I’m dramatic. Anyone who knows me will tell you that. For this reason, I am always prefacing ridiculous BUT true stories with: “I know I’m dramatic, but I am dead serious.” Once I’m done peppering the story with detailed descriptions of the events that played out – something I’ve been doing since I learned how to talk. You’re welcome, mom – they usually believe me on the basis that no sane person could actually make up such an insane scenario.
And they’d be right. For some reason, I am always finding myself in the most unbelievable situations (like that time I woke up from a 5-hour nap to the NYPD knocking on my apartment door). Which brings me to … the night I ran away from a drunk, umbrella-wielding crazy person.
I came home from work one night excitedly awaiting my Jill Jill Stuart navy gown from Rent the Runway (side-note: if you don’t know what this is read my post here because you need to know, just trust me). My boss’ wedding was that weekend, and if this dress didn’t fit me I would be in tears on the floor in a sad little pile of fabric (dramatic, I know). Anyway, I’m sure you could image my surprise when I received an email saying that my dress was delivered, and yet I had no dress. I quickly checked my order, only to realize that I’d shipped it to my street but 2544 Apt. 4B not 2455 Apt. 4B, my actual apartment.
I panicked. At the time, we lived in a not-so-nice area where the locals would be not-so-happy to have me buzzing their apartment to ask if they got a package with an evening gown, gold drop earrings and a gold snakeskin clutch delivered. But I had to try. So, I headed out with Google Maps pulled up and decided to give my dad a call. (Side-note: my dad has three girls and has lived my entire life somewhere between anxiety and alienation.)
“Yeah it’s literally like 10 doors up don’t worry.”
Two minutes later.
“Excuse me? … EXCUSE ME?”
Dad- “Liv? What’s going on?”
Me to man who’s poking me with a closed umbrella – “HEY Stop it!”
Dad – “LIV.”
*I start walking faster. Man starts following me. I start light jogging . Man starts light jogging.*
Dad – “OLIVIA.”
Me, in a much calmer tone than you’d think this line came out – “Dad, I’ve gotta call you back. I’ve gotta call 911 – some man is chasing me.” Click.
*Man is next to me now, still trying to poke me with his umbrella. I stop, turn around, and shout.*
“SIR. YOU NEED. TO LEAVE. ME ALONE.”
At this point, a nice older gentleman waves me over to him. He looked friendlier than the man who was stumbling after me, slurring profanities, so I went to this kind stranger. He yelled at the angry stumbler, and that was that.
Oh, you thought I went back home? Um, no. I had a dress to find. I finally made it to 2544. Of course, it was an apartment complex, and, wouldn’t you know it, there was an apartment 4B. Great. I buzzed. Someone let me into the tiny lobby, I quickly peered around the corner by the mailboxes and saw no packages. “WHO DOWN THERE??” yelled someone from upstairs. Abort mission. ABORT MISSION.
I called my dad on my way home. He was less than enthused about the entire thing, but I was fine. No harm, no foul. I went back to my apartment and did what I should’ve done from the beginning: I called Rent the Runway’s customer service. The nice woman explained that deliveries to NYC require signatures since they are delivered by an internal carrier company. She put me on hold while she dialed the delivery number to see where my package was, came back on the line and told me that the delivery man hadn’t been to my stop yet. YEE. Twenty minutes later, and I was trying on THE dress in my apartment. How did that even happen?
In case you’re wondering, the straps were a few inches too long, but nothing that a few safety pins couldn’t fix. I went to the wedding – one of the best and most beautiful I’ve ever been to – two days later, and rocked the shit out of my dress, earrings and clutch.
Moral of the story is – do it for the dress. Always.