Good morning! Did you get up to anything good on your Friday night? I babysat, which is a cool activity for industrious 14-year olds and broke grownups alike. I love babysitting. It’s easy money for the most part and I get my kid fix for a few hours. Though my current #2 fear is getting unexpectedly knocked up (#1 fear: bedbugs) I do love, love, love me some kiddos, little dudes especially. A normal thing which is nearly impossible to explain. On my first date with Brian I said to him “I don’t know how to say this without sounding creepy, but I just love little boys.”
Ummm...still looking for a way to say that. And curious how we ever made it to date two.
Anyway, all that to say, when the opportunity presented itself to hang with a small boy at the Gramercy Hotel this weekend (again, there must be a better way to phrase that...) I jumped at the opportunity.
The night got off to an illustrious start. I arrived a few minutes early to have enough time to creep around the lobby and use the facilities which I’ll give a solid B (plush towels! but no coat hooks?!) before catching an elevator. On the elevator was a thin woman wearing head to toe black and the stankiest of stankfaces I’ve seen in my 27 years on earth.
“To what floor are you going?” she asked, in a Slavic sounding accent. “14” I replied, with confidence. “You have a key?” She asked, icily. “Oh no,” I replied, “I’m meeting my clients upstairs.” She gave me a wary look before pushing the button for 14.
Clients! Who meets clients in a hotel, I ask you? Probably lots of people like business men, masseuses, en-suite Pampered Chef Party Organizers, and of course, babysitters. But most commonly, I’m so sure: hookers! I immediately panicked that this bitchy foreign lady who I assumed worked for the hotel would think me a prostitute, since all good prostitutes show up with a tote bag full of books and a gigantic Italian hoagie (actually, if I ever order myself a gigolo that’s exactly what I’ll demand), that I plunged into panicked over-explanation.
“I’m a babysitter, well, I’m babysitting. Friends of a friend, sort of? They’re from out of town. DC. Great hotel!” I babbled incoherently until the doors opened and my new friend rushed out of the elevator. I followed her out. She turned and gave me a glaring look. “This isn’t floor 14,” she said, before putting her own key in her own door.
I’d assumed by her aggressive demeanor on the ride up that she was the elevator operator or in some way working for the hotel, escorting me upstairs to my babysitting/prostituting gig. Nope, she was just a lady staying on the 6th floor, making sure I knew where I was headed. I turned around to get back on the elevator, blushing and mumbling, just as the heavy door was shutting. The door crushed me, lightly, before bouncing open again to let me through. I wasn’t worried I might die, just concerned for my sandwich. All the while the “elevator operator” stared in horror.
“Oh my god,” she said. “Oh I’m fine!” I yelled as the door began to close again. “HAHA! So clumsy! Have a great night! I’m babysitting, for a baby, the clients are parents! Haha!” until it finally closed and I was left alone with my reflection in the mirrored elevator, flushed beet red, totebag swinging, gesticulating wildly.
What a mess.
Don’t worry, I didn’t kill the kid. And my sandwich was phenomenal. I’m headed back for the same gig tonight. I wonder what the evening has in store!