Ugly on Kingston

Marching down Kingston Ave

About a week and a half before Pesach, I was walking down Kingston Avenue when I saw the most dreadful sight.

I mean, you don't always see girls this ugly.

Her hair was frizzy and tied back in a messy bun. Hey eyes were crusty and lifeless. She had red cheeks, chapped lips, and a disgruntled look on her face to match her dull and almost limped walk.

It's a wonder how a girl like this gets married.

Trust me, I have a right to say this.

Besides, if you saw her, you would have thought the same.

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What I saw that day walking down Kingston was my reflection in the window of Apple Drugs.

Only a short ten days before my ticket back to Seattle, I was hit with a brutal flu. You know, the kind where you call your mother crying because you think you're dying a slow death. All my muscles ached and my throat burned (there were some points where I could barely talk). There was a persistent sharp pain in my sinus, and all the nose-blowing in the world wasn't making it any easier to breathe, let alone sleep. To top it off, the fever was dragging me to delirium.

My horrendous symptoms (and a wonderful mother) left me no choice. It was time to go to the Doctor.

Although my own look in the mirror practically had me passed out on the cold tiles of my bathroom, the time had come to leave my germ infested apartment and hit the jam packed streets of Crown Heights in search of the office where my mother had scheduled an appointment.

Kingston Avenue. Center of the Heights. The Ave of eyes. Everyone and no one you know, coming right at you with a fierce speed.

I'm never one to shy away from people. But suddenly, with the present - and very hideous- situation, Kingston Avenue went from being my favorite stroll option to a dangerous jungle I had to run through quickly - or else.

No one was around to walk me to the Doctor, which I had presumed would lessen the trauma of being so ugly in public. I struggled in front of the mirror to assemble some sort of order to my appearance. In this process, I discovered that Chapstick on your nose does wonders after you discover that even the softest tissues can wreak havoc. Suffice to say, I did the little I could to look semi-normal and started my journey to the Doctor, located only a short block away from my apartment.

But I couldn't find the Doctor's office. The delirium I thought I was only approaching had decided to meet me halfway. I called my mother for the exact address. Now, I wasn't only an ugly girl on Kingston. I was lost, on the phone with my mother and walking up and down Kingston way more many times than desired. And my hoarse voice struggling to communicate with my mother was probably scaring children.

Finally, I made it to the Doctors office.

Never has a waiting room been such safe haven.