Friday, July 28, 2006
Pacing
Suggestion:“What can you, Lion, tell me that nobody else can? Maybe… what these New Yorkers are really like? You know, from the perspective of a Midwestern girl, one spending the whole summer working and living with them. What can you tell me about them?”
A lot, I’m sure. I started thinking about it this morning, as I rode the subway to work. Well, tried to think about it, but this obnoxious couple- you know the type, white sneakers and matching visors- wouldn’t shut up. Pouring over their gigantic map of Manhattan, they seemed totally unaware that morning ride to work time is QUIET TIME. Shut your mouth, ignore the person whose body is pressed against yours, and keep those sunglasses on (to prevent any unintentional eye contact, of course).
I tried to think again as I walked to work, but this time was distracted by a cab driver. Don’t know why he has to honk so loud, I saw him. So I employ a loose interpretation of the walk signals… so I might inch off the curb as I wait to cross… whatever. I’ve got somewhere to be. I gave him my best steely glare, but I don’t think it scared him. One, because I’m not scary, and two, because my eyes were of course hidden by enormous sunglasses.
Continued to work, but still wasn't able to really think. Too busy plotting my route through the slow walker types clogging the streets. One good thing about being little in this city is, I’m the perfect size for weaving. I don’t know how the less agile stand it. Nothing worse than your pace being slowed by someone out for a leisurely stroll. Because sidewalks are made for a purpose, right? Get from point A to point B as quickly as possible. Really don’t have patience for those stop and smell the roses characters… go prance in Central Park or something. Let me walk. At my pace. Efficiently.
Started to think, at this point, that I might not actually have time to… think. I called my mom instead. She was in town visiting last weekend, and I thought she might have some insight on those crazy New Yorkers. She sent me a link to this article in response. (Might or not might not be interesting, I actually didn’t read the whole thing. Nine pages! I’ve got somewhere to be, remember? Seems like the gist of it is, New Yorkers aren’t serene. Or something.)
She added a PS: "Sweetheart, I just sent you a package with chamomile tea and your knitting needles and the tape of last week's Prairie Home Companion. I'm sure you have a lot going on, but maybe you could just take a minute and put on some Garrison Keillor, drink a cupt of tea, and work on that sweater. And try to think about what it's like here at home."
Very sweet, Mom. Quaint. And I promise, as soon as I can get around to it, I'll start decoding those hints you're dropping. Just as soon as I have time.
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