Personal Yummy #30
I sleep till 9:30.
I had some trouble falling asleep, but I slept hard and my mind was full of dreams, and I wake up feeling refreshed and happy, and cozy and sensual on my soft sheets, surrounded by my warm covers, the air in my room cool and crisp.
I get up, make coffee, do a short meditation, and then read “The Plutonian Fire,” a short story from a thick volume titled Selected Stories of O. Henry. Next, I shower, put on my workout clothes, and head to the Ailey Extension at 55th and Ninth for my favorite Zumba class, taught by Diego Chauca, who is utterly fun and friendly.
Energized and endorphin-fueled following class, I change in the lower-level dressing room and then take an unhurried walk on 57th Street. Through the large windows of Sur La Table, I admire the contoured glasses, colorful dishes, and students learning how to cook. I then buy my favorite after-workout drink—100% natural Arizona green tea with ginseng and honey, chilled and attractive in a green plastic bottle covered with images of branches and delicate pink flowers—from Morton Williams, a beautiful and elegant supermarket, also on 57th Street. Picking up a lobster salad with lemon shallot dressing from the Pret A Manger at 59th Street and Central Park South is next, which I take with me to my favorite spot in Central Park.
I sit on one of the green, wood benches in the fresh air, taking in the sun, observing the variety of people walking by, and thoroughly enjoying my unique salad, which contains succulent pieces of Maine lobster, edamame, pickled cabbage and carrots, avocado smash, mango (so lovely!), coconut flakes, and chili salt, all atop fresh pieces of romaine. And I relax there for at least two hours, so grateful that I have the opportunity to slow down and relish the stunning autumn day.
Content and happy, I bid my favorite haven in the park farewell until next time (which I will visit again soon, I know), and I walk through the park, past the Victorian Gardens amusement rides—now shut down until May—the various artists sketching portraits of eager tourists, the romantic Gapstow Bridge, and the nature sanctuary, and then I head out of the park and toward Fifth Avenue, the historic Plaza Hotel and Paris Theatre in the near distance.
I proceed uptown on Fifth Avenue, on the cobblestoned sidewalk that borders the park, and everything feels perfect and magical. Leaves falling in the air and through the sunshine and lying everywhere. An attractive older man sitting on one of the stone benches with a journal on his lap, his legs crossed at his ankles. He is looking over what he has written. I can clearly see the expressive, cursive writing on the page. Nearby on the bench is a stack of photocopied pages. It looks like a chapter that has been photocopied from a scholarly book, and it suddenly reminds me of the many articles of critical analysis that I had copied and analyzed when I was working on my college thesis about “Rappaccini’s Daughter,” a short story by Nathaniel Hawthorne, a story about—among many other themes—good and evil. I’m sure I still have those articles—somewhere. They’re probably in a box in my closet here in New York City, or at home in the attic in PA.
This occurrence makes me think, though, how mysterious it is that you can connect with a stranger, who then connects you to a specific incident in your past, even though you have never talked with him, and even though he is totally unaware that you are observing him. And it’s so intriguing, though, how a short story from 1844 about a poisonous garden flashes into your mind after you have just spent a significant amount of time in life-giving Central Park.
Contrast. You notice it all around you when you are tuned in, making you appreciate the good.
I continue my walk, the majestic and stately buildings lining the other side of the avenue in view, past families and tourists and beautiful young girls and good-looking young men and older couples holding hands. Past The Met and its impressive steps full of people. Past advertisements on the glass walls of the bus stops (where the metal benches are enclosed) about Rodin being exhibited at The Met until February 2018—including a photo of a sensual and erotic sculpture of a naked woman behind a naked man… They are standing and she is very close to him, with her right arm reaching around him. It’s not quite clear what’s going on at first glance, but mmm…it’s very evocative.
I walk a bit more and then decide to take a rest, so I sit down on one of the stone benches lining the sidewalk and continue to take in the wonder of the day. As I am sitting there, an interesting-looking guy who is walking by catches my eye (he is not classically attractive, but kind of charmingly scruffy and very masculine), and he purposely holds my gaze until he is past me. The unusual thing about it is that he has a patch on his right eye. With just his left eye, though, he conveys a power and a longing that is unmistakable.
Once he is completely past me and then heads in the direction of crossing the street, however, the eye patch is all of a sudden hidden and entirely disappears, and he immediately turns into another person. Complete and whole. A different perspective, and the superficial flaw is gone.
Yes. Contrast.
There it is again—certainly. And how fortunate we are to be here to notice it.
I walk the rest of the way home, a day of contrast and unforgettable rendezvous now a part of me.
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