This week I had the NICEST cab driver. I think it’s the city’s way of saying, “Don’t leave, Kelcey. C’mon. I’ll be nicer to you. I promise. You’ll hate it in the burbs.”
I finally went to the doctor after feeling just miserable for weeks. I had to take along my two girls and it’s always a bit of a production to usher them into a cab, while also trying to hold onto my purse, their stuff and a fold-up stroller. Winter coats, hats and mittens just add to the frenzied experience.
As we pulled up to the doctor’s office, the cab driver hopped out of the driver seat, and opened my passenger door to help me and the kids get out.
Very, very nice of him.
Except I’ve never in my many, many years of living in Manhattan EVER had a cabdriver open my door.
And I happened to be leaning over, trying to stuff all my kids’ snacks and wipes and straw cups back into their bag, which meant that my butt crack was kind of on display.
Well, VERY on display.
Now, I didn’t invent low rise cords so please cut me some slack.
And the way I see it, it was just sort of a little bonus for him, on top of the tip. I mean, if he’s into butt crack. Which he totally might not be. I didn’t actually broach the subject.
So I finally get my pants in order and haul my kids up to the doctor’s office where the other patients stare at me like I’ve just carted in two baby alligators. They’re just children, people! Unpredictable, uncontrollable little creatures. Don’t look so damn nervous.
The doctor mercifully called me in right away. He wasn’t too thrilled to learn that I was already half way through a Z-pack of antibiotics that he had NOT prescribed.
“Where did you get the Z-pack?” the doctor asked.
“Oh you know, one of the moms at my daughter’s preschool sells them.”
“Oh I’m just kidding. A doctor prescribed it a while ago and I never used it. My husband told me to take it. Totally his idea. Please don’t yell at me.”
“Way to throw your husband under the bus. In the future, just give me a call, ok?”
And on the return trip, I once again had this super helpful, incredibly nice cab driver.
So maybe the city has a sweeter, gentler side after all. And the always entertaining Marinka of Motherhood in NYC certainly makes a strong case for staying in Manhattan.
And I think I’m inclined to agree with the brilliant PAPA who recently commented that Manhattan is like a bad boyfriend. Sure, you can leave him. But chances are you’ll just end up coming back.
So yeah, I’ll probably leave this city. But guaranteed, at some point, I’ll return. It’s the kind of cool, gritty town that appreciates a little butt crack. And I like that.