Couture

I love this city. I love the pace and the way it changes, I love that there are buildings that are a hundred years old and still the most beautiful things on the block. But most of the time I am rushing from place to place, weaving between cabs, and running across redlit crossways in 4 inch stilettos, hoping to make my next appointment, get to a store before it closes, or running to catch a train.

There is the rare occasion when I give the stilettos a break and don more comfortable shoes and stroll down Fifth Avenue or the small boutiques on the East and West Side. In those quieter areas, the shops have some of the world's finest items. They are beautiful. The shops are quiet, there are few patrons. Walking in, the sales associates are willing to do anything to gain a commission, but stalwartly in the window or up on a pedestal is the most amazing dress; hand crafted, one of a kind, unlike anything else in the world. There are many who admire it from the window, some who will even dare to come in to get a closer look, some who are brazen enough to ask if it will go on sale, but there are few who have the means to call it their own. And far less of those who know of its worth. But there it stands, exquisite, confident. It knows that the one who it fits perfectly, the one who appreciates the handstitching, the quality of the fabric, and all of its color, will come and take it home.

Until the right buyer comes along, there are those who will have the means to buy. They'll stop by every week, admire the dress, maybe even try it on. The sales clerk will try endlessly to find the right words, the one phrase that will make the sale, all in vain. The fact of the matter is that these pretenders won't make the investment. They will never buy. Just visit, waste time. Wear the dress down a bit.

For days I keep rehashing the evening with Jake on that Monday. I guess really just rehashing the whole weekend, but mostly Monday.

I sent a text to him on Sunday while I was on the train back home to cook dinner for Mom for Mothers Day. I had forgotten to pick up a book and I debated texting him or texting my roommate. I had left without talking to him. Talked to plenty of others, so yes, I was capable of speaking, but I don’t know what it is. … No, actually I do. He does what I do. He pretends he doesn't see me, while peripherally he's watching me. But I'm too stubborn to make the first move, and too impatient to wait any longer for him to, so I move on and become chatty with everyone and anyone in his eyeline. I don't really want to be that way. I want to be bubbly and cute and run up to him and throw my arms around him and kiss him on the cheek and tell him about how excited I was to come and see him, and how I wore that particular dress to drive him crazy, but he hasn't done ANYTHING to warrant such attention.

And confidently I leave. Then remorse sets in, and regret, and heartache, and hopelessness and then a thought - if only I could change it somehow … and then the text was written: "could you pick up a copy of the book for me? Totally forgot in my rush to catch a train, I'll pick it up from you either tonight or tomorrow." Send: JAKE.

Time moves so slowly, the train somehow slower, and I once again mourn the loss of my iPhone and try to find something else to distract, to amuse. Twenty minutes later a simple answer "sure". What I really planned to do when I saw him, I don't know. But I had to somehow mend this chasm between us.

I loved going home. Mom's garden, the property with all its greenery, took my breath away. I love the city, I really do, but there is just something magical about the spring in the suburbs. Dinner went well, and I fear I wasn't my usual fantastical daughterly self (I was still sore from the 4 hour workout the day before afterall), but I knew it was more than that. I don't know what's driving this. I try to blame Rick, my ex turned bff. Afterall, without his pushing over the last few months, I wouldn't have taken a second look at Jake. I had seen the girls around him all the time, and him eating up all the attention; the kisses on the forehead, the patting, the overly generous hugs. I had written him off months ago. But Rick insisted that I needed to look deeper. That he was a good guy. So I took a chance on Jake. And now I'm only hoping he'll take a chance on me, too.

When I returned from my parents place I was wiped out. I called him, he didn't pick up, so I left a message. Five minutes later he called back and we just talked. I love our talks. It's like we're just sharing thoughts. There's no real objective. Just checking in. I told him that I would meet him after work and get the book so that he wouldn't have a delay in getting home. He asked me to send him reminders throughout the day as it would be hectic with a new client. Any other guy, and I would have said "forget it" but I thought, I know him, and he's true.

I sent him one little "have a good day" type of note in the morning. I got home around 7, changed, put on sweats, expecting that he would call somewhere around 10 or so, because he's always telling me how late he works. At 8:30 the phone rings. He was already out of the building and heading uptown. Eeekk! I quickly got dressed, put on make-up, threw some cupcakes in a bag (my incessant compulsion not to show up empty handed) and headed out. He beat me to Columbus Circle where we were going to meet and ride uptown.

I came around the southwest side and he was on the northeast side, leaning against a street lamp, his tie slightly loosened. The light fell on him perfectly. He looked fantastic. I was grinning from ear to ear. I was so embarrassed at how happy I was to see him. I turned away, and pretended to walk passed him, to turn, give him the once over and say "Jake? Is that you?". I think he was upset that I walked right passed him. But perhaps I'll have a chance to explain someday.

My perma-grin was still etched on my face and he barely looked at me - so concerned perhaps of what seemed to be a plan as the evening unfolded. I thought we would just ride uptown, but instead, he decided that we would do some shopping - where I got to see the side of Jake I love. He danced, he was goofy and cute.

We walked and talked, up a few blocks … to McDonalds, his restaurant of choice, the location of the end of our first (and only) real date. We didn't really talk about it much. Actually, not at all. But walking out we talked about how he spent Sunday reading his journals, contemplating the past, and the future and with a cute smile in my direction "the present". But that conversation was cut short due to the subway, which I felt weird getting on, since I wasn't far from home. I didn't know if he wanted me to stay with him, or what … but he hadn't given me my book yet and I was so confused. I hadn't planned on taking up all that time.

He ran into some friends on the train. I didn't know them, and he didn’t try to include me in the conversation. I felt so awkward, more so than before.

We got off at his stop. And walked and talked about nothing in particular. Grocery stores. And he said that he has a hard time shopping for things that he can't take with him. That he likes to look and search, but that once he knows what he wants, he wants it right then. My thought: He doesn't feel that way about me.

I still felt awkward, like I was walking along uninvited. So when we got to his apartment building, I asked if he had my book, and he just chuckled and said, "it's upstairs".

His roommate was home when we got there, which I don’t think he was expecting. He just left me and went to get the book - didn't offer to give me a tour or anything, which I thought was strange. We chatted a bit and then I left.

I felt so foolish walking home by myself that night. Like I had done the chasing. That I was the only one pathetically interested. Like I was pushing too hard. I know I CAN be aggressive when I want something, but nothing in me ever wants to be that girl. I just want to be adored, and to give the adoration back. I resolved that day that I was done.

And I was for about three weeks. But now, I hate him just as much for making me feel that way over and over again. He says he needs me. He shows affection, calls for hours on end, and then the moment I need him, he makes me feel so foolish, so ridiculous - two things I am not.

I've sat on the back burner before and promised myself that I wouldn't do it again. I've often tried to rationalize why those men waste our time like that, but there is no good answer. So it's best to walk away, not buy into the pity pleas for attention, and know that there is someone out there who knows that couture doesn't go on sale, can't be found anywhere else, and must be treasured. Leave the bargain shoppers to the overstocks and knockoffs. This dress is going to the highest bidder.

Only Us

Last Thursday, just days after I submitted my first post to this Blog, I could have sworn I was in the same car, on the same train, as Cope heading uptown. I wasn't sure it was him, until we got off the train (at the same stop no less); he was up ahead of me in the crowd. He had looked back just as he disappeared out of sight. I think he knew it was me, but thinking I had stood him up nearly a year before, he made no effort to wait for me.

When I got out of the subway, I looked around hoping to catch him. I couldn't see him anywhere. He had vanished. Then, walking across the street to the South, I saw him cross at the North. It was him. I am sure of it.

Yeah, right. What are the odds.

I would have been slow to believe, except it wasn't the only unlikely encounter for the week.

The next morning, I donned my red trenchcoat and an umbrella, and headed down the street to work, later than usual because of the unbelievable delay in trains. I was walking along, watching for puddles, wondering how much longer this "rainy season" would last, when I glanced up and caught half of a familiar face.

I ducked down to see if it was in fact him under that umbrella, and it was. He recognized me too, invoking the biggest smiles across both of our faces. Walking to each other I remark "What are the odds?" and he responded "Only us".

It was true. When I was commuting from Jersey, a precarious commute to be sure, I would often find myself on the same train, in the same car as him, sometimes early in the morning, sometimes later. There was no reasoning to it. The same would happen going downtown. Inevitably Jack* was there.

At one point we were both creeped out by the encounters, time would pass and we wouldn't see or hear from each other for ages, and then suddenly every week or so we'd bump into each other as if the cosmos had combined to put us there. It got to be so that I knew that if there was a strange delay to my commute that an encounter was coming up. Soon it became common place. Strangely those moments were moved to passing him on the street, or ending up behind him at a crosswalk. They became so frequent, that I stopped tapping him on the shoulder or getting his attention. And suddenly they stopped all together.

But it isn't just the New York moments that are so peculiar.

Years ago, when we were in High School, I had a presentation to do in my Honors English class. The assignment was to present a poem in a way that would highlight a poetic elements or something like that. I chose to sing, yes SING, Robert Frost's poem "The Road Not Taken". We had a small class, so my embarassment, I calculated, would be contained. Except that on the particular day on which I was to present, another English class came in to join.

I did all that I could to block everyone out, which is probably why I don't remember him being there.

Class cleared out and I walked slowly down the hall, praying that the event would be forgotten. A girl can dream right?

As I approached my locker, standing on the corner was a guy I had only ever seen in passing. I couldn't imagine what it was he wanted or how he knew where my locker was. He smiled and said that he just wanted to say that I sounded great (oh goodness, he was there) and that he knew how much courage it took to do what I did. Then he was gone.

For years after graduation, whenever anything seemed particularly difficult, I would think back to that moment, and be suddenly renewed with strength to do whatever it was I needed to do, always surprised at the recollection of it.

Then one day I found a fantastic job in a fabulous city, and through a series of events came back in touch with Jack - years after we had graduated. He worked just 2 blocks west of me, what are the odds?

I think we both recognize that there is something special about the way we keep bumping into each other. And from time to time we think we're to make something more of it. But nothing we do ever seems to really stick, and so we walk away, figuring that we were wrong, that it was all just coincidence.

We don't know why we keep getting thrown together, only that we do. There is something magical about it, but we haven't figured out what.

So on this chance meeting, we smile and laugh, and know that it is "only us" who would be crossing paths once more. As common place as it has come, there is something special about each meeting and so we take the moment, despite the hundreds walking around us, to summarize our journeys since our last encounter. We make plans to catch up on the gaps, aware that the plans may or may not happen. With a kiss on the cheek and a laugh we part, more curious and less cautious about what this next stretch of road will bring.

Tuesday Morning

I am a firm believer that we can overcome most of our faults, our obstacles, and the traits that prevent us from becoming better. My mother taught me that there is always something to work on and that we can never rest from that task. We are to continually progress. We heard the stories over and over again that my great grandmother's dream was to move her family to a free country, my grandmother's dream was to see her daughters graduate from High School, my mother's dream was to see her children off to college.

I'm always striving to fine tune some quality or another to become the best version of myself and let go of those things that would stand in my way. All except for one. I have a deep-seated fear of thunder.

Go ahead. Laugh.

Lightning I can handle. I only cringe when I see it knowing that soon to follow will be some loud overwhelming growl from the skies. I never really bought into the whole angels bowling or rearranging furniture stories. I even believe that God truly loves me. However, nothing seems to ease the anxiety and deep to the core shaking that comes from being in the midst of a well structured thunderstorm. In college I would cower in the hallways, at home I would climb into my little sister's bed, and now a mature adult, I pull the covers over my head and lie very still, hoping that it will all pass quickly, or if at the office, whimper softly at my desk.

I once read that a fear of loud noises is the only fear which is not a learned fear. That most babies are born with an innate fear of loud noises. But those are babies, somewhere along the way I was supposed to overcome that fear. However, I haven't. Some find the trait in me endearing, others see the immaturity, regardless it is there.

Last night's storm was unbelievable. Coworkers reveled in the majesty of it, I however, turned into my 5 year old self.

This morning, like most Tuesday mornings my mother came into the city so we could meet briefly to exchange things that she's brought me, or I've found for her. The items are not of any urgent significance, but a reason to get together. Mostly she likes to see me, to verify that when I tell her everyday by telephone that I'm doing well, that indeed I am doing well, because she knows that her little girl is still vulnerable and in need of tender loving care even if I won't admit it.

I often reflect and wonder when a parent can sit back and breathe and let their children off knowing that they have done well and that all will be well. I don't think that day ever comes.

After our morning meeting, I take the opportunity to walk the few blocks to work along Central Park West and past Columbus Circle. Usually there in the sunlight I get to witness dozens of men setting up the temporary stands that will capture the attention of thousands of tourist throughout the day. I watch them unpack every item from storage bins, set up food carts, and lay out t-shirts; tasks that are repeated day in and day out.

I admit, I walk by the photographs and wonder if they have been properly licensed, but after doing a brief assessment I look at the purveyors faces, and wonder how they do it. How do they painstakingly place each item on their feeble stands, knowing that in a few hours, after being in the hot sun all day, dealing with people who will haggle them, those who will try to steal from them, and those who will simply take up their time by asking for directions without so much as pretending to make a purchase, they will have to take each item down, re-wrap it and put it away to start all over again the next day.

I've decided they are men of great dreams. They are the type of men who build this city. They are men who look forward, who are more concerned about the future generation than they are of their own. These men are fathers, who come with little, but who hope that with each day they can do more to support a better life than they currently have for their children.

Today, there were no merchants. Chased out by the rain there was no one trying to rent me a bike, no one smiling hoping I would stop to look at their prints, no one offering me a pair of sunglasses. As I walked by I imagined the stresses that come from not knowing what a weeks income will be, or if the rain will let up in time to pay the electric bill. I then remembered all of the people who helped me be where I was, those who had struggled to make sure I had a better life.

Tomorrow, their children will still work when it rains, they will get a steady paycheck at the end of the week, and at the end of the day they will leave the office and come back to it the very same way it was left. They will have gained a great deal of work ethic by watching their fathers and they will work hard to support a better life for their children.

These are the people who make up New York City. Those who are here for themselves are squeezed out. It is those who are here to grow, to be stronger, and to build legacies that will stay and do the work, just as those before them.

Turning the corner a flash of lightning and a hint of thunder crashed, and I didn't cower. I calmed my racing heart and moved forward, knowing that I needed to be better.