Holidaze

Well, Holy Holiday Fruitcake, Batman! It’s been a while since I’ve tumbled out a few of my thoughts. Although I HAVE been thinking, putting fingers to keyboard has been problematic as I’ve been busy using the digits for other endeavors (heh, heh). A whirlwind of activity, I might add! So, okay…here’s a thingy I’ve been ruminating over…

Dismal, gray skies are typical this time of year in Westchester County as I cautiously navigate over the heaps of slushy, dirty snow - traces…remnants – James is a few steps ahead of me, his long legs affording lengthy strides, I’d recently reminded him I take a step and a half to everyone one of his. We’re on our early morning stroll to Metro North. It’s the day before Christmas break and I’m tired…exhausted is more like it as I’ve not yet adjusted to life outside the City and that whole waking up at 5am shit. Jeezzzlaaaweeezzz! Even though Metro North is for all intents and purpose a ‘civilized’ commute, no one seems all that jolly to be on a train, whizzing along in the near-darkness of early morning. (duh…ya think?). Only the rustle of newspapers and an occasional sneeze or cough reigns in this time.

Soon enough, I’m tumbling out of the train at Grand Central, giving James a quick kiss and smile, he heads north as I negotiate my way from an upstairs platform, across Grand Central, quickly weaving in and out, sidestepping other commuters and tourists who consistently look up (rather than where they’re actually going!) at the dome’s Holiday laser light show, which stops them dead in their tracks and blocks those of us who have other things to do and places to be. Somehow and once again, I’ve crossed the huge train station. Lightly pushing on the doors they give way and I’m out on the street.

“Hello, pretty lady”, I hear. Returning a smile, I accept the free AMNew York newspaper handed to me by one of the pushers. Crossing 42nd street, I dodge weary (generally Asian) tourists, clinging onto disposable mugs of designer coffee. While they wait in haphazard lines for an assortment of the airport shuttles, their last memories will be of diesel fuel.

“Hey, darlin’…ready for the Holidays?” I fumble around in my giant, waterproof book bag searching for a dollar to give to the bagel guy and smile at him, saying I’ll be flip-flopping my way around Florida over Christmas break. He raises an eyebrow and appears suddenly wistful. From the window of his dull, steely cart, he hands me a small brown paper bag .

Passing the church on Park Avenue, lilting Hispanic dialects of the day-workers huddled together in the early morning chill, hoping for a break and a few dollars in their pockets, stalls my stride for an instant and silently I count my blessings – “there for the grace of God…” – I have a high, five-figure, interesting job to go to.

At 34th Street, the wind suddenly blows sideways as an older woman in a full-length mink and sunglasses, swishes past me, her flat, taught lips revealing the fate of someone clinging to youth.

Rounding the corner onto 31st street, I tap on the office door and the receptionist buzzes me in.

“Good Morning!” I'm welcomed. I’ve arrived.

My Commuter Routine.