Promenade (n): a stroll or walk, especially in a public place.

This morning walking east on 72nd street towards the bus stop for my morning routine of waiting-for-the-bus-for-the-fifty-minute-commute-across-town, a man passed me and asked me point blank how the prom was.

"How was the prom?" he asked with a big smile on his face. The prom?

I guess you always have to be prepared in New York because you just don’t know what it's going to throw at you – especially that early in the morning. The inflection of his voice at first threw me, because walking down the street on any given day I tend to hear men say the most ridiculous (and mostly crude) things to me.

But how was the prom? I was wondering how this was supposed to equal some form of pick-up line, or whatever it is these men are trying to accomplish when saying random things to random women on the street. It seemed like the verbal equivalent of a honked horn (which happens more than one would think) always leaving me to wonder: what are you really getting out of doing that except solidifying my opinion that men have not, in fact, evolved.

Prom guy was skinny with white pants and a grey t-shirt and was, I then realized, naturally, flamboyantly gay (I say naturally because I don’t think you’d find too many straight men so inquisitive about prom). He knew me. At least he thought he knew me. He thought I’d just returned from what was supposed to be the greatest experience in my teenage life up until that point, compete with hair, make-up, a limo, a cheesy pastel dress and matching vest for my too-much-hair-gelled date.

I had my big sunglasses on because it was early and I hadn’t had coffee yet and it’s been a long time since I’ve personally been to the prom, an event that, looking back, I altogether could have done without

"Ummm," I said bringing a hand tentatively up to my sunglasses thinking, should I just take them off and let him see his gaffe? But then I felt bad. I'd let our awkward moment go on for too long and his face was so genuine, his tone so concerned about the outcome of this particular girls’ night at the prom, that I couldn’t help myself but stop, pay tribute, and lie. "Ok?" I said feeling ridiculous.

Because New York is nothing if not a place where you can be whoever you want on any give day and I figured I might as well go with it. He noticed however, that I seemed confused.

"Ohhh!" he said, a hint of recognition in his voice. This is it! He realizes I am not who he thinks! "I thought you were your sister! You two look so much alike I can never tell!"

I nodded and smiled in agreement. What is wrong with this guy? The sister? Not only did he think I was someone else, he then thought I was someone else on top of being someone else! "Oh well!" I said and opened my hands in front of my like I was offering him something and shrugged my shoulders in a very it-happens-all-the-time sort of way.

I do happen to have a sister that people think I look just like and upon first meeting confuse us. She always gets upset, giving a look like, ew, I don’t look that much like her, do I? that I try not to get offended by.

Prom guy and I parted ways and I took my place in the crowd of waiting bus-goers. I could feel all their eyes on me, all silently wondering why I didn’t offer this apparent-friend more information about my twin sister’s night at the prom, not even giving so much as an "I’ll call you later," upon our departure.

But what else can you do in a city full of so many people that no one knows you enough to even know that you’re not someone else.