The Sun Never Sets on a Badass

There are no tumbleweeds in this city. Just plastic Duane Reade bags that get tangled in the wind when gusts of hot subway air blow through the sidewalk grates. When we walk, the theme song to “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly” plays like a tribute to the movie title so rebellious it doesn’t need an Oxford comma. We don’t need one either.

Our boot-spurs from Christopher Street rattle like snakes as we stroll across intersections without looking both ways. We dare traffic cops to ticket us; jaywalking’s the least of our crimes.

They call us Butch Cassidy and the Sunglass Kid. We’re so badass that we haven’t seen a sunset since ’88, except for the time Butch almost refreshed a photo of one on Instagram. (Luckily, Butch saw the caption first, then hit “unfollow” before her reputation could be scarred.) We live in a world of perpetual brightness, repelling thrown-shade faster than Felicia can make an exit, and though we’ve become accustomed to a lights-on atmosphere, we need sunglasses to act as eyeball chaps.

Along with our bandanas and denim slacks so high they tickle armpits, we rarely step foot outside without mirrored lenses — partially because they look cool (Westward Leaning makes the best ones; their Voyager Collection are the rainbow-bright, Cali-made choice for us cowboys of the Wild East), but mostly because our retinas burn without them. Danger may be our middle name, but we’re badasses, not idiots.

For us, the City that Never Sleeps takes on a whole new meaning because the sun never sets. We can go to the park at 3 AM — for us, 3 AM is practically noon on a weekend and we’re just two chicks doing headstands near a picnic blanket.

Afraid of the dark we are not; we laugh in the face of monsters who might live under our beds.

We can walk to the bodega at 4 AM without receiving cashier-judgement side-eye. Two eggs on a roll, please. Breakfast is eternal when the sun only rises.

Outdoor tennis courts become 24-hour operations, you just have to know how to break in. We don’t know how to play but if we could, maybe we would. Maybe we wouldn’t.

We probably would not, to be honest. Seems excessive.

Because it’s always sunny in Philadelphia/everywhere else in our world, shades have become part of our required uniform (like a nurse who wears scrubs or mailman who wears short pants) so people can’t make annoying comments about our indoor-sunglasses. None of this, “Okay, Anna,” or, “Hey, Guy Who Sings ‘Sunglasses at Night.’”

But the best part? No one knows what we’re doing behind our lenses. We could be napping and you’d think we were being stoic, or we could be staring at you kind of creepily, but you’d think we were mysterious.

Or you’d catch your own reflection first and be like, “Please don’t move, I need to use your sunglasses as a mirror.” And we’d oblige, but you might need your own shades to keep you from squinting.

The future’s bright, cowboys, and that rising sun behind you is pretty badass.

In partnership with Westward Leaning

Photography by Charlotte Fassler