Rain

I'm awfully grateful for the soothing sound of rain pattering outside my window right now. It's my favorite sound in the whole wide world. I've heard it filtered through the din of the city for so long that I had nearly forgotten about my adoration for it. Soaking in the happy calm of this sound is the closest thing to peace I can manage right now. We are neither in the midst of WWII nor am I anywhere near England, but staying calm and carrying on is still the current order of business.

Soft, steady rain will carry me on.

This Man

I spent the day at a local cafe / gourmet market / coffee shop this week. Aloof hipsters with their bold smears of bright red lipstick and nose piercings and oversized glasses played barista and charcuterie sandwich makers behind the counter. The girl who took my order seemed annoyed, but only insomuch as her coolness would allow. I felt her pain, as I, too, was in it for the long haul, with a work deadline later that day. I set up shop at a table in the corner, plugging in my laptop and giving my coat its own chair without a second thought. There is a certain luxury of space availability here that I have greedily embraced. Is this what happens after living so long in the most densely populated city in America? Yes, indeed it is.

A man, one of only two patrons when I walked in, was seated at one of the tables. A large coffee in front of him, his legs were draped to the side, crossed comfortably as he clumsily tapped his fingers around a messy array of dirty coins. Three colorful plastic lighters sat atop a napkin, as though they deserved special consideration that his pocket change did not. You know the complimentary kind that gas stations used to provide with your pack of smokes? The kind you rarely see any more since smoking has become déclassé? Those. Despite the lid on his cup, coffee had somehow managed to spill. The crumpled napkins littering the space around his lighters were oddly still clean. It was hard to tell when the man had last bathed, but it was clear that his clothes were in bad need of a wash.

Somewhere along the way of these past few years, my sensitivity has begun to surface more readily. Where I once only cried at movies, now, whenever I sense people's need for kindness, a tear escapes. Sometimes, two or three before I realize what's happening. Watching this man stare at his muffin, the tears started up again. He just kept picking at the streusel on top, rolling the little mounds of brown between his fingers, the sugar flatly falling on the table. I occasionally glanced up from my screen to watch him play a solitary game of musical chairs without the music. Every fifteen minutes, he'd pull up a new chair from a different table, test it, and then settle for another ten or fifteen minutes before getting up to do it all over again. He repeated this act for four hours straight. Every few rounds, he would relocate himself to a new table, taking his various sundries along with him. When he landed at the table across from mine, I very deliberately forced myself to keep my butt firmly planted in my seat. It didn't feel right to pack up and leave. What right did I have to sit here that he did not? This much was clear: I had the option of going home or to another cafe, armed with money to pay for whatever time and space I wanted. This man did not. He probably didn't even have a place to sleep that night. Life is unfair, isn't it? And so I willed myself to stay, covering my nose and plucking away at my keyboard until it was time to go.

The girl from behind the counter eventually came over and told the man that he needed to leave if he was finished with his food. I think the dismissal stung me more than it did him.

Here I sit, days later, unable to shake the thought of this man. I want to know his story. I want to know why all of a sudden I feel incredibly privileged to be in my own shoes: my wits about me; my mental faculties intact; people in my life who lend their support; friends who pick up their phones when I call; and the choice to do or not do as I please. My life is good, but why am I sitting like a weirdo in a random cafe tearing up over a man I don't even know?

A New Window

I left Manhattan. I set a deadline for myself and when the time came, I walked away. Well, technically, I was driven away, huddled in a chilly heap at the edge of my mattress in the back of a van with the stupid knotted stomach I always have whenever I’m stuck in a car. Most of me was ready to leave, stoked, I'd even say, but a significant enough part of me was apparently not, as evidenced by the fact that I threw 80% of my belongings haphazardly into boxes in the last few days.

The world seemed like it could have been a touch more cooperative on the big day, what with wet snow falling steadily from the time we started loading the van to the time we pulled off the slushy highway more than two hours later. It was a safe journey, so maybe I have it all wrong and the world was actually quite kind to my needs that day. All I know for sure is that I annoyed the hell out of the people who stuck by me to pack at the eleventh hour. Not my proudest moment that was. Maybe we can laugh about it in say, another twenty years. Or, never. That’s a good possibility, too.

Right now, I’m trying to figure out what’s best for me. This thing called life isn’t supposed to be hard or unhappy, but that’s what it’s felt like, which is what prompted this move. They say that everything is a choice, from the way you feel, the way you manage your feelings, down to the very essence of who you are. I can see the truth in that. I just have one question: what happens when you aren’t sure which choice is meant for you?

Pumpkin Pie

There was a time when I would have a slice of pumpkin pie for lunch almost every day. I was sixteen, a senior in high school with rarely a spare moment for lunch. I'd fly through the cafeteria between meetings and classes and clubs and sports to grab a saran-wrapped plastic plate of pie. Sometimes I'd stop for a quick chat with Chris, the kind bald man who managed dining services, or Kathy, the chatty wide-smiled cashier lady, or Shirley who was new and shy.

I always made it a point to say hello to Shirley, sometimes with fork in hand and pie in mouth, but always a hello would spill out of my mouth. She had an air of that timid shyness about her. As a citizen of humanity, I guess I sensed then what I know now: some people are shy, but it doesn't mean that they want to be left alone. They just need a little more time getting used to the idea of someone new. And to be receptive to someone like me who wants to know your dog's name immediately, I should also tone it down a notch or two at the beginning. And whaddya know? They turn out to be sweet as candy and sometimes even have a wicked sense of humor.

Anyway, where was I? Pie, was it? Yes, pie. Right. So I'd take that pie and run to my next meeting. End of my story about pie. Sorry, that was kind of a whole lot of nothing that led to a whole lot of nothing. Let me try again.

That time, that time of pumpkin pie, was a different time. I had thrown myself into a busy web of high school shenanigans to take my mind off of things that I didn't know how to handle. I did it then and I do it now: I distract myself to avoid things that make me uncomfortable. I take whatever seems too much, bury it, and lock it away. Who wants to handle things that are too heavy to carry, too dark to lighten, or too tangled to straighten?

Since my little high school love affair with pumpkin pie, I rarely have any. It's still one of my favorites, but I just don't have the occasion. But every time I do find a pumpkin latte in my hand or a slice of pumpkin bread on the plate in front of me, it brings me right back to that time so long ago and how so little has changed since.

Hashtag Hercules

What started as a split second instagram shot {+} has morphed into a late-night ramble. I'm just gonna roll with it...

Instead of sleeping, I'm listening to the sounds of shovels scraping against sidewalks, salt trucks crunching by, the occasional yelp of a city worker earning his pay in the freezing cold streets outside my window. Interrupting are cheeky bouts of silent night so calm I could hear a bird chirp from a block away, if only ever there were a bird who would warble from a wintry city bough at this time of night. By the time the sun rises, the snow will have been tossed aside, much of it married with grit. They say grit is the best indicator of personal ambition and success. Funny, the two definitions of grit, no? Tonight is probably my last chance to beat the dawn and make my way to a snowy Central Park. I thought this would be important to me, to take my camera and spend some time in a snow laden sliver of the great big park at least once before the city has its way with her, but it seems that priorities and wishes change when the clock's approaching four and the wind chill is -10. My bedside lamp is still on. I'm in bed, but sleep is not coming. Typical. Happens every time. I'm facing a wall of framed images, looking and wondering what to do with them. The middle one is still maddeningly crooked, I notice. I'm realizing that these have been with me for nearly ten years. That's a whole decade. That's more than two presidential terms. That's two bachelor degrees. For some, that's a whole career. I wonder if I might not be doing right by me if I find them a new home. The indecisiveness is here.

Please Bring Your Kid To A Museum

There is something that I hear young American parents often say:

"Children don't like art museums. They get bored."

This bothers me. Kids will engage with anything they're presented with. At least that's been my experience.

Parents often seem to think that the only suitable museum for a child is a zoo, a children's museum, or a natural history museum, anything with big stuffed animals and dinosaur bones and designated play areas. There, they can explore with their hands, jump up and down, and engage in imaginary play. Adults seem to insist that kids respond best when engaging in creative play, in surroundings that are tailored to prime color schemes and mass-marketed cartoon characters. They dismiss every possible notion that flat paintings and bronze sculptures not meant for touching will hold little interest to a small child.

Ahem. I ask of you, then, why and how is it that European children happily walk around galleries with their parents, absorbing and processing the contents of great museums? Delightful three-year-old French children glance up at portraits and exclaim things like, "A lady in a red hat like mama's!" or "That dog looks like Fido!" or "This is Grandpa!" There might even be a tiny little pointed finger at a pastel-y Renoir and a "Pretty!" soon to follow.

Take, for example, this kid who was with his mom and brother. I was trying to get him out of my frame, but when I couldn't, I just gave in. He was focused on completing a worksheet that a MoMA docent had made available to children. His mother engaged both brothers in an animated discussion of the art hung around the walls of this particular gallery. After a few minutes, one brother skipped over to the leather ottoman in the center of the room and got to work on his worksheet. His little brother soon followed. And guess what? The kids were not a bit bored. They answered their mother enthusiastically, pointing this way and that, sometimes getting up to show the other brother what they were talking about. I left the gallery after close to fifteen minutes and would later catch glimpses of the trio as I made my way between the other galleries. The boy pictured here was probably 6, maybe 7. His brother was closer to 4.

It's called observing, processing, connecting objects and memories, extracting and exchanging data based on visual cues, identifying and articulating a human emotion or experience. It's not play-doh, a ride down a slippery slide, or a toy car with wheels that go vroom vroom. But you know what? For a half hour, maybe an hour, when a child is well-rested and fed, a casual walk around a museum gallery or two can be an enriching, invigorating, and stimulating experience. I'm not saying that it can replace the playground or a swimming pool or a skiing lesson - I'm saying that exposure to and the chance to absorb what's offered inside museum walls is well within the reach of a child's capacity for engagement.

Of course I can say this because I'm not a parent. And maybe parents are less willing to risk a possible meltdown in the middle of an echo-y chamber than I am. But honestly, I've yet to see a single meltdown in any of the museums I frequent. European children are not only well-behaved, but actually seem to enjoy their visits. I'm curious as to why American parents so readily scoff or balk at the idea.

Let's Take Autumn, Fold It Up, And Tuck It Away In My Pocket

You know, to keep me zen and centered when, come January, in the bitter chill of winter, I'll be forlorn and depressed staring at my ashy, ghost white legs, wondering if I'm using the wrong moisturizer because one's legs surely shouldn't ever be this dry, no matter how cold temps drop outside?

Providence, Rhode Island

Sunday. 3 November. 2013.

It wasn't until my twenties that I began to notice the pretty of autumn. Up until then, fall held little value other than signaling the first term of school and field hockey practice. The physical metamorphosis happening outside was more of an annoyance, what with all the lawn work that came with the season. Do you know how annoying it is to locate a field hockey ball that rolls into a patch of leaves caught on the fence lining the sideline? High school problems: they are serious.

My mother's parents, my maternal grandparents, came to visit the States exactly once. My mother grew up on a farm a couple hours outside of Seoul. Knowing this, I did not, for the life of me, understand why my grandfather flew such a long distance and, as a man of few words, when asked what he wanted to do, said that he wanted to go for a walk.

A walk.

A walk?

I had absolutely no interest in strolling outside to admire the scenery. I mean, the trees? Aren't there trees in Korea? Branches and leaves? Grass? Yawn, dude. Yawn.

Oh, the simple minds of ignorant pre-adolescent know-it-alls.

Now, every year around this time, I look up at the vibrant firetops of the trees, how they perfectly blot themselves in front of the city skyline and think, oh, I bet weh-halabuhji (Korean for maternal grandfather) would have loved this. He would have adored a November walk on the East coast. There's nothing quite like it.

My grandparents' visit was a long one, overlapping a chilly March when there was a freak snow and ice storm that closed Philadelphia schools for a full week. That was the second and last time that I would spend time with my grandfather. I've visited his grave once, more than a decade ago. He's buried at the highest point of a mountain, one that is so steep that the only way to descend is to side step with your feet perpendicular to the slope of the mountain. I bet at this time of year, he enjoys a sweet, breathtaking view.

Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House, by M. Daum

I came across an article by LA Times columnist Meghan Daum. She wrote about being a childless woman {+}. Here was a successful, smart, married woman authoring a thoughtful, positive, non-preachy opinion piece about a topic that even twenty years ago, would have marginalized her. It was awesome. I discovered this article after listening to a radio interview she had given last year. She was well-spoken and articulate. Her pitch was light, her tone feminine, but her voice, I picked up immediately on a nervous energy. Her speech raced through thoughts packaged in large, rambling sets of words. And yet, her thoughts were neither unstructured nor without direction. I found it curious that the voice over the radio waves conflicted with the sure, confident tone of the article I had read. It made me want to read her books. I selected her most recent, published in 2010 by Knopf, Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived in That House.

I absorbed Daum's serious and silly memoir flabbergasted at how much I could relate. I came across so many lines that could have been lifted straight out of my brain. So uncanny they were that I even re-read some paragraphs, finding it difficult to believe how parallel her tale ran to my own current narrative. I spent my entire afternoon with the book. I would pick it up again around midnight, only turning in after I finished the last page at three in the morning.

The quote above makes it seem like this book is a wacky tale of a depressed woman, but it is not. I chose it because it was the first line that made me take pause. I caught my breath, finding great comfort in the knowledge that someone I had never met, and will probably never meet, had written down words that so amply encompassed everything I'd been feeling. There is greatness in that. Daum's story is full of humor, if not embedded in her somewhat neurotic tendencies, but that is exactly what made it feel very real. Deep thinkers often hyper-process information, overthinking the most mundane of events. It is this very habit that makes their stories entertaining and never anything less than honest.

If you have a sense of humor, and / or are in your late twenties or early thirties, and / or find yourself in a spot where you don't want to be, I think you could relate to Life Would Be Perfect. If I may make a suggestion, avoid sitting on a bench for five consecutive hours reading it. That boney part in the center of each of your butt cheeks? My bum's so sore today, I can't sit on a chair without a cushion.

Changes

Let me tell you exactly what has changed since I took this snapshot in bed two weeks ago: 

1) I drank that pomegranate hyacinth tea lemonade. It was delicious.

2) I read two pages of the book upon which that cup of lemonade is sitting. I have my reservations about Ms. Wharton.

3) There is a sliver of a hair clip just barely noticeable - I dropped it and it broke into three pieces.

4) I tore a hole near the inseam of my most comfortable pair of jeans.

5) I tore another hole right through the inseam of my second most comfortable pair of jeans. 

6) I dozed off while standing in a checkout line at Trader Joe's. A lady way behind me in the other line yelled, "Miss, there are people behind you!" I opened my eyes to see twenty feet of open space in front of me. The ten people that were there before had suddenly turned to two. Surprisingly, no one seemed particularly annoyed at me, even the lady who called out. It's probably a good thing the woman addressed me as miss. Had she used ma'am, who knows what sass might have tumbled out.  

Let me tell you exactly what has not changed since I took this snapshot in bed two weeks ago:

1) The dust on the mirror.

2) My legs. They could use a wax.

3) Aquaphor. I rub a good dollop into my heels every night.

4) Sonograms. Way too many women in my circles are getting knocked up.

I'm writing this right now as a rowdy party is happening on the outside terrace of neighbors who live several floors down. This happens frequently on Friday and Saturday nights, especially when it's nice out, but on work nights, it's a real treat. Drunken screams abound and a catchy Of Monsters and Men tune is currently ripping through the air. Some girl keeps screaming for Ben and dammit, Ben, go to her.  Go to her and shut up her drunken screeching. Might I add that it is nearly eleven o'clock? I, for one, have to go to the office tomorrow morning. 

I hope their beer kegs are tainted and will give all their guests, but ESPECIALLY my neighbors, severe diarrhea that will render them useless and in painful gastric distress for the entire weekend.

Getting Going

There's a bowl of kimchi fried rice in front of me as I type this.  Each bite is being delivered to my pie hole on a magnificently too-large wooden spoon.  If you're wondering if it's the same wooden spoon with which I used to prepare my meal on the stove, you'd be right.

It's a wonder why I even bothered to transfer everything into a bowl when I could have eaten it straight out of the hot pan.  I'll tell you why: it is because, as my mother taught me, those are for cooking, not eating.  Only uncultured people eat out of pots and pans!  Now if you're wondering why, per the logical extension of my mother's wisdom, I didn't retrieve a clean spoon from the drawer once my meal was ready, it's because I was lazy.  This must mean that I am half cultured and half not.  I am a living contradiction.

This image tells the truth.  Life feels helter-skelter.  Not chaotic, but disorganized.  I'm calmly ignoring the mess by procrastinating like a champ.  Spending time here is so much easier than scrounging up the self-courage and motivation necessary to carve out a better life for myself.  Behind the browser tab for this blog post, a dozen other windows and tabs are open including some that show my résumé, cover letters, wedding gifts, bank statements, baby stuff (why are so many people having babies this summer?  Oh, right.  Hurricane Sandy.), and well, let's just say that I have a long list of things to do.  Actually plowing through that list leaves me feeling kind of pathetic; more weak and powerless than I'm comfortable with, probably because I feel like so little is within my control, that so much is out of my reach.

This stuff, it needn't be hard because it's only as hard as I make it, some wise men once told me.  While I work on processing that, it's comforting to know that at the very least, I'm cultured enough to know that I should always eat rice out of a bowl and never a pan.  The spoon, now that's apparently a different story.

Royal Thoughts... And Mulan

Any day now, the baby of a very famous British couple is due to enter the world.  When that happens, you're going to catch me rolling my eyes every time I hear anyone talking about the new addition to the royal family.

I love babies.  I really do.  Ask anyone who knows me.  They'll confirm it.  But why is it that this baby will receive more attention than say, a child born to farmers in a rural farming community?  Or one that's left orphaned after some unfathomable tragedy strikes?  I'd argue that it should be the other way around, that a child with fewer resources and fewer role models deserves the loving adoration and support of its community more than the one who will have a lifetime of top caregivers and butlers and private tutors.  Maybe more isn't the right word.  Maybe as much as is more appropriate, because every child is equal.  Well, they are in theory, at least.

I recognize and respect that the royal family does a lot of work with charitable causes and carries out the dutiful job of representing an entire country's people, but really, how are these anymore important than the contributions of any other family that brings a child into this world?  What is it about famous children and their families that compels the rest of us to admire and idolize them so?  Is it because we want our very own fairy tale lives, too?

Ending rant and starting new, lighter topic: I'm making a public announcement that there is a Mulan II.  How I didn't know about this earlier is beyond me, but in case you were in the same boat, now you know.  You better believe that I immediately dropped what I was doing to watch it.  I'm quite fond of animated films.  They remind me of things that I sometimes lose sight of.  This one reminded me that there is a special strength required of being kind to oneself.  It's difficult, yes, but not impossible.

Twenty-Four Hours

They say that a fly lives for twenty-four hours, but I don't think that's true because one kept me company for several days last week. Three, to be exact.  No matter how many gentle wind currents I artificially created with magazines hastily pulled from the recycling bin, I could not get the little bugger to take flight through an open window. After a lifetime of squishing whatever critter was bothering me, all of a sudden, I couldn't.  This one hung out quietly, minding his own business and never once getting in my way. Every time I thought about taking a newspaper to him, I just couldn't do it.  It seemed cruel.

Each day, I would walk into the apartment and within minutes, I'd catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye.  It was like he was saying Hey, what up, man?  A long enough appearance to let me know that he's still around, but that he'd give me my space. With each passing day, I'd see him flying closer to the ground, his flight pattern just a little less zippy than the day prior.  I wondered if I should feed him somehow.  Ridiculous, I know.

I still haven't found him. I'm feeling rather sad about it.  He got stuck in this little hole of an apartment, away from all his friends, and expired somewhere all by his lonesome surrounded by nothing more than stale Manhattan apartment air.  It would have been so much better if he were outdoors, somewhere peaceful, like the Sculpture Garden at MoMA.

I'm not sure why I'm feeling sad about a fly, of all things.  Part of me hopes that he doesn't show up in my dustpan a week from now, that he somehow snuck out quietly into the hallway and onto the elevator, back out to the open city.  Because, you know, they say that a fly lives for twenty-four hours, but that's clearly not true.

Friday.  21 June.  2013.

Toodles, June

Do you know that a new set of bed sheets can set you back more than a hundred buckaroos?  I know this because I walked through half a dozen home sections of Manhattan department and discount stores only to find that every set that I even remotely liked cost that much.  After months of being unable to find something decent that wasn't printed with alligators or flowers, I finally settled for a set in plain, simple greyish purple.  At least that's what I thought.

After a wash and dry, they appeared darker than I remembered them at the store.  Too late, I thought, as I made my bed.  When bed time finally rolled around, I pulled back my comforter and frowned.  The sheets were even darker, incredibly dark, like a deep, deep violet.  They had this horrendous sheen that prompted me to read the little tag with the care instructions to see if I had accidentally bought satin or silk sheets.  I confirmed that they were 100% cotton, but that didn't change the fact that my bed looked fit for a gigolo.  It was so ugly that I seriously contemplated if it would be a spoiled American move to donate them to Good Will.  I forlornly decided that yes, it most certainly would be.  So for the past week, I've been sleeping in a male prostitute's bed.  And you know what?  It's really not much of an experience worth reporting on.  Only it must be, because I'm blogging about it.

Raunchy sheets, crushing DOMA, some real progress on American immigration reform, and the farewell of Google Reader.  It's been a big week here.

I'm digging these grainy night shots from my phone.

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall

There is a large mirror in my gyno's office. It's positioned in a typical, unassuming location, above the bench where the nurse places the shrink-wrapped gown you'll don for your appointment. At my last visit, this gown was coral. As I admired how well the color worked against my yellow undertones in the reflection that stood before me, mixed feelings brewed inside.

I thought maybe it was my hair being pulled back.  I thought maybe it was because I was looking at my profile instead of straight ahead at the mirror.  I stared suspiciously.  I even quickly opened my robe, flashing myself before finally concluding that no, everything is exactly the way I remember it.  But in the mirror, I still appeared less chubby than usual.  Thin, even.  It was so odd to see less of her, the chubby one I know as me.

It seemed unfair that at the offices of the one medical specialty dedicated to women's health, even there we're set up to question our self image. I don't know about this whole size thing. When you're about to see a doctor about [insert embarrassing thing here], shouldn't you at least be secure in knowing that you are however you are?  Not distracted by a warped image of yourself right before you discuss the workings of your most intimate parts?

I guess my point is: let's freaking lose the slimming mirrors, shall we?  The image is misleading, entirely inaccurate, and just not right.  What good does any woman have to gain from seeing something that's not really her?

Despite the mirror game, I marched out of that office feeling like a million bucks.  The doctor had declared, "Julia, that is soooo common!"  Just like that, instant relief washed over me.  "Oh," I managed to squeak sheepishly.  Phew.  THAT's what going to the G-Y-N should be about: regaining confidence in knowing that your body's doing what it should be doing and faith in the comfort of knowing that you're fine as you are, not how you might look minus a few pounds.

Reserved

It's on rare occasion that I pull out the little box that holds my personal stationery these days. The thick cottony layers sit patiently, stacked neatly inside a midnight blue box. They're just an arm's reach away, tucked in the lowest drawer of my bedside table, but I rarely open that drawer.  I wish I had a reason.

The Way It Should Be, And Sometimes Is

I took this just moments before an elderly couple arrived at the bus stop today. They were probably in their seventies. The woman was aggressive, a little too loud, a bit wild even, when she asked if they could get to 39th Street on this bus.  He, however, he was calm and took his time getting around. He seemed so fragile. The two of them worked well together. He quietly listened and did as she instructed. Sit here while I check the bus schedule. Take your blood pressure. Do you want some water? This man, this white-haired old man, he was so willing to be led by this woman. He smiled pleasantly and thanked me when I told him that the bus was approaching. As he slowly got up and made his way to the boarding area, his wife was halfway up the block asking even more strangers for confirmation that this was the right bus. I watched as she whipped around to head back toward us. Jimmy, this is our bus! This is our bus! Jimmy!

Madison Avenue.
Today.*

A friend once candidly said that she'll be there to wipe her husband's ass when the time comes. As unpleasant and crass as this may sound, in the context of our conversation, it was a very endearing statement. This conversation is what popped into my head as I watched this loud, bossy woman direct her husband. She was clearly an excellent caretaker, right there by his side to make sure that he wouldn't miss a beat. It was a nice part of my day, to witness something so ordinary, yet so special. This, right here in front of me, was the classic story. A couple committed to looking after one another. This is it. And it was beautiful in its mundaneness.

When the bus pulled up, the rest of us lined up by the door, but none of us boarded. We patiently waited for Jimmy to make his way over and climb on first. Of course, his wife stepped up before him. She had to ask the driver if the bus would bring them to their destination. Twice.

* If you see an eerie face in the picture, it's of Henry Cavill in a scrolling bus stop advertisement for the new Superman movie, Man of Steel {+}.  Frightening how the impression turned out here through the glass reflection, but he's actually quite good-looking and the advertisement is not scary one bit.

Today There Was Wool

The sudden dip in temp left me reaching for a wool coat today. Ducking in and out of shops all afternoon, I got caught in enough cold rain that my coat is still quite damp, hours after I got back in. This is the first Memorial Day weekend since I moved here that it hasn't been t-shirt weather warm. It feels strange. It's hard to believe that I took this just two weeks ago. Sunday the 12th felt like the way May's supposed to feel.

On Broadway.

If there's one thing about myself that I know for a fact, it is that I am fiercely patient. That might not be the right word for it, but call it whatever you may, I can —and will— wait for as long as something needs. Just a little longer, and just maybe I'll get what I want.

Fifteen

I had a friend in college who turned to her out-of-state physician father when she was desperate. She needed a script for the morning-after pill. Awkward? Yes, but girlfriend maturely picked up that phone and asked mom to hand the phone to dad. Not once, but twice. It's tough being a girl.

It was announced last night that one brand of the morning-after pill, Plan B, will be available over the counter to women 15 and older. They dropped the age from 17 to 15.

Fifteen.

The fact that more childbearing-aged women now have access to Plan B is excellent. But am I in the minority as someone who finds the idea of girls being sexually active at this age downright scary? I mean, have you ever met a 15-year-old? One that was emotionally prepared for sex? Because I certainly haven't. And I interact with more kids in this age group than most people my age! Also, do you know how many pimples they have? Braces? How surprisingly awkward and gawky and downright kiddish they all look? Humans look like we're 13 until we near 20. I'll tell you what: the power of raging hormones sure is something.

It doesn't seem right that our bodies are ready to conceive at an age when we aren't emotionally prepared or socially ready to handle the task of raising offspring.  Why are our biological time clocks so off synch with our social expectations? There's not a single American in their right mind that would endorse a girl getting pregnant when she's fifteen, and yet, she could have been menstruating for years by then. In other words, why are we fertile when we are ourselves still children?

While evolution's catching up, Mayor Bloomberg is trying to scare our teenagers into not getting pregnant. The message is pretty brutal. NYC currently has a public campaign that plasters the faces of the most adorable, but miserable-looking toddlers inside subways and buses.  These children have been haunting me for weeks now. I try to turn my back to them when I'm on the train because they're that distressing. You can check out the ads here {+}. The one that hit me the hardest was the one that reads, "Honestly, Mom... chances are he won't stay with you. What happens to me?" Wow.

Carry On

I know this sounds unimportant and trite, but I am impossibly tired right now.  I feel hungover and if I'm honest, a bit loopy.  I was up until 3:30 working late on Tuesday night and then working late again until 5:30 last night.  Not enough sleep is a bitch, yo.  I don't remember the last time I sunk into my pillow as the sky woke up. This must be what it feels like caring for a newborn, only add to that your lady bits healing and your breasts feeding that newborn and well actually, no, I guess I'm wrong - that's probably much more trying than my current state of exhaustion.

This morning, thrilled that it was finally Friday but unable to scrounge up the willpower to act like an adult, I did something that I'm rather shameless about sharing here: I opted out of my daily shower in exchange for fifteen more minutes in bed.  That all the senior folks were out of the office attending a conference several time zones away was all the justification I needed.  When I finally stepped into the shower tonight, I turned the knob to the maximum hot water setting.  I drowsily leaned against the tiled wall.  After a few minutes, I turned my back to the water and sat down in the tub.  It felt odd sitting there facing the back wall, but I was off my feet which felt heavenly.  Before long, I closed my eyes and let the steaming stream pelt my back.  I massaged my neck, in the best way one can manage on her own.  I could have sat there all night.

And now that I've deliberately stayed awake for as long as I have, midnight is finally near, which seems like a reasonable time to turn in so that I might awake refreshed, bright and early for my day tomorrow.  Saturdays are my hardest days, but they are also days when I witness a lot of good people doing good things.  Especially this week, with all that's been going on, it seems right that this is how my week will end.  On the train home tomorrow evening, I know I'll be spent and maybe even unusually quiet from the tiredness, but I'll also have spent the day being reminded that among humans, as ruinous and harmful as some may be, there are also those, too, that carry on with the radiance of love and kindness and respect.

Entrance to the Met.

A Man I Knew

Madison Square Park.
Yesterday.  7 April.  2013

I was so hurt last week.  You probably were, too.  The news of Roger Ebert's death left me a heaping pile of aching in a way that felt almost unnatural.  This is so often the case with me, that I remain oblivious to how strongly I feel about someone, or an experience, or an opportunity, or an idea, until our time together suddenly expires and the closest I can get to that goodness again is by reawakening memories.

I can't articulate why I'm grieving the passing of a man whom I had only ever known on a screen, and most recently and more memorably, via the written word.  This was a man who produced work so satisfying and accessible, his essays so full of humanness (is that a word?), that he'd carry you into, out of, and back into your very own senses.  How could you not fall for such a man, for someone whose work exuded such depth and candor?  I loved how this writer shared his own love story with us, the fact that he married later in life, to a woman whom he admired for her strength and wits and intelligence and beauty.  I loved how this husband who had lost his voice to cancer blogged a love letter to his wife last summer {+}.  I loved how eloquently this professional film critic navigated the impossible range of human needs and emotions, with a clear conscience and sure footing, no matter the topic or political or cultural climate.

It had only been a couple days since his last blog post had scuttled across my screen, his announcement that the cancer had returned and that he would be taking a step back, taking A Leave of Presence {+}, as he so cleverly called it.  A Leave of Presence.  This phrase, it's just so wildly beautiful.  I had grown accustomed to his way with words, the uncomplicated tone and cadence of his prose.  I will miss it.  I will miss him.