Monthly Archives: September 2009

Generic City

Posted on by .

It’s Friday night.  I’m sitting on my couch with a glass of red wine catching up on last night’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy.  In a few minutes I will transfer to the BF’s couch, where we will eat ordered-in food and watch more TV.  Last night I watched TV on my couch with the fabulous B and we ate ordered-in sushi.

Am I in a rut?

I did get off the couch one night this week to go to dinner with AC.  Where did we go, you ask?  We went to the Olive Garden.  In Times Square.  We weren’t trying to be funny or ironic.  We weren’t working on an article for the Times (blech) about top tourists spots in the city.  We just really love soup, salad, and breadsticks.

It sounds like a rut, doesn’t it?

I mean, here I am in New York City, capital of the WORLD (just ask the U.N.), and I prefer couches and chain restaurants to crazy nights out.  Either I’m in a rut, or I’m becoming a boring grown-up.  The thing is, the city becomes home because of the people with whom you share your life here.  It’s not what you do, but who you…wait, that’s not right…suffice it to say that the people who are my home here are so important and grand that sitting on the couch or at Olive Garden is enough because they make up the difference.

If this is a rut, I like it.  I think I will stay.  Let’s go to Bed, Bath and Beyond and pick out some curtains for my rut!

I will add, though, that New York leaves its mark on even the generic.  For example, on the way to 47th and Broadway and the ‘Garden, I walked behind this senior citizen:

IMG_1628

And AC and I wouldn’t have walked out of an OG in Bama to be met with the opportunity to buy Obama condoms.  Which, at 3 for $10, are (as their peddler put it) cheaper than diapers.  And I doubt I would have sat on my couch in Birmingham discussing hot guys and Celine Dion with a dude friend.  And as for takeout with the BF…no one ever came close.

New York has a way of making all of life original.

(With that, I’ll let you know that I’m leaving this fair city for a week to traipse around California with the BF.  Don’t know how often I’ll get to a computer but can’t wait to tell the stories when I get back.  Until then, remember that you’re never to old–or too man–for a pink tweed sport coat.)

The Morning Commute

Posted on by .

There’s nothing like running into a U.N. blockade to get your day rolling.

That sentence alone speaks volumes about the life I lead now as opposed to a few years ago, when the biggest hindrance to getting to work on time was a slow cashier at the McDonald’s drive-thru.  Now I’m walking up 2nd Avenue, noticing that these iron barricades sure are becoming more frequent and organized and what was that I heard on the news this morning while I was jiggling that toilet thing to make it stop running?  Something about the president speaking at the U.N. today?  And then I notice that the barricades have converged at 50th street creating a No Entry situation, and the resulting scene is this:

IMG_1626It turned out I would not be crossing 50th street until the president and his motorcade crossed on their way from the U.N. to the Waldorf-Astoria.  And I was enraged.  ENRAGED, I tell you!  Because of the empty patient schedule that I would now get a late start on?  Because of the coffee that was now further away?  A little. But mainly because the NYPD was throwing a huge rock in my path and it was annoying.  And there’s something about plans being disrupted that really gets to me…

When it became clear that no amount of huffing and puffing was going to blow these barricades down, I settled in for the show.  Which, as it turns out, can be fun once you get over the personal affront called the World Spinning in a Direction I Did Not Expressly Command.  I laughed as a shirtless dude rode his bike right up to the cops at the intersection, they yelled at him to turn around, and then they all looked at each other saying things like “Huh?” and “How did that happen?”  (I sincerely hope that the NYPD has a different unit in charge of combatting terrorism.)  I listened to the conversations around me, people calling in to work to explain their lateness and frustration.  I turned with everyone else to watch the motorcade that one cop said always reminded him of Coming to America:

IMG_1627Then the moment was over, the barricades were lifted, and the people went about their regularly scheduled programming.  I walked toward my waiting coffee and empty schedule humming the “Soul Glo” commercial and thinking about how the best moments are sometimes interruptions, and that life isn’t just what happens in between them.

Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'

Posted on by .

I was walking to work Saturday morning when I looked to the sidewalk ahead of me and saw something very exciting: a dead leaf.  A brown, crunchy, dead leaf.  It was steps out of my way, but I veered to the right and hopped to land on top of it.  I heard the satisfying crunch, along with the laughter of a girl behind me who was probably half my age.  But it’s all good because fall is here.

Autumn in New York (the season, not the crappy Winona Ryder death movie) is my favorite.  You’ve got the crunchy leaves on the ground, along with the orange ones in the trees.  Central Park in the fall is a golden rainbow.  The air has just the right amount of chill in it to keep you (but not me) from sweating while walking around the city.  The effects of KFC meals (more later) are easier to hide under trendy H & M jackets.  Football season has started, which in New York involves alumni watch parties at various bars and running into people you haven’t seen all year (though maybe for a reason).  It all just feels like a new beginning, even if you don’t know what’s next.  But something about fall makes that uncertainty fresh and exciting.

IMG_1620

The leaf was the first sign of the turnover.  Then yesterday I sat up on the BF’s roof while he manned his fantasy football empire inside.  After about thirty minutes and a turn away from the sun, I started to get cold.  At 3 pm.  Then we went to church (where we were reminded of a God who, for our sakes, cannot be controlled.  Welcome back, Tim!).  When the service was over and we walked outside, we were greeted by darkness.  No more summer 8 pm sunsets.  And then, on the walk home, there was this:

IMG_1621This is the Park Avenue restaurant that changes its name, menu, and decor with each season.  Since it is a super nice and expensive restaurant, I’ve only been once–last summer when some cousins were in town (and paying). Then, the awning was yellow and the dining room was white.  We had chilled soup and lemonade cocktails.  It was not dark outside.  This is one of those Only in New York places, and even if I can’t afford to eat there I love that it exists.

A few steps later, we looked to our right and had another Only in New York moment when we saw this:

IMG_1625WTF?  A bunch of ceramic sheep sitting on the grassy median of Park Avenue.  Since I roll with Jesus, I (sometimes inconveniently) believe there is a reason for everything.  But New York, like God, isn’t always immediately forthcoming with reasons.  So I settled on remembering that we’re all God’s sheep and need him as our shepherd so that we don’t end up looking as out of place as a lost sheep on the streets of  New York City.  Then I remembered that’s exactly what I am most of the time, and I laughed because my Shepherd has a sense of humor.

So the reason that the BF and I were walking down Park Avenue is because he had gotten some coupons in the mail this week.  Some KFC coupons.  Specifically, one for a $15.99 meal for four.  Since the proper response to this is, “Hell yeah!” followed by a googlemaps search for the nearest KFC, that is what we did, which took us to 42nd and Madison on our walk home.  And we brought our bucket of fried chicken (grilled is nasty and who goes to Kentucky FRIED Chicken for that anyway?), tubs of mac and cheese and mashed potatoes, and FOUR biscuits to the couch and paired them with a lovely Cabernet.  And by lovely I of course mean a $7 bottle from Trader Joes’s.  We ate the chicken that, for about a fifth of the price, was far superior to the entree I had at Freeman’s last week.  And we switched back and forth between the Cowboys/Giants game and the Emmys.  New York, Jesus, sheep, fall, KFC, wine, TV and the BF?  Sounds like a great beginning to me.

Fear Factor

Posted on by .

IMG_0424Lately I’ve been facing a reality that I’ve never faced:  the reality of being truly happy.  For the first time in my life, I am not struggling to make something happen, or feeling incomplete because I don’t have something that I want.  I’m not trying to get rid of anything bad or secure something I deem should be mine.  I am stunningly content.  I know enough to realize that this will not last.  These times in life come and go, as they should.  But for this moment, much of what I prayed for and hoped for has materialized.  I can look back on the tears and despair and w…a…i…t…i…n…g and understand why that all had to happen.  To get me here.  To bring me to this city, to this love, to this life.  Blessings upon blessings.

It’s scary as hell.

It turns out that when you get things you hope for, the waiting disappears but something else can show up in its place.  This something is called fear.  And telling it to take a hike is a daily endeavor.  I feel affirmed by the scene in Sex and the City (the movie) where Charlotte tells Carrie that she has everything she ever dreamed of and she’s terrified.  When I first watched the movie last year, my thought was, “Shut up you dumb slut.  What are you complaining about?  Oh poor baby, are those diamond shoes hurting your prissy little feet?’  But I get her now, that Charlotte.  She couldn’t run because she was afraid of what she could lose.  I experienced something similar a few months after the BF and I got together.  I was on a plane, fastening my seat belt as we prepared to take off.  I’ve always enjoyed flying.  Probably because if anything goes wrong, there’s no way it could be my fault.  I love zooming through the air while I read a book, nap, and let the pilot do his job.

This flight was different.  As we sped across the runway and lifted up, I felt terrified.  I started wondering if this pilot was adequately trained.  I wondered if he had been hanging out at the airport bar before boarding.  I wondered what that bump was.  I wondered why I was suddenly turning into my mother (because she is afraid to fly.  Not the usual reasons).  I imagined crashing and all the things I’d miss out on now that I’d finally gotten to a good place.  I got mad at God for taking it all away from me.  This was all within two minutes of takeoff.

The great thing about having a dream come true is that your dream came true.  The not-so-great thing about it is that you now face the constant possibility of losing it.  Being a believer in God, and also being a person partial to symmetry and balance, I believe in evil in the form of a devil.  I don’t think he has a tail and a pitchfork, but I do think he’s an asshole.  And while God looks to bless me at every corner (even at corners I don’t like visiting), the father of lies would like nothing more than to take my joy.

We have a battle on our hands.

So while I frolic around in meadows and sing songs and walk in the clouds and listen to love songs without puking, I also pack some spiritual heat.  I remain aware of the fact that only truth can battle and beat evil.  So I listen to the truth.  I preach it to myself, I put it on my iPod (sermons at redeemer.com), I read it, I pray it.  Because the other option is living in the fear of loss, of a monster at every corner.  I realize that this daily battle is the tradeoff for living in a broken world.  But amidst the brokenness, the two choices remain.

DSCF0448

1) Get scared and run things       myself.  And end up looking like Fred here.

OR

IMG_0064_1

2)  Put on my seat belt                   and let the pilot do his job.  And just let go and fly.

Umm…DUH.

Life in a Cup

Posted on by .

IMG_1616You have got to be kidding. I was doing my last-minute purse check before heading out the door to work yesterday when I noticed that my bag seemed light.  Too light.  I reached inside and felt around.  No wallet.  I checked my gym bag.  No wallet.  I checked the floor around the purse area.  No wallet.  I checked my phone.  Two missed calls, a text, and a voice mail from the BF all to inform me that I had left my wallet at his place.  Apparently it had fallen out of my $19.95 H & M bag (you know the one–it has its own post here).  SHUT UP I HATE THIS SHUT UP I HATE THIS WHY ME WHY ME WHY ME YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS.  These were the thoughts running through my head.  Imagine if an actual problem had occurred.

Because here’s the deal:  it wasn’t a big deal.  I worked at NYU yesterday, which is five blocks from my apartment.  Which means I didn’t need my wallet to buy lunch because I come home for lunch on my NYU days.  Which means that all I needed my wallet for that day was one thing.  One vital, life-giving, thing.

COFFEE.  (Or coffe, if the above picture is to be believed.)

Being a New Yorker, I don’t have loose change lying around.  If I had, I would have already spent it.  On coffee. So short of tracking down the Soup Man and asking him for 81 cents, I was facing a scary prospect:  a morning without coffee.

Except…that’s not the whole story.  The whole story is that I wasn’t really facing the prospect of a morning without coffee.  This is because NYU provides free coffee to its faculty.  But said coffee is on the basement level and requires an additional few minutes out of my way.  As opposed to the coffee truck that IS on my way.  And I was already running late.  And the free coffee is not very good. And this was turning into A BIG DEAL.

So I hoofed it to the school and went to get my coffee.  And ALL THEY HAD WAS DECAF.  I was about to have a Serena-esque breakdown until I remembered there was another coffee machine on the third floor.  So I went there.  And I got my coffee.  And it wasn’t that bad.

Take all of your so-called problems…better put them in quotations.

I don’t make a habit of quoting John Mayer, mainly because I think he’s a douchebag, but that line from the song “Say” bears repeating here.  My overreaction to The Coffee Incident of 2009 was due to a complex interplay of factors that ran the gamut from my hatred of losing things and being late, to the fact that George and Sylvester–my regular coffee truck guys–had been missing from their usual spot on 28th and 1st since last week and I was starting to worry.  I have long suspected that their coffee and bear claws were a front for some more sinister business, but I was willing to ask no questions as long as I got my morning beverage.  Since their disappearance, I had been forced to visit a nearby truck run by some amateur who did NOT have my order waiting for me when I walked up to the window.

In short, it had been a rough week.  So the coffee debacle didn’t help.

But it did show me some things.  Mostly things I already knew but needed reminding about.  Like, for example, what a brat I am about getting my way.  How rigid I am when it comes to my routine.  How one little deviation from my plan makes me feel like the whole day (week, year, whatever) has gone off the rails.  How utterly laughable that is compared to what some people face.

Guess I should write my coffee plans in pencil.  And maybe not depend on it so much (but it really is my lifeblood in the morning–what if I had to live without it?  It would be like going without a glass of wine with dinner!).  In the meantime, I will be thankful for those little dots of humanity on the sidewalks of this city, my morning oases.  And guess what?!  George and Sylvester are back!  I walked up to the window this morning and we greeted each other like long lost friends.  I didn’t ask any questions, and they didn’t have to ask me any either–they knew my order and we made the exchange.  People who say New York is cold and lonely don’t know what they’re talking about.  Home is everywhere here–the guys who get my coffee ready, the drycleaner downstairs who knows my name.  They just better not go anywhere without telling me.

Love Letter

Posted on by .

9-11As I watched the television among a roomful of people that day, I had no idea that I was staring at the city that would, in less than four years, become my home.  All I could see was chaos and destruction, lives forever changed, hearts broken.  And yet my life’s path was headed straight toward that island. On September 11th of every year since 2005, the downsides of living in Manhattan all melt away as I am overwhelmed with the pride of being a New Yorker.

By the time I got here, the smoke had cleared and the debris was gone.  But this city would never be the same.  Thousands of people had vanished from its streets.  There were gaping holes, in hearts and on the ground.  But that wasn’t the end of the story.  St. Paul’s Chapel became a memorial in addition to a church, and in the process hosted visitors who would never have stepped inside otherwise.  The World Trade Center site went from being an area of destruction to construction (though the process has been a long, seemingly interminable one).  And then there are the changes that can’t be photographed or measured–the changes that occurred within the citizens of the city.  Chaos converted to hope.  Vulnerability turned into strength.  David Wilcox commemorated the beauty that was revealed in a devastated population in his song “City of Dreams”:

From the top of the towers
You could see past the narrows
Past our lady of the harbor
To the broad, open sea
See the curve of the earth
On the vast, blue horizon
From the world’s greatest city
In the land of the free

All the brave men and women
that you never would notice
From the precincts and fire halls
The first on the scene
Storming into the buildings
On the side of the angels
They were gone in an instant
In the belly of the beast

We are children of slavery
children of immigrants
Remnants of tribes and their tired refugees
As the walls tumble down
We are stronger together
Stronger than we ever knew we could be
As strong as that statue that stands for the promise
Of liberty here in this city of dreams
Liberty here in this city of dreams

All the flags on front porches
And banners of unity
Spanning the bridges
From the top of the fence
As we heal up the wounds
And take care of each other
There’s more love in this nation
Than hate and revenge

People come to New York to be identified with the character of this city, both before and after the horror of 9/11.  Frank said that if you make it here, you can make it anywhere.  Instead of living easy or out of touch, Billy gave into his New York state of mind.  And everyone’s favorite urban poet Jay-Z reminds us of the eight million stories in this city beyond compare.

And me?  I came here to prove that I could.  To say that I did.  I figured that would take about a year, and then I could return to my previously scheduled existence.  But here I am still, four years later.  It turned out that New York became more than just a line for my resume.  I arrived fresh from a six-year period of deconstruction provided by a holy wrecking ball upon my carefully-planned life.  I thought I was in for a break from all that, for some cruising through an alternate life before I returned home.  But I was home, the minute I crossed the Lincoln Tunnel.  It took me awhile to realize it, because I didn’t think home would involve tight spaces, seas of people, and financial impossibility.  I should have known better than to value the credibility of my own predictions.

Never underestimate the potential that lies within a pile of rubble.

I love all the things about my life that I never imagined could happen before it included New York.  Like how yesterday, a Monday morning, involved a walk through the Central Park Zoo watching the sea lions and overhearing the differences between them and seals. (Sea lions can walk and have bigger flippers.  You’re welcome.)  Or my ride on the train on Sunday, when I listened to a five-year-old girl expertly tell her younger brother that they were on the local downtown train but would have to transfer to the express at the next stop.  (When I was five, I was talking about glitter.)  Or the ab-cramping laughter I know is sure to follow when AC starts a story with, “SHUT UP.  Listen to what happened.”  Or the virtual impossibility of, among eight million people and two thousand miles from “home,” finding my best friend and true love in one man who knows AND loves me. Or the view from Brooklyn of a skyline that no longer holds two towers, but holds my story and countless others within its span.  A story written by a love that is big enough to include that skyline, every other one, and two beams crossing each other against a backdrop of darkness.   A story that may not be safe, but is truly beyond compare.

Getting My Learn On

Posted on by .

imagesAs far back as I can remember, this time of each year has meant one thing: the return to school.  My dad made up a song about it that he sang to taunt my sister and me annually; it was not so much a tune as it was just the words SCHOOL TIME!  and CHEESEWAGON! yelled over and over while we covered our ears and tried not to cry over the end of summer and our perceived freedom.  My official schooling ended right before my twenty-eighth birthday, coinciding with my move to New York and into the “real” world.  And yet here I am, thirty-two and beginning another school year.  I just can’t get away from it.

Now is different, though.  Now, the student has become the teacher.

This is laughable to me for many reasons.  For one, my residency–the final two years of my education–left me feeling about as bright as the perpetually blown-out bulb in my bathroom (the reasons why are another story for another day).  For another, dental school prepares one to drill and fill holes, not teach.  Finally, I always claimed to hate school.  This hatred reached a climax during dental school and residency.  For after a lifetime of being evaluated based on my performance, I unwittingly entered a career whose training required that my evaluations were basically a list of everything I was doing wrong.  This, apparently, would be the road to improvement.

But I moved to New York and I needed to pay rent.  So I took a part-time job teaching at a dental school.  The word is…irony.

The past four years of teaching have been quite a learning experience.  (Har har.)  I look back at that first year and can only remember being a total train wreck: fresh from my own school-inflicted war wounds, I was defensive and constantly trying to prove myself.  Much like when I was a student.  I was making it about my performance and judging that from the reactions of the students.  And as usual, I was giving my evaluators too much credit.  For they were much like I had been: tired, jaded, and just wanting to get out of there.  Not to mention dishonest and sneaky in way too many cases.  And I took that personally.  Throughout each day, my blood pressure soared each time I felt taken advantage of or disrespected (being young and female didn’t help with this).  I dealt with these injustices by getting angry and, basically, being a jerk.  Or the young, female version of a jerk, what the French call le bitch. And nothing around me or within me improved.

Then something changed.  Through various influences (see: Redeemer, Tim Keller, GOD), I began to finally get what I had been taught my whole life.  No, not how to fight cavities.  The stuff I had learned outside of school.  About being utterly messed up yet loved at the same time.  About not needing to earn that love.  And I quit worrying so much about saving a face that was never mine to begin with.  I threw away my need to perform to perfection.  I started to teach in the same way I had begun to live my life: by believing the truth and telling it.  Without a need for the perfect response, because the truth speaks for itself.  And that allows me a certain amount of detachment from the results.  Which means that though the things other people do may still bother me, I am no longer at their mercy or tied to them for my worth.  My blood pressure can level out a little instead of spiking at every little eye roll from a student.  And there are plenty of other case studies in life that allow me to practice the truth:  I don’t have to play into or pass on my family’s generationally-perfected, time-tested practice of passive aggression.  I can get over my BF-associated exclusion from the girls’ daily emails.  And I can fight the pull of my middle finger on the rest of my hand after a cabbie blindly careens around a corner, nearly hitting me.  Worst case scenario, he’d be sending me Home a little early.  Which is not to say I want that, or don’t care about these things; it’s just that my cares have been reordered.  Being loved well tends to do that to a person.  It’s kind of like the best teacher there is.

So my case study this week was the orientation speech I had to give to a new group of twenty students.  Public speaking has always reduced me to a red-faced, shaky puddle of sweat.  Now I know how much of that reaction is caused by a fear of how others see me.  Demoting that fear, reordering that care, has helped–but I’m still me.  So I gave the speech and delivered the truth without any shakiness or much flushing.  I even managed to get a few laughs (intentionally).  I walked away, releasing myself from any unhealthy attachment to their response and feeling quite the expert.  Then I looked under my arms and saw two sweat stains the size of Montana.  I gasped.  Then I laughed, and was able to do so for two reasons:  one, I was wearing a jacket over my shirt, so the students couldn’t have seen the evidence.  And two, the only one besides me who could see it made me that way.  For a reason.  And he loves my sweaty ass.  Which means the evaluation is in, and I’m doing just fine.

Labor Day Means Meat on a Stick

Posted on by .

IMG_1563Living in New York is so expensive that sometimes the only trip you can afford to take is a ride on the subway.  So the BF and I stuck close to home and had ourselves a little staycation for the Labor Day weekend.  The perfect weather demanded that we turn off Firefly and Friday Night Lights and walk somewhere other than Bed, Bath and Beyond.  So we hit a couple of parks (Madison Square and Union Square, six blocks apart–we are efficient that way), checked out the Green Market, escaped without maiming anyone in the obnoxious crowd, and stopped at our favorite wine bar (Cavatappo) on the way home for refreshments.  Wine, prosecco, prosciutto, and mozzarella.  Then we spent some time on the roof deck.  The one we were so excited about when he moved in and yet have ignored for the past couple of weeks because an eight-floor elevator ride is exhausting when the wine and remote are already right there in front of you.  Our spirits were so high that we even discussed the merits of having to stay in New York for another year.  Merits like roof decks and views and green markets and amazing restaurants.  Merits that will be forgotten the second I leave my apartment tomorrow morning for work.  (This is why I have planned a preemptive strike on negativity by loading my iPod with Jesus songs.  Soon as I press play the ball is in your court, Lord.)

IMG_1592Here is a picture of what our Sunday, and nature in New York, look like.  We ventured carefully west (the BF gets a little nervous in Chelsea) toward the High Line Park, a former freight railroad that now houses deck chairs, concession stands, and cilantro from the smell of it.  One of the best things about the High Line is its proximity to Chelsea Market, home of several bakeries.  After stuffing our faces with brownies at one such bakery, we headed to The Park, a local open-air bar/restaurant, for a drink.  (Apparently we have gotten into the habit of rewarding ourselves with alcoholic beverages any time we walk to a city landmark.)  Then it was time for a vomit-inducing cab ride to church and dinner at Rare with A.C., who made a valiant effort to help us finish off the fry sampler basket.

IMG_1605Labor Day.  Coney Island.  Wow.  Just…WOW.  Let me put it this way: Coney Island is a place you should visit by looking at other people’s pictures.  It is…gross.  And slightly creepy.  And dirty.  It’s a place with a constant soundtrack of funhouse music similar to what you’ve heard in several horror movies, right before someone gets killed.  It’s a place where you pay a quarter to use the bathroom and leave wondering what you would have had to deal with for free.  It’s a place populated by people like Donny Vomit and Serpentina and albino boa constrictors slithering on the grass.  It’s a place where people bring folding tables from home and set them up on the beach for a cookout.   It’s a place with the Cyclone, a roller coaster that is so rickety you want to write a bucket list and start apologizing to people you’ve wronged as soon as you step off it.  But it’s also a place with corn dogs and cheese fries.  So you power through the grime and carnies, knowing that at the end you will be rewarded with meat on a stick and an Only in New York Activity to check off your list.  And an alcoholic beverage, if you’re that kind of person.

Summary:  much like it’s easy to be cool with God as long as life is going well, I think it’s easy to decry gentrification until you have to pee at Coney Island.

So that’s how summer ends…with a whimper of the N train, not the bang of a plane landing.  But Federer is in the finals, wine bars stay open all year, the new TV season is beginning, and I never have to go to Coney Island again.  Let’s do this, fall!

Forgot to Use a Pencil…

Posted on by .

In the past twenty-four hours I have covered a sizable portion of this fair city on foot.  Last night, the BF and I went with another couple on a grown-ups date to see West Side Story on Broadway.  I am sorry to say that I thought it sucked.  But not as badly as the BF thought it did.  After the 112th dancing number, I turned to look at him.  He was leaned back in his seat with his hand covering his mouth, as if to impede a vomit eruption.  “Too much dancing?” I whispered to him.  He nodded silently at me.  As soon as the intermission lights came on, he hightailed it to the bar.  To refill our revolutionary new theater glassware…wait for it…

IMG_1559A grown-up sippy cup that they let you take to your seat during the show!  (I still almost spilled my wine.  Probably because I was wearing a white dress, and that danger curve is just too high.)  Turns out the cure for too much dancing is alcohol.  So the night wasn’t a total loss!  Especially when we decided to walk home.  So there we were, cruising along 46th street, enjoying the sixties temps and perfect breeze.  There are times when this city sneaks up on you and takes your breath away.  Like when you look up to see Grand Central lit up at night, for example.  I thought about all the night-walking I did when I was single, and how the city was almost enough company and God certainly was, but I still wondered if I’d ever have someone else to share it all with.  And then someone snuck up on me and took my breath away, and here we were, holding hands and critiquing Broadway shows.

And then I looked up and had my breath taken away in an entirely different way:

IMG_1557Dear Lord.  What is wrong with that bear’s EYE?!  And I swear I saw his tiny friend pointing at me and laughing.

Anyway, isn’t life is all about the things that sneak up on you?  Yet so many of them appear undesirable at first glance.  A friend on Facebook wrote about how her kids are really sick right now and that this development caused her weekend to not be the one she had planned.  “Plans in pencil!” I thought to myself cheerily, thinking of writing her a message about how the best things happen apart from our planning, and in spite of it.  And secretly thinking how glad I was to be so mature and enlightened.  Cut to my phone ringing and a parent telling me her child had a toothache and could I please see them at the office today?  The office that is closed but that I am on call for?  Piety and platitudes are so easy to come by when life is going the way you want it to.

So I went in and took the kid’s tooth out.  The way there, walking those nearly thirty blocks, I was irritated.  So I resorted to that habit I have of taking out my anger internally, by imagining fake conversations where I tell people off.  Which is the reason I arrived at the office hot and bothered from a yelling match with Jon Gosselin over his hideous parenting and life choices.  But the mom and her son didn’t know that, and they were very appreciative of my time.  Then they left and I was there when the phone rang and it turned out to be a local magazine wanting to do a brief interview about children’s oral health.  I obliged her, even though on-the-spot questions unnerve me and it’s quite possible I suggested that parents brush their kids’ teeth with a Snickers bar.  Barring that, I got some good publicity for our office!

Between that trip uptown and my morning venture to the West Village in the hopes of stumbling onto the Sex and the City 2 film set (I did; however, they were just beginning to set up and I didn’t have time to wait for the eventual actor arrival), my New York feet are irritated with me.  And honestly, I’m irritated with myself for still so often being insistent on my own short-sighted plans.  When the toothache call came in this morning, I had just finished my daily prayer to be reminded that nothing I have–time, talents, relationships–is ultimately mine, but God’s.  And then I almost lost it over an hour-and-a-half interruption to my lazy day.  Guess I have a long way to go.  But how humbling and thankfulness-inducing is it to be led by someone who can see around the corners and know the better way to go?  Even when it does involve creepy teddy bears.

Chair Pose

Posted on by .

0000007501_20060920143802

My dad has always had a home office, and when I was little I would sneak in and sit in his big leather swivel chair.  I would grab some paper out of Apple’s original printer, circa 1985, and write out memos to my pretend staff.  Then I would prop my elbows up on the glass desktop, look around, and yell for my sister to come in so I could fire her.

Make-believe office is more fun than real office.  The first time I had to actually fire someone, I couldn’t sleep the night before and I felt like a total hypocrite.  What business (pun slightly intended) did I have making these decisions and ruining someone’s day/week/life?  None, in my opinion.  Plus, people who fire other people are generally not liked by the people they fire.  And when this happened, I was not quite so far along in my development on the path of Not Needing Everyone to Like Me.  So it hurt.

A year and a half later I sat in the same office and interviewed people to hire.  And I still felt a little fraudish (new word).  I’m a grown-up behind a desk deciding who will be my assistant (not an “I am so important I need someone to fetch my coffee and pick up my Manolos” kind of way, but in a “Can you hold the toothpaste while I brush this kid’s teeth?” kind of way).  But I still feel like the little girl drawing butterflies on printer paper.  And there’s a part of me that wonders when I’m going to be unveiled as an impostor.

And yet I got to this chair on my own (and by “on my own” I of course mean ultimately only through God’s blessings), without hypnotizing (m)any people, and I’ve been here awhile.  For so long it was way easier for me to believe negative press about myself than anything good.  Always waiting for the other shoe to drop if things were going well.  Wondering when I would see that shadow of disappointment cross someone’s face.  But here I am, in a big-girl chair and a big-girl relationship and even big-girl tickets to West Side Story tonight in my big-girl city!  And I’m starting to believe that I’m not faking it.  That this life does fit me.  That (after six years of school and three years of working) I actually am good at what I do.  And at other things too, like washing dishes and being happy!

Take that down and send it out in a memo.  And call my sister in here.