You Get What You Pay For

I first saw him in the elevator of my office building, tall, handsome and impeccably dressed. We exchanged nothing more than a few fleeting glances/smiles over the next couple of months and then one afternoon, somewhere between the 9^th and 12^th floor, he uttered the words I had dreamed of…would I like to meet for a drink that night?

Ecstatic I floated back to my office, furiously contemplating where I could find a more enticing outfit than the frumpy gray suit I was wearing, ideal had I been operating the elevator. I needed something special… cute, flirty, fun. But where to find in 3 hours? And then a light bulb. The $19.99 and under dress store which sat in the lobby of my building. I had never entered the store but passed it daily on my way to the elevator bank always pondering the type of dress you might find for $20 bucks. But desperate times call for desperate measures I reasoned. Did I dare?

The bar, an iconic NYC pub called “Ryan McFadden’s” located on the corner of 42nd and 2nd Ave was packed with after work patrons both young and old. My office was a stone throw from Ryan’s, an absolute favorite neighborhood haunt with a great crowd and live music. I had never felt more attractive and carefree as I sipped my Tequila Sunrise, in that cobalt blue, stretch cotton mini dress (yes, dear reader, score for the $19.99 and under dress store!) I admit it may have been a tad tight and perhaps the material a bit thin, but for the price, what could one expect? It was how it made me FEEL that was important. Plus the fact, real or imagined, that my date could not take his eyes off me! Our conversation flowed easily and the bar pulsated with energy and possibility.

The music was phenomenal! After my 2^nd cocktail, I boldly asked him to join me on the dance floor, something out of the norm for me but the dress fueled my confidence. As we jumped in time with the crowd to the strains of “SHOUT” I suddenly felt myself losing my footing. The floor, ladled with beer from overzealous imbibers was awash. The next thing I knew, I was horizontal. Brushing myself off and struggling to maintain my dignity, I slowly rose to my feet. Several people behind me were laughing. “Your dress,” one sympathetic woman whispered, “it’s totally ripped up the back…”

My last memory was the disappointed look in elevator guy’s eyes as he wrapped his rain coat around me and hailed a cab. And with that gesture, the night was officially over.

For the next six weeks, I took the stairs up to my office – all twelve flights. For that reason or others unknown,  I never ran into the elevator guy again.  The $19.99 and under dress store closed shortly thereafter as well and ironically, a tailor moved into its space.