Small Acts of Rebellion - A Series

Hi Everyone,

Anyone who's been reading my stuff for a while knows what I mean when I say "Chronicles of a Fashion Girl."  This was a series I did last summer covering my time spent in New York City - partially fictitious and entirely based on my experience.  Out of everything I've written on this blog, that was probably my favorite piece to tackle, which got me thinking.  How can I recreate the feeling of accomplishment I had every time I posted a new chronicle?

I've decided to start a new series, titled "Small Acts of Rebellion."  Much like my Chronicles, I'll post this one chapter at a time.

The series is inspired by all of my loves: fashion, New York, and sarcasm.  Follow the characters I've created on their journey through New York, taking the city one day at a time.  Here's the first installment:

The best thing about humanity is the small acts of rebellion.  I’m not talking big criminal activity, but those small acts of rebellion that we all partake in, no matter how holier than thou we may appear externally.  The thing is, we do these things without knowing whether or not others do, too.  In our minds, we are quite possibly the only person on the planet who drives solo in the carpool lane.  As far as we’re concerned, no one else slips tubes of chapstick into their purse at the checkout line at the grocery store.  Only we have clipped the bumper of a parked car and left without checking for damage.  Sure, we’re probably assuming others do to make ourselves feel better, but in reality we’re just taking shots in the dark.
It’s the cheap thrills that get to us the most.  Why else do so many A-list celebrities get caught shoplifting?  
“I like to put on bras at Target and wear them out,” says Jane, a divorce lawyer living in a third-floor walkup in the Upper West Side (she isn’t exactly in the poor house but she also isn’t exactly in the penthouse).  She’s just below six feet, but the tragedy is that she could never be a model because the reality is that her hips are too wide.  She eats Chinese leftovers two days in a row.  She never forgets to lock her front door.  She hasn’t had sex in four months.  “It makes me feel...dangerous.”
“I never clean up my dog’s shits,” says Jackson, a financial analyst from Tribeca.  Jackson sits before me at a coffee shop, sipping on his cappuccino and thinking about the reports he has to get done by the end of the day.  He’s completely unaware of the slightly chunky waitress who’s been checking him out since we got here, even though her section is at least 60 feet away, but he hasn’t stopped looking at the blonde bombshell who’s lunching across the street in a dress tighter than my budget after taxes.  He doesn’t know that the woman he slept with last night, who he told this morning, “I’ve got to head to work, but take your time getting ready.  My housekeeper should be here soon, have her make you some breakfast,” is still curled up in his sheets, giddy and anticipating his return.  Jackson shrugs, “I just figure my apartment is worth so much, and for the neighborhood I pay to live in, why should I have to worry about picking up shit?”
“I never wipe down the machines after I use them at the gym,” says Jason, a construction worker with a beautiful body and a rich older girlfriend.  He holds up a hand once he sees the expression on my face.  “Okay, okay, hear me out!  I know that doesn’t sound very scandalous,” he continues.  His arms are more vascular than an old woman’s calves, but in an extremely sexy and tortured way.  “I mean, I sweat profusely.  I sweat more than your average man.  On top of that, I drink beer every night.  I enjoy the other, uh, you know, perks of life (here he sniffs a few times) pretty often, and I practically live on chimichangas.  So you’ve got alcohol, poor diet, and a few other vices, all being sweated out of me and onto these machines that hundreds or thousands or whatever, other people are using.  Even I know I smell.  God, it feels good to say this out loud.  You’re using a fake name, right?”
Whether or not we admit it when a writer isn’t recording us (while swearing on her mother’s grave not to use our real names in the story), we all have a problem.  We’re addicted to danger.  And for anyone who’s reading this and thinking to themselves, Nope, not me.  I’m straight as an arrow; I would never do anything wrong to help myself out--fuck off, because there’s no place for you here.
“What do you think of that guy over there?  Wait, like, two seconds and then look,” Hailey says, eyes darting towards a guy sitting on a booth in the corner of the bar.  He sits with his hands woven together and his brow knit, seemingly deep in thought.  He’s got thick blonde hair and the whitest teeth she’s ever seen.  His short-sleeved shirt reveals his veiny, chiseled arms and he definitely works out.  She’s never seen a nicer body on such a hottie.  He’s sitting across from a woman, who is speaking to him.  An object that sort of resembles a tape recorder sits between them on the table.
Jane shrugs, rolls her eyes not-so-discretely.  “Look, I really just don’t want to picture you having sex with some meat head.  But hey, who’s that girl he’s with?  I think I know her.”
“Oh my god, he’s not a meat head.  Do you think he’s a meat head?  He doesn’t really look like one to me.  I think he looks really defined and handsome and just like so, like--”
“Oh my god shut up, I could not care less.”
Hailey leans back a bit, allowing her mouth to drop open.  She’s astonished.  “Well I’m sorry,” she gasps, shaking her head in disbelief.  She clutches her chest, seemingly still bothered about what just happened.
“I just don’t really care about my sister’s sex life, feel?”  Jane shrugs again, wanders off to find the bathroom without really explaining herself.  She’s contemplating sneaking out the back (she drove).
Hailey has already forgotten what happened.
She looks to the corner Jason is in again, finding comfort in the face of a complete stranger.  He’s alone now; the woman left while she was talking to Jane.  He’s ordered a plate of french fries.  He’s eating them without closing his mouth.  Hailey finds this endearing.  She decides to go over and introduce herself.

She makes her way across the bar, dodging a tap on the shoulder from the creepy older man (who can’t be taller than 5’11 or skinnier than Fat Joe) who’s been watching her from ten feet away all night (she notices every single detail).  “Hi,” Hailey breathes in what she hopes is a sexy manner, “Is this seat taken?”

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