cursing at mother nature for her need of pollen, and yet blissfully content.
Happy Cinco de Mayo, and Cinco de every month.
End of Day 5.
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