It was a miserable day for us.
The weather sucked and the view was completely lackluster.
I enjoy spending time with Kim. We are both therapists at a mental health clinic, and have a lot of intellectually stimulating moments together. We're so compatible, I often forget that I'm eight years older than her and sometimes wonder if the reason our age difference isn't noticeable is because she's so mature for her age, or because I'm so goofy for mine.
Don't answer that.
After lunch, we went and had facials down the street.
I'd bought two groupons for cheap facials a few months ago, and offered one to Kim because let's face it: If anyone needs a facial, it's this girl. Blotchy, blemished and flawed in almost every conceivable way. She's almost hard to look at, this one.
We spent the next hour having our pores scrubbed, steamed and extracted and came out feeling fresh as daisies on the other side. Our chic day in Soho was coming to a close, and it was time to take our respective trains home.
The next day we were back at the agency, where there's always a big bowl of condoms
in the lobby and the bathroom stall is covered with a plastic shower curtain in lieu of a door.
The atmosphere may not be glamorous, but at least our skin was for the next day or two.