bah humbug

It is the holiday season in New York. The shop windows showcase elaborate displays. The smell of pine from the trees being sold on the sidewalks lingers in the air. The peal of the Salvation Army Santas' bells cut through the sound of sirens and honking. And the city is over saturated with tourists. Unfortunately, my office is located in tourist central -- I am caught between Times Square (no explanation needed), Fifth Avenue (which is unnavigable this time of year), Bryant Park (free ice skating and temporary kiosks selling all kinds of nonsense), Radio City Music Hall (home of the Rockettes and crowds of people wearing matching sweatshirts) and Rockefeller Center.

It is bad enough when the tourists block the sidewalks while alternately pointing at something or leafing through their guide books. Or when they don't step all the way into subway cars during the rush hour commute. But get a super-sized crowd on tourists together and there is no avoiding them. Rock Center is a tourist Mecca -- they come to ogle the ice skaters who were swindled into paying $27 for their entry and skate rental. They take pictures by the statue of Prometheus. And then there is that damned tree. Tonight is the night of the Rockefeller Tree lighting. It is 4:46 pm and the streets are already mobbed with tourists. The only thing that is worse is Times Square on New Year's Eve. I find that my patience with tourists grows shorter every year. This morning while walking through Times Square to get to work, I had to remind myself that it is not ok to elbow strangers when they walk 4 people across at a snail's pace. It is better to walk on the street in order to pass them.

I came upon this today. I think that Mayor Bloomberg should seriously consider establishing a new city agency. We need it.

My Thankful list

As it is now tradition, I will spend part of my post exulting the joys of turkey and stuffing. I ate the last of my Thanksgiving delights Sunday night. As I was savoring the turkey meat, pumpkin soup, and half of a cherry pie, I thought about those Thanksgiving lists I had to make when I was 10. I think I am overdue to write another one. It does feel weird that this list is not in crayon.

- Turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing. Oh and D's mother's cranberry and quince chutney.

- A bowl of sugary cereal at 2 am in the morning after glutting oneself in leftovers.

- Friends who will g-chat with you, when you are procrastinating work.

- The internet. I love that I can buy anything and fact check anything at a moments notice. Last week, I ordered dinner, a pair of wool socks and multiple lab supplies all within a matter of minutes.

- Journal Club Friday.

- Puns.

- Movies that make me cry. Movies that make me laugh. Made-for-TV movies made in the eighties and nineties.

- Alcohol. Even better is alcohol shared with borderline heterosexual friends that make super bitchy comments about Bostonites in supposedly hip outfits that are very ill fitting.

- Less hair in "the soccer mom" cut way not in the "I'm balding" way.

- Orthopedic shoes.

- The freaky plant that V gave me 3 years ago. It is the first plant I have ever grown that has not died.

- Postcards.

- All pranks and passive aggresive behavior that makes your victims feel uneasy for days.

Cradle robber

"Ummm .... I know this is creepy, but I am not stalking you. You and I are just running at the same pace. "

It was true. This man in a ski cap, a blue sweat shirt, and wind pants kept passing me. For those of you who have run with me, I really only run at one pace. I concluded that it was his fault that he kept speeding up and slowing down. In my weird lack of music but desparately needing to talk running style I said something.

He replied, "Oh. I guess we are going the same way. We can run together if you like. I promise I am not a stalker either."

"Heehhehee," lame girlish giggle was my reply.

The two of us ran along Beacon Street. This time keeping in pace. We chatted a bit. He was training for the Boston Marathon. He was strict about his schedule, and asked me tons of questions. I replied that I was probably the worst source of information, as either I train too much or not at all. As I was about to peel off back to Saint Paul Street, he asked, "May I have your number? Maybe we can run again together."

I gave him my email address and waved by. Two days later I got an email asking if I would like to get a drink on Friday instead. And even though I am going through and anti-boy period of my life I said yes.

Email might have been a mistake because I recognized his email address as a Harvard Alumni address. I did a "Google" search on him. As I read the title under his name I almost did a spit take. "Random Boy Class of '06....."

Age should not matter ... greatly. I dated a man that was 12 years older. But then my sister reminded me that I teased him relentlessly on his age. Oops. I feel a little guilty about that now. Well, actually I don't.

The prospects of going on a "pre-date," as defined by Evil Twin #2 (a real date is more than drinks), with my younger running man was kind of intriguing. Would I lie about my age? Should I dress like those slutty BU students?

Sadly, plans did not work out. We might still go running together when he gets back from the Thanksgiving break, but who knows. Plans normally fizzle pretty quickly. But it is nice to know that craddle robbing is an equal opportunity art form.

Yesterday, a friend and I were g-chatting. Amongst many random thoughts, he wrote "... my favorite work word: unrequited." I don't know what context that word would be used in work, but it is a good word.

I had been thinking about unrequited love all this weekend so when I read his words it made me jump a bit. I had started a post about it, but scrapped it like so many lately. His words were as sign to salvage the posting. I have been going through a major writer's block. Nothing that comes on the screen seems to be satisfactory. But maybe it does not have to be satisfactory. Maybe satisfactory is a question that needs to be unrequited.

"The Princess Bride" was my favorite movie from the 7th grade to through the 9th grade when it got uncermoniously usurped by "Say Anything." I even bought the book, and read it so many times that the cover tore. When Mr. Jesdale, my 9th grade English teacher, gave us our reading list, I remember saying out loud to his chagrin, "'Lord of the Flies' by William Golding. I wonder if that is the same dude that wrote 'The Princess Bride'?" (For those who care, it is.)

Instead of doing something outdoors this weekend, I decided to watch a headache inducing amount of television and movies. This event began with "The Princess Bride." The cynic in me was shocked on why I had a picture of Cary Elwes framed. Apparently, the 13 year old version of me, was attracted to very fey men. But instead of focusing on the male protagonist, I kind of zoned out into Princess Buttersup's mind. How awful it must have been to have your feelings of true love unanswered for 5 years. Why didn't Wesley send her at least a letter of his existance. After all that to still sacrifice her happiness, for his life.

Had I changed so much? My favorite book in the 6th grade was "The Girl of the Limberlost." A story about a poor girl who lives in the backwoods. She has an emotional abusive mother, whom attention she desparately craves. Why did I think these stories of unrequited love were so sweet?

I can't answer that. I do know that it is everywhere. We as people must somehow gravitate to the notion that what is unanswered has the potential to be perfect. Or maybe we all think that eventually we will be rewarded for our patience. Or maybe yet it is a way to alleviate some of the hurt we feel through a collective empathy.

I think about all of my great loves and they have all been one sided. The egoist in me wonders if there is anyone out there pining away for me. Maybe I should keep writing. Because as in all movie plots, it is only when question of love gets answered that is when screen goes to black.