Sloane Crosley: ‘I do say sorry when I slam into strangers in the street, but I don’t mean it'
Your support helps us to tell the story
From reproductive rights to climate change to Big Tech, The Independent is on the ground when the story is developing. Whether it's investigating the financials of Elon Musk's pro-Trump PAC or producing our latest documentary, 'The A Word', which shines a light on the American women fighting for reproductive rights, we know how important it is to parse out the facts from the messaging.
At such a critical moment in US history, we need reporters on the ground. Your donation allows us to keep sending journalists to speak to both sides of the story.
The Independent is trusted by Americans across the entire political spectrum. And unlike many other quality news outlets, we choose not to lock Americans out of our reporting and analysis with paywalls. We believe quality journalism should be available to everyone, paid for by those who can afford it.
Your support makes all the difference.I body-checked two people this week. This isn't a new habit either. It's something I like to do when I want to elevate my feelings about other people's poor street etiquette from "passive" to "straight-up aggressive".
Go ahead, try exiting a shop with your body pointed north and your head turned west and see what happens. Better yet, text while walking. I do say "sorry" when I slam into strangers, but let the truth be told: I don't mean it.
Normally, I am a vocal advocate for "looking both ways" and "knowing the size of one's own body". But working, socialising and simply running errands in Manhattan, means I am bound to break my own rules on occasion.
Last week, I was texting a friend about some matter that felt very urgent at the time. I went to step onto a curb, aiming at what I was sure was the flattened, wheelchair-accessible section. Instead, I kicked the thick crust of stone and fell straight onto the concrete. My phone went flying. People gathered. I was wearing jeans with holes in them (a whole other kind of crime) and I was surprised to see my that my knee bled instantly and profusely. After the third good Samaritan offered to help me up, I told him this was getting embarrassing.
"I think it's one of those things," I explained, my leg throbbing, "where I just have to lie here and bleed for a bit."
It's been a while since I've had such a visible malady. Sometimes I get anxious. Depressed. Moody. The flu. The occasional migraine. But this was a retro accident. As luck would have it, I was already on my way to a pharmacy. Shame, ever the conqueror of pain, caused me to straighten my limp as I approached the counter.
"Excuse me," I said, "I hate to bother you but I seem to have a stream of blood dripping down my leg."
As the pharmacist retreated to her cabinets for disinfectant, I went to finish my text to my friend. I changed my mind. I'll just call her later, I thought. If I could be this calm, this disconnected regarding an issue on my own body, I could stay offline for an hour as well.
Sloane Crosley is author of 'How Did You Get This Number' (Portobello)
Join our commenting forum
Join thought-provoking conversations, follow other Independent readers and see their replies
Comments