Last weekend, I stood on the subway platform, thumbing through a magazine and grumbling about how the next train wouldn’t arrive for another 11 minutes. As I waited, more and more feet descended the stairs. Two pairs caught my attention — one was manicured with bright red polish and strapped into a sky high silver sandals, the other was in electric blue stilettos. Both pairs of ankles wobbled as their owners awkwardly lowered their feet. It seemed like at any moment, one—or maybe both—of them would come plummeting down the stairs. A few unsteady steps later, two women appeared in full view—both their faces were flushed and they clung to each other’s arms for dear life. “Wha a you lookin’ at,” one of them slurred to a guy who shook his head as they passed.
These girls were trashed. It was only 8 p.m.
Watching them zig and zag down the subway platform, I felt adrenaline rush through me. I felt like I should do something. But what? These are adults. They’re just having fun, I thought. They can take care of themselves.
But then another part of me thought: how naive. Keep reading »
