Traumarama: Brown Girls in the City

Remember the traumarama section from Seventeen magazine? You were a prepubescent girl, uncomfortable in your own skin because of your changing body (widening pelvis, hair in strange places, weird smells). The traumarama section provided solace; other girls had had horrifically embarrassing moments. This new section will be real-life traumaramas from yours truly, the backrowballers.

Last summer, [nameless friend], [nameless friend's sister], and I decided to go on a shopping trip to Chicago. Since we are from a small, hick town in North Carolina, the Windy City both titillated and scared us. What were big city folk like, we wondered? Would street urchins from Fagin's gang mug us as we looked at all the pretty stores on Michigan Ave? We were weary, but decided to go forth.

In Chicago, our friend Adnan, a big city guy with hopes of making it big, decided that it was his emotional duty as Muslim male to show poor, redneck females around his native city. Us country girls fell giddy with joy at the prospect of a strong, male figure navigating the city for us and showing us how the "mean" streets were like (and by "mean streets" I am referring to the Barneys' and Anthropologie that were two blocks away from his chi chi penthouse apartment complete with a doorman).

Nevertheless, Adnan had visited North Carolina the previous year and had been in complete shock of the redneck nature of our lives (one Wal-Mart and a Blockbuster was the primary source of entertainment). He knew that it was his moral, Muslim duty to widen our eyes to the larger world; and so, when he called us, he asked her if we knew what P.F. Chang's was. Now although we are from the middle of nowhere, due to the advent of fiber optic cable and the equal access of information via cheap, fast speed internet, we weren't entirely ignorant of big city ways.

Nevertheless, Adnan and some other big city guys took us to the top of the John Hancock building for creme brulee desert. I am fairly certain that they expected us to get a wistful, misty look at our eyes as we gazed at the thirty floors below, the glittering lights, the soaring buildings, and the fancy dessert and articulate that this was a profoundly impressive experience. [Nameless friend] looked indifferent, [other nameless friend] merely complained about her fear of heights, and I got nervous about eating a fattening dessert due to my crippling anorexia.

After a few hours of good conversation, in which I learned that just because we come from completely different parts of America (red verses blue state, hick verses city), we weren't so different. We were all people, twentysomethings, relating to each other, laughing. Things were going well. Almost too well.

The night ended and we walked twenty blocks back to the hotel. I was wearing cute black heels that I had balanced on fairly well so far. All of a sudden, I lost my center of gravity, and started to fall. However, instead of just falling, I flailed around for ten feet, tripping, desperately trying to hold onto anything for balance. Finally, I regained my center of gravity and stood up. [Nameless friend] and [other nameless friend], my supposed friends were laughing hysterically. One of the dynamic duo finally regained composure from their convulsive laughter and profoundly said, "I'm glad you didn't rip your Seven jeans." Adnan, in an impressively indifferent manner, merely said, "That was impressive how you didn't fall." The night went on, but country hicks falling in front of big city investment banker menfolk is never a great way to end a glittering, magical night in Chitown.

--By Mariam, who never wore heels again and wishes Menood a happy birthday even though Nida couldn't make it from Pakistan.