I hate that my doorman knows how often I eat Chipotle (part 1)

Every Ass Morning In June: a daily ongoing stream of cawnsciousness (Day 9)

There were several things I could’ve written about this morning…how I use manicures as a form of birth control…Beauty B’Tuesday, my beauty vertical on Instagram that I only did like three times because I randomly wanted to post about beauty products….made-up guest scenarios at Taylor Swift’s forthcoming wedding, unless of course she already got married secretly and the whole Madison Square Garden rumor is just that, a giant city-sized rumor…

But then, cortado in hand, I walked back into my building and hit my doorman with the most friendly-white-boy-passing-you-in-a-grocery-story-aisle soft wave, soft smile combo ever and then winced until I was on the elevator. So yeah. Today I want to write about what it’s like living in a doorman building. Hint: it’s kind of embarrassing as fuck!

First of all, it’s a rotating cast. There’s a morning doorman (8 AM - 3PM?), an evening doorman (3 PM-11 PM?), and an overnight doorman. I usually see all three in a single day. There’s four guys that make up the morning and evening shifts. There used to be a doorwoman who wore crazy headbands (love) but she only worked on Saturdays. I haven’t seen her in months so I’m assuming I’ll never see her again. There’s one overnight doorman who is here every single night.

In addition to the doormen, there are the porters, the super, and the super’s assistant (?). There’s no face sheet, no brief, no “About Us” section where I can read a bio about who each one is. I have no idea how old they are or where they’re from, what they like to eat or do or drive. They’re all kind of like distant uncles to me except I’ve never seen them at a Thanksgiving table and never will. And yet I see them every day.

But Harry, if you want to know what they eat, just ask them?

Well yeah, honey, but it’s not that simple. You see…

Ok wait. I’m so sorry if you were totally locked into this doorman post but I’m gonna have to pick it back up later because I’m starving. I procrastinated so much today and that’s why this is hitting your inbawx after 8 PM, my apologies. I totally want to write more about what it’s like living with a doorman because I’ve lived in New York for 13 years and this is my first time experiencing A Man watch me enter and leave my building. Unless you count the security guards at my college dorm but I think it’s a bit different.

And it’s just kind of awkward sometimes! For example, I’m about to get Chipotle (quesadilla, must be ordered online or else it’s illegal) and my doorman is going to watch me bring it in! Can I not just enjoy my Chipotle without being totally clocked with it? Come on, you have to admit that’s kind of awk-o taco. Quesadillo? This must be how Elle Fanning feels after getting paparazzi’d while picking up her DoorDash yesterday….

I know it’s crazy to just like EXIT STAGE LEFT mid-blog post but I’m literally about to gnaw my hand off. And then I’d have to explain to my doorman why I suddenly only have one hand. Nightmare on Lobby Street.

*Insert picture of Carrie Bradshaw holding up the “I’M SORRY I CAN’T DON’T HATE ME” post-it*

Snatches of conversation I heard on the street while getting coffee:

Petite Asian woman, speaking into her wired headphones, presumably answering a question posed by a teletherapist:

“I wouldn’t say I’m an outsider...”

White guy with a mustache, holding his phone out in front of him in a very Netflixian way, presumably FaceTiming his dad:

“Well, he’s a skinny guy, dad!”

I’ll see you tomorrow!