My Broken Heart

My life was a strange and unforeseen array of NY parties, openings, late night bars, dates, dumpings, Manolo buying, Manolo hocking, binge eating, food restricting, and Mallomar hiding, job hunting, and  firings that went on far beyond its expiration date. One day I’m walking to a meet a lunch date a Grand Central Terminal and my heart starts to hurt.  I figure it’s either the new angst of my life or my heels are too high.  Maybe it’s the fact that elder lawyers and accountants are on my speed dial.  After a three week battery of tests, I ended up in Lenox Hill Hospital for an emergency cardiac procedure.   I was there alone and was told to put the contents of my life into a small plastic bag.  (There went the Manolos!)  Thank God I was wearing lipstick!  “Pink Sweetheart”. And where is a slinky strapless gown and thong when you need it?   It wasn’t bad being the “babe” in the cardiac ward.  There were lots of captive men and residents to talk to. I watched my heartbeat, on one of those monitors, but then my cell phone crashed.    Three days later I took a taxi home and pondered the tenuousness of life.  I saw buildings and flowers with new color.  But this sense of wonder and gratitude faded as I renewed my various “searches “just three weeks later.  My heart has never healed.


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