Where ya from, you sexy thing?

Yesterday I was apparently having a very sexy day.

I left my apartment fairly early to run some errands, and as I headed towards the subway I battled the usual onslaught of pedestrians. As one particularly ragged, possibly homeless man stumbled past me, he looked in my direction and said, "Morning, sexy."

Now, lots of women are going to disagree with me on this, but I love getting compliments from randoms on the street. Or anywhere else, really. You know why? Because no matter how old or gross or homeless or drunk you are, you are still entitled to your opinion. And if your opinion is that I'm looking particularly fabulous today, I salute you.

Fast forward many hours to 2 in the morning. My friend Anna and I, the lone survivors from the initial group of 7 partiers, were dancing it up at Nexus Lounge in a way that signals to the world, "Yes, I took shots of Jager on an empty stomach and am feeling the subsequent effects." Over the next 2 hours, we were approached by a wide variety of men who wanted to dance with us. While I'm not particularly crazy about dancing with random men as I feel that they inhibit my ability to dance the way I want to, I had no problem with all the nice things they had to say. There was a "sexy" and a "hot" and a "you have nice hips" and even a "you dance like a black girl," which I take as an extreme compliment even though I know better than to think it's true.

As if that wasn't enough, I arrived home shortly after 4:30 in the morning, and as usual said hello to the night doorman who is an adorable old man that has probably been working in the building longer than I've been alive. He stopped me and said in his thick Eastern European accent, "You such a nice lady. Very beautiful."

And then he gave me my favorite compliment of the day: "Number 1."

Number 1!! Can't beat that, even coming from a doorman 60 years my senior.

Today, I left my apartment again, feeling pretty pleased with how I looked considering that I was running on 5 hours of sleep and hadn't had time to shower off last night's dancey sweatiness.

Yet again I walked towards the subway. I had my iPod on, and was jolted out of my musical daze when I noticed that a man leaning against a brick building was talking to me.

As if to show me that no one should ever get too high on themselves, and in a way that reminded me just how quickly everything in New York changes, he said:

"You're going to hell."