Desperate Times Call for Macarons

Oh my sweet little $3 pieces of luxury….

Sure the image I conjured up in my head when thinking of macarons is a lounging in a warm bath, pouring a glass of wine, and nonchalantly gorging on dozens of these little treats as I tell myself this is well deserved “me time.”

In real life that’s not the case.

I am a New York City cliché. Young, single, between jobs, and constantly on the verge of “finding my path.” I buy macarons not to bathe in luxury but rather to give myself a tiny morsel of hope with the mantra, “If I can buy a macaron, I can survive.”

So I go to Ladurée in SoHo (I walk because it’s free and I needed an excuse to peel myself off the couch). I wait in line with the tourists buying keychains and the grandmothers buying gift boxes for various grandchildren. I mean who else is here in the middle of the afternoon on a week day? “Where are you going for lunch?” “I’m walking over to Ladurée. I’m in a tea and mille feuille kinda mood,” said no employed person ever.

I place my order of one single raspberry macaron trying to ignore the confused/judgmental/pitty vibes from the staff that I just want a single macaron. “Oh how strange, how sad.” [sigh] Just give me my macaron…And yes I will be paying the $3 with tax with my crusty overused debit card!

I walk to Washington Square Park where I find there are even more students, tourists, and grandmothers and ignore the fact that I don’t belong. I put in my headphones, eat my little raspberry cloud and remember, “If I can buy a macaron, I can survive.”

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