Dear Diary:
Leaving my apartment about five minutes later than I should, as is my regrettable custom, I trotted rather than walked to my office, which is just a few blocks from my home. En route, one of my heels broke off, requiring me to ambulate in a gait even less dignified than my trot: half tiptoeing, half limping.
I arrived at my workplace only to find that my client had canceled her appointment at the last minute.
As I was tiptoeing/limping back to my home, a voice behind me called out, “Excuse me!” It belonged to a pleasant-looking blonde woman who inquired as to whether I needed a shoe repair place, because she knew of one nearby, on Second Avenue. I thanked her very much and explained that I had already decided to discard the shoes, because they were quite old.
She peered at them closely and pronounced, “You’re right, you should start over.”
My frustration over the sequence of events turned to revelation, as I realized that I had encountered the quintessential New York woman: helpful and fashion forward.
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