The Struggle

Leaving work around 4:45pm was possibly the most perfect time to head over to JFK Airport. I had little difficulty getting my bags past the Union Square turnstile and the LIRR train to Jamaica was very nice, considering I even managed to grab a seat. The pre-rush hour airport traffic coupled with avoiding the baggage check line provided me with ample time to experience the T5, a brand spanking new & posh JetBlue-only terminal. We boarded a little late because of light showers, but this gave my sister, who poorly selected the "free" 2 hour subway ride in lieu of the $7.25 fifteen minute train ride, time to send her checked bags on a later flight and still catch our flight together.

Being both creatures of habit, we took window seats one in front of the other to avoid the dreaded "middle seat" and less sleep inducing aisle seat. I think we are even both particular to the right side of the plane based on early developmental sleep patterns. When it came time to grab my seat, I was pleasantly surprised to find my personal monitor already set to my favorite station. I had a brief chat with my sister and then it happened...

The middle seat was about to be inhabited by a 300+ pound elderly woman. My heart sank. Having comfort as my number one priority when flying (even slightly above landing safely...) I went from cheerful to cross in approximately 1.72 seconds. Perhaps I'm a little spoiled, but normally during a sporting event, movie, bus ride or flight I usually have the honor of both armrests. Tonight wasn't going to be one of those evenings. As she squeezed her bodice into her seat and even a few inches into my personal space, I wanted to secretly send a text message to the flight attendant stating that she was responsible for purchasing two seats. I tried to justify her getting that size, but my personal sometimes binge-worthy food bouts couldn't even fathom a metabolism so sluggish to carry that much weight. So we jockeyed for position.

This lasted for a good, tiresome 45 minutes. She would stretch, and I would move an elbow into place. I would pull down my tray table, and she would free her arms a little further out. She would grab a "Diet" Coke from the attendant, and I would move back into the pole position. I was feeling good to finally have the upper hand. Then this happened...

It's amazing how the conscience can put you on guilt trip that no other person can. I looked at her. She appeared very uncomfortable, tired, and restless. She had lived a long life, probably rife with difficulty and experiences that would probably shake my stature. She probably had no decision in the seating arrangements which were probably completed by another family member sitting behind her. She might have struggled with finding a equilibrium weight her whole life, inevitably coming up short once again. She probably was also furious that I would fight her for position for something so arbitrary as an armrest. So I sucked it up and moved my arm. The rest of the flight was actually quite uneventful. Yes, she might have even been halfway in my seat, but in my eyes she deserved it. Hopefully someone young and sprite as myself 40 years from now will do the same for me as I am tipping the scales trying to struggle for position.

As Angels Laugh From Above

3:25am is much different than 3:25am a month ago. I am parched. Falling asleep after a late dinner of salty prosciutto and no regard to a pre-sleep mouth cleaning is recipe for disaster. As I try and wake up the faculties of my body, the saliva and orientation processes are taking up the rear. I need water. Now. An early morning bathroom run is quite elementary and automated, but a trek to the kitchen becomes an endless, blind gauntlet of plush and blunt obstacles. Living in an apartment with your same kind makes these trips less of a worry. However, on this and previous successive nights this past month, a familiar, but unnecessary object weighs in the balance. A woman. I, like most creatures of my specimen, prefer comfort. But on this unusually warm Spring night, comfort consists only of the most intimate of undergarments. Too thirsty to retreat back to bed and too lazy and disoriented to find anything more modest to wear, my stealth tactics are heightened and I vow to slip past the villain unnoticed. Walking barefoot at such a slow, calculating pace brings me to the urgency of sweeping in the not-so-distant future, as indeterminable particles stick to my clammy feet. I continue past the couch as the hum of my breathing synchronizes with that of the sleeping woman. Gliding towards the kitchen I slowly open the fridge, but my attempt is thwarted by the extreme bond between the door and the body. As the door finally comes ajar, a magnificent light illuminates the kitchen as well as the living room area. All breathing stops as a faint "hello?" breaks the deafening quiet. "It just me grabbing some water, " I mumbled as she begins to find focus in her eyes. I finish my water and dawdle for a few minutes. All that separates my half nakedness and an alert woman was a kitchen island. Valuing sleep more than this awkward, surprisingly cold condition, I garnered courage to return to my home base. I shut the fridge door as the pitch black night came upon us again. Looking down at myself, I see an excellent job of bleaching, as my undergarments are a pristine, almost luminescent white. I shake my head and make a run for it. As I swiftly run past her I yell, "Goodnight" and "Ouuuuuuch!!!" at precisely the same time. Merde. A blunt object. She turns on the light as a pool of blood surrounds my big toe. Full of panic, she runs to my aid as I miserably fail to wake up from this nightmare. She bandages my toe as I simultaneously bandage my pride in a pair of tighty whiteys. 3:25am is much different than 3:25am a month ago.

A Tale of Two Cities

It was the best of times, it was the best of times. This weekend I had the perfect setting in two visibly different locales. Saturday I spent the day in Manhattan with an out-of-city guest. We took in brunch at one of my favorite spots in the West Village and was pleasantly surprised to find out about a secluded garden eating area. The meal was scrumptious, the conversation fluid, and the glimmer of sunshine through the trees was very nostalgic. Even the disturbance of a solitary leaf in my water didn't detract from the morning pleasantries. Rife with anticipation, we exploit our student ID's to view Mary Poppins the musical. Who knew that a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down better? I'm guessing diabetics. As we make way into the evening we take in one of the most recognizable deli's on the Lower East Side, Katz. We finished off the night enjoying the various sounds of a new music competition. My favorite part was the initial hesitancy moving from couch to front and center. It was reminiscent of the first steps into the ocean. Icicle waves subtly crash at the ankles, then mid-thigh as you backtrack. Finally an unexpected wall finishes you off, but you're happy... The evening was clear and comfortable. 1 am came exceedingly too fast. I never want to leave this city.

Fast foward 24 hours. 10 unique individuals take cars, subways, and trains up to New Canaan, CT. The introduction of fully grown trees and winding roads had Manhattan far from our thought processes. The euphoric feeling behind the grilling of burgers and kabobs is only synonymous with vacation and relaxation. Speaking of the ocean, the on site pool brought in those same initial occurances, but the unexpected wall usually was substituted with a generous thrust from behind. Here one also eliminates all sense of shyness and perceived self-image as we all parade our winter attempts at fitness mastery. The sturdy hammock, the soft blades of grass between our toes, the heightened maschismo in sports, the lazy music, the satisfying food and rare mix of company was perfect. I didn't want to leave.

How does one decide on a place to live, when God has blessed us with so many contrasting views of perfection?

What About The Other?

It's 10:46pm in Manhattan on a breezy Spring night. The day has been perfect and you're on your way home. As you approach the 1 subway terminal in the "downtown" direction, a familiar but unwanted smell approaches your nostrils. Unsubtle notes of rotten garbage and foul body odor overpower the concentration of your favorite song in queue. Looking up you notice a shabby man asking you for a handout. You ignore and continue on to your final destination. This is the drill that has enveloped your psyche for quite some time now. Franz Kafka, a Czech born author, was quite keen on society, and our attempts to shut out the "other" was heavily ingrained in his writings. Metamorphosis was one of his such endeavors. We read how an overnight change of appearance in a particular family member has brought shame and disgrace to the family. This ultimately leads to hiding the particular member from society as he slowly dies inside. Although this doesn't normally occur in a traditional family setting, however, as a world family we ignore and shamefully walk past our distant struggling siblings as if they were roadkill. Nevermind the opportunity to bless them with a monetary token, the common courtesy of acknowledgment is usually of more worth in their eyes. Everyone started the same as precious, innocent children, and if we realize that we all are from the same boat heading toward the same destination maybe it would seem less of a burden to throw in a life vest. Human interaction is such a powerful tool, that withholding that opportunity from others is such a poignant blow to their constant struggle. Even when you succeed at life and forget about the stranger, the beggar, the "other," you still fail. It's 10:47pm in Manhattan on a breezy Spring night. Will you continue this perfect day, by turning around and greeting your distant brother or sister?

Jealous In A Most Peculiar Way

As I peer through the tempered glass which belongs to my car, I see mother and her two children wait anxiously for the laundry cycle to "END." Two hours at least. Washing, drying, and folding, they are used to this cycle. Seven dollars for the over-priced and watery "AJAX" detergent and two dollar bleach and they are already up to nine dollars without washing a load as they leave the corner bodega. If only she had a debit card, she wouldn't have to walk the extra three blocks to find a coin-operated laundry. Quarter upon quarter, the loads are being washed and dried as the "novella" is blaring loud in the corner. Kids are restless as mom quietly waits on a former bucket, which is now fashioned into a makeshift chair. Twelve more dollars as three loads are painstakingly trudging through the humid, non-air conditioned Saturday afternoon. The thoughts in her head swirl as her desires and dreams crash, because her necessities are barely being met. The final towel is folded neatly in her tattered plastic basket, which is a shell of it's former self, complete with duck tape making it a useful vessel again. As she walks out with her exhausted kids, was twenty-one dollars really a deal for another outing at the laundry? She hadn't a choice, really. Her kids were her first priority, so pride and love kept her from having her kids go without clean garments. The walk home is heavy, but the kids sense the burden on mother and take over the carrying duties. They sing, laugh, and skip over such mundane of a task, as I think, "How are they so happy in such unfortunate situations? Time is lost and the little money they have is overspent." As the threesome reach their humble sanctuary, mother reaches down and hugs the children. As they disappear from my sight, I realize they have each other. Difficulties no matter how great or insignificant are always lighter and easier to bear when people who love you are by your side. As I start up my air-conditioned car and head alone to my high-rise apartment,where my dry cleaning is waiting, I long for that in my life. I am jealous.

For Starters...

My hesitancy to blog is only coupled by my longing to share. Having years upon end of choice experiences, singular to me, is my view sufficient? Are the myriad of other daily, weekly, bi-monthly, and blue moon writers too much of a shadow for me to even dent the fabric of the so-called "blogosphere?" What does it take to find a connection to others on here? Longevity, brashness, sincerity, a touch of glitz, and sensationalism all prove to be ingredients to others' successes. Will I still be happy next week when no one is following me, comments are rarer than the world view in an inner-city American classroom? Could my validation to writing only come through my parents, a random friend, a co-worker, or even a accidental visitor who comments, "I enjoyed this?" Will this, along with other online crutches, move me away from personal, human interaction into a more impersonal, stoic machine? I suppose I will know this soon enough. But until that realization occurs, I'll let you in now.