The next morning, I’m dressed in stretchy pants, a long knotted T-shirt and running shoes when I exit my Tudor City apartment building. Nestled between 40th and 41st Street, the towering prewar building has vintage steel windows and romantic stone architecture. The interior gives off a distinct English manor house feel, so much so that when I look out the hallway windows, I sometimes expect to see rolling countryside instead of the United Nations or Long Island City.

I spot my friend Maggie standing outside the Tudor City Greens, a small gated park that’s parallel to the building’s entrance. There aren’t many cars on the road as I cross the street, but that’s usually the case. The uncommon quietness of the block is part of the reason why I fell in love with Tudor City and used the signing advance from my biggest book deal as the down payment for my one-bedroom co-op.

Maggie’s eyes are closed with her face tipped towards the sun when I reach her side.

“Hey, hey!” I call out.

Maggie and I met five years ago at the New York Sports Club. We both joined the gym on a whim and quit after a month (we weren’t allowed to drop out earlier due to contractual reasons). We hit it off right away when we both got the giggles during a yoga class. It’s amazing how fast a bond can form when twenty people are giving you death glares in tandem from eco-friendly mats.

“Morning,” she says, giving me a hug.

Her curly black hair is pulled back in a high ponytail with a pair of sunglasses resting in the unruly waves. Wearing a pair of skinny jeans with a stylish but effortless white V-neck and strappy sandals, she looks casual while exuding feminine confidence. I want to dress like her when I grow up.

“So I’m thinking I need to find the most substantial meal this island has to offer. Are you ready to join me on this endeavor?”

“Ready and willing,” I answer.

“Phenomenal.” Maggie locks her arm through mine and starts walking, pulling me along in the process. “How about The Smith? Their Sunday brunch is always on point.”

“I’m all about it.”

“The Smith it is. And if we walk fast enough, we won’t feel like gluttonous monsters when we split the s’more in a jar for dessert.”

“We shouldn’t feel that way regardless. God didn’t put us on this earth to not eat s’mores.”

“Amen,” Maggie agrees. “And after we eat, I need to stop at Old Navy—my last stain-free blouse got assaulted with finger paint at the nursery school last week. I don’t know how this keeps happening to me when I’m not even the art teacher.”

“The struggle is real.”