I spent a large deal of my afternoon in the office constructing an elaborate plan to go Christmas shopping in Bryant Park precisely at 5 p.m. After a dispute with my cubemate, Alissa, over which clock had the proper time (turns out the analog on the wall AND both of our computer clocks were 10 minutes slow. Stop trying to make me work longer, The Man.), I took the elevator down 20 flights at 5:10.
As I trotted up Fifth Avenue, I contemplated my Target-brand boots and the reason they were only $30 – I have nothing but a thin layer, only slightly tougher than skin, between my foot and the New York City sidewalk. I imagine this must be what the feet of the mid-to-late Neanderthals must have been like. Like maybe the 3rd or 4th from the normal upright human on your average Darwin scale.
Anyway, they’re my only work shoes that don’t make me want to systematically slaughter the inventors of fashionable footwear. Read: they’re the only shoes that I can wear two days in a row, that don’t make my feet bleed.
I followed a group of tourists across Fifth Ave to Lord & Taylor. I’m in this city, it’s December, I suppose I should look at these window decorations. Beautiful, of course, but severely lacking in children or tiny woodland creatures. The highlight came in the form of an oversized gingerbread house and a cake-turned-carousel that made my mouth water for a dessert I wish I’d had with lunch. Funny how well-painted cardboard can make a girl ravenous.
It was at this point that I realized I left my keys on my desk. Shit, I said, as I rifled through my purse on the corner of Fifth and 39th. Then I heard the ringing. The damn Salvation Army Santa, standing just beyond my right elbow, shaking his bell incessantly. It occurred to me that he might have thought I searched through my purse looking for spare change, and cursed when I realized I had no pennies for the poor. I flung him a quarter haphazardly and spun around, trying to make it to my office before they locked the door since, you know, the keys were on my desk. The doorman glanced at me quizzically, I grinned and said “Forgot!” giggling as if I had just done something incredibly stupid. Well.
After retrieving my keys, I waited for the elevator to arrive at my floor as the president of the company left the office for home. Score, I thought, he thinks I stayed until 5:30. I got a good bit of work done today, to be sure, but now it looks it.
When I finally found one of the 74 entrances to Bryant Park, I strode through long alleys of shops to see the skating rink. I looked toward the south end of the rink, not seeing anyone skating, and no Zamboni in sight. A large crowd had assembled around the rink, and Plain White T’s “Hey There Delilah” crisply sliced the air through the giant speakers around the rink. There, at the north end of the rink, a man was on one knee, proposing to his girlfriend in front of the newly illuminated Christmas tree. Horrible song choice aside, it was a touching moment, even for the dismal “No thank you, relationships” people like myself. I half expected the people in the crowd to tilt their heads back and start singing some song of celebration, like the Peanuts gang does after they wish Charlie Brown a merry Christmas. Nothing but half-moon mouths (or teeny-tiny “o” mouths) and “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” for the rest of the night.
I didn’t buy much. A few scarves for my family, a hat for myself, a hot apple cider for my hands. But the evening…the cool and the music and the warmth of the tiny space heaters in each little shop and The Santaland Diaries…it all felt like an upswing to the downturn I’ve been taking.
And the writing? This is the uppest of it all.
