Sing On, Soweto

I decorate my home very gradually and particularly, refusing to exhibit anything that wasn’t love at first sight. Several walls or sections of walls remain blank canvases until I find just the right coverage. About five weeks ago, a song came on my Brenda Fassie Pandora radio station. It was love at first sound, and the second I saw the cover of the album it’s from (The Indestructible Beat of Soweto), I knew this is the visual that belongs on the lower righthand side of the wall above my desk.

One of my bigger regrets is not having studied abroad in South Africa. One of my bigger goals is to overthrow that regret by traveling through South Africa as an older, savvier adult.

Nelson Mandela once lived in Soweto. He’s a big deal to my family, and to many other families. I taped a huge poster of him on a wall in an old room of mine. In times of disillusionment, I sometimes looked up at that poster, to help get my focus back in check.

When a Supersoul you’ve never met but have always looked up to dies of old age, the effect can be similar to when a long terminal illness takes away someone you’re close to. You know the end is coming any day and assume you’re ready for it; when that day actually comes, you’re not as emotionally prepared as you thought you’d be.  

I still haven’t found the album cover image in the size and form I’m looking for. A colorful ceramic butterfly hangs on the wall as a place-holder until it comes home to rest. 

Why Stop Now? More of What I’m Currently Pleased About

*The delicious homemade stuffing I prepared last week

*How quickly the finger I hurt while chopping ciabatta bread for the stuffing healed

*That ciabatta loaf had garlic in it, which was the stuffing’s secret weapon

*When I fell down while putting the finishing touches on the stuffing, my face hit the floor instead of the stove’s sharp edges

*Even though one quadrant of my face is a little sore when I touch it, there are no breakages or bruises

*By the looks of it, I have enough celery, onion, and herbs to make another pot of stuffing this week

*I’m not the only person I know who routinely trips, tumbles, spills, or bodily crashes this way

*This other person and I are back to living on the same coast

*She can still take business trips to NYC

*The framed close-up picture of the two of us, that I keep on display above my couch, is what first made me realize I have the same mouth as my late mother

* Telephone calls, text messaging, email, and Skype have yet to go out of style

*The photo of her toddler that she sent me last night is the perfect new wallpaper for my phone

Things High Up on My Thankfulness Chart Right Now

*Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill album is getting turned into a Broadway musical

*Not having to deal with any airports this Thanksgiving weekend

*Bearing witness to all natural developments within the sky: rising and setting suns; rainbows; twinkling little stars; varying color schemes, cloud formations, and moon phases

*Public libraries 

*Graffiti artists  

*Unconditional love

*Conditional love whereby each party keeps his or her end of the deal

*Soft lighting

*The 12- or 13-year-old oversized hoodie I wrap around me, like a child’s special blankie, all fall and winter

*Chrissy Teigen’s tweets

*Free spirits who aren’t flakes

*Snowflakes

*The hot chocolate recipe on the back of the Hershey’s cocoa box  
*A glass I pulled out of my cupboard that has Chinese characters etched on one side and the English translation on the other side:

Ten Ways to Good Health

Less Alcohol, More Tea

Less Meat, More Vegetables

Less Salt, More Vinegar

Less Sugar, More Fruit

Less Eating, More Chewing

Less Words, More Action

Less Greed, More Giving

Less Worry, More Sleep

Less Driving, More Walking

Less Anger, More Laughter

*Wireless bras with a little bow front and center

Further Incentive to Take My Time During Rush Hour

One Monday morning at a summer job, when I was an age that tempts many older people to refer to you as “a baby,” a co-worker I’d never seen before told me she owned the same top I was wearing and would be walking the halls in it herself on Thursday. I normally go out of my way to prevent this “We’re Twins!” extravaganza from happening, so it wasn’t great news. But I grew more preoccupied with the idea of planning a week’s worth of outfits in advance. If I did that, I figured, I wouldn’t be late for work or for play.

I signed off on every piece of clothing and jewelry I wore to work last week the night before. It didn’t get me out the door any quicker. Unless I have a meeting, or otherwise suspect that any tardiness could hold another person or system up, there are mornings when I’m not quite as punctual as I technically could be. Sometimes it’s due to reasons outside of my control: my neighbors and I were trapped inside of our building’s foyer after the inner door handle developed a dastardly mind of its own; a manhunt for an escaped prisoner delayed my train; two tied-up pit bulls excitedly encouraged me to come over for a meet-and-greet and it would have been inhumane not to pay my respects. Other days, the reasons aren’t as riveting.

(Incidentally, the older crowd still refers to me as “just a baby,” and to my face. It’s dismissive.)

Baby occasionally rides a morning train she’s nicknamed her really-pushing-the-envelope late train. Its uncrowded last car contains an older passenger who is currently her favorite person in the Tri-State Area (no need to get to know him, that could ruin everything). She gets off before he does and they exchange big, show-me-your-teeth smiles on her way out, wishing each other good days. The ritual uplifts her.

After I’ve crossed paths with certain souls more than twice, I find it impossible not to speculate about the lives they strongly lead or sadly follow. Where are they coming from? Where are they headed? Why do they look so distraught when they think no one is watching? How empowering might it feel to successfully catch the same train (same car, same seat) every day - or is the lack of variety adding to the distress? 

Deliver Me from the Food Shortages, Express Lanes, and Illusions of Qualifying for Top Chef

In my first string of New York minutes, I cohabited with locals who relentlessly ordered their meals in. They would wake up or come home and get somewhat settled before picking up the phone to place an order for delivery, sometimes from eateries stationed down the street. What a bunch of lazy asses, I decided, you couldn’t pay me to live like that. We children of Started-from-the-Bottom-Now-We-Here immigrants value home-cooked meals over making bicyclists hazardously weave through buses and cars to fetch our hot food.

Fast forward to about ten years later. In the past week, I’ve called out for delivery twice, with the updated standpoint of: Bring me my dinner, and be quick about it. In fact, bring enough to last a couple of days so I have leftovers for tomorrow’s lunch, as I’m in no frame of mind to cook or shop for what’s missing in my kitchen. It's alarming how often someone who’s out foraging for food so much can have nothing left to nosh on. That’s the downside of high metabolisms and the upside of living in communities where it’s commonplace to drive to the grocery store and stock up with impunity, instead of having to make multiple on-foot trips, settling for as much as you can carry for five blocks. The idea of ordering groceries online and having the cargo dispatched to my doorstep hasn’t sounded nuts to me in months. Neither has the idea of sending my laundry out. I’m at the edge of my bed in suspense about what will seem normal next.   

The act of being a New Yorker, one who’s really a part of it all, can periodically sap the energy out of you, to the extent nowhere else I’ve lived has. It’s almost like being an older version of what you were in college (the last time I had meals delivered with any regularity), when you and the people tightly packed around you were up at all hours, fighting to balance the serious with the social, maturation with exploration, without burning out too soon, and the thrill of finding a free Coke at the bottom of your delivery bag can be all it takes to keep the mojo humming for another night. 

Try Walking a Mile in My Mary Janes

It’s fair to say I’ve spent a good deal of time thinking about how I’d answer: “If a genie granted you three wishes, what would you ask for?” (I used to watch and read a lot of Aladdin- and Arabian Nights-related material.) Lower alcohol tolerance and at least one mob connection have long served as my first two wishes. I’ve gone back and forth with #3, but now I’ve got it: I’ll take two same-sized feet.

My feet aren’t even a simple, solid half an inch apart. They’re probably more like two-fifths or three-sevenths of an inch apart, or different widths, or whatever it means when one shoe is too tight while the other is too big, or when both shoes are too tight or too big but in completely different places. It’s why I rarely walk long distances in anything other than sneakers or Nike flip-flops (which are sneakers with a thong, have excellent traction, and won’t get nasty or squeaky in the rain) – they don’t hurt or require any painful “breaking in” trials that hardly end well. Like many women, I own more than a dozen pairs of shoes. All because when I buy a new pair it’s hit or miss, even if they feel OK in the store. Since it’s mostly a miss, at any given time I only have one pair of non-athletic shoes I can briskly walk more than 20 minutes in without blistering or cutting up my feet. At the office, I have a drawer full of nice shoes. They’re for wearing around the office. At home, I have a closet floor lined with shoes. A third of them are for in-home use or special occasions, after commuting to the special occasion in sneakers or flip-flops.  

I’ve seen a cobbler. I’ve ponied up for drugstore products designed to close gaps or ease chafing. Nothing helps for long. Shoes hate me, I hate shoes; the barer the feet, the closer to the glow of my nail polish I’ll be. 

What Can Happen When Some People Go for a Drive

The first unusual thing I noticed while walking up Central Park West on Friday night was how civilian-free the sidewalks were. NYPD officers and barricades were everywhere. As soon as the lady walking 10 feet ahead (the only other pedestrian in sight) breezed through an open passageway between two of the barricade gates, to get to the other side of 81st Street, an officer slammed the gates shut, right in front of me.

Five years ago, I would have made a snide comment. These days, I handle my outrage in a more dignified manner, coldly ignoring, with a faint smile, the person who has just wronged me. As far as I was concerned this cop wasn’t even there, our noses not many inches apart, subtly trying to get my attention. I had music to listen to, phone apps to fiddle with, a barricade gate to lean against, trees to stare at.

But my detainment was taking forever. Two of the officers directing this intersection’s vehicular traffic were dressed almost militarily. When I finally broke down and acknowledged the cop who’d been minding me, I got the full briefing.

“It’s for the president. He’s coming through any minute now.”

I yanked the buds out of my ears and, like twenty-first-century Ani DiFranco, wasn’t angry anymore. Obama was about to drive crosstown, through Central Park, on his way to dinner on the Upper West Side.

“Ya wanna meet him?” my cop asked, with an “I can tell you’ve had a long week and deserve a million-dollar pick-me-up” expression.

“Yeah, can I?!” All of a sudden, I adored the NYPD. This cop was a younger, jollier, Irisher version of Joe Pesci at the beginning of Home Alone, when Pesci masqueraded as a police officer. They have the same accents, the same tonal qualities.

“Nah. Not even I get to.”

I went back to snubbing him.

When you’re unexpectedly detained for more than 20 minutes, it gives you time to think about topics you might not normally dwell on for long, such as: When was the last time I got held up by a presidential motorcade, and how does Now compare to Then? It was two years ago, in Midtown. The young cop who drove an NYPD van behind Obama’s SUV had a nervously thrilled look on his face when he gingerly turned onto 7th Avenue, as if this was the most important task he’d ever carry out, fully aware he was in the thick of something not everyone can say they’ve done. He was having a deathbed-memory moment – in his final hours, should he get proper time to reflect, he’ll dredge up that drive and feel warmer.

My cop from the other night chomped on gum, and clowned around about the President of the United States having an Upper West Side-based girlfriend. When I told him I was no longer pissed about all the waiting, he said he was pissed and wanted to go home.