The Classroom

I walked into room 216 of Williams Hall a good ten minutes before the official start of class. Other than the teacher, I was the only person present. I felt like a super striver as I settled in at a desk situated front and center of the hexagon shaped room. The teacher introduced himself and repeatedly complained about the seasickness he felt from the wall configuration. I feigned interest and immediately forgot his name.

Students trickled in one at a time. They had that I-don’t-care-how-I-look appearance with uncombed hair, pilled sweaters and make-up-less skin. I was Elle McPherson of the bunch. To my right sat a friendly woman who I later learned was once a flutist for the orchestra. Every time she contributed something to the conversation, I looked at her and stared at a strange blackened spot on her left cheek. It looked like the remnant of a prick from a charred pin; dark, deep and precisely round. I realized at one point that my eyes were fixated on her cheek long after the focus of conversation had relocated to another student one row back and three seats over.

After reviewing a one page hand out summarizing elements of fiction, a total of 17 words typed and aligned along the left margin, people asked questions. I sat quietly as the room filled with dumb inquiries like, “Does a short story have to have dialogue?” The teacher struggled with a noncommittal answer. When I write, I don’t have an outline. I have ideas in my head and words in my fingertips. Tap, tap tap. Don’t talk to me.

When I first started to learn French in seventh grade, I spent the better part of the time trying to figure out which way to conjugate a verb. A simple sentence would take me three minutes to speak aloud. Je. Suis. Chaud. I averaged a word a minute. But as I progressed and moved my way through to the upper levels of the lessons, I stopped thinking about the verbs and the sentences just flowed. I’m at the flowing point for writing. Not at the checklist of plot, conflict and character development. I start writing and something in me makes up all of those decisions without having to actually think it through. I’m fluent in writing.

Jane walked into the wood paneled room where her father lay in a casket, his pale cheeks tinted pink. He looked a little like the drag queen that wedged in next to her on the uptown 6 the other day. On the chair closest to the casket was Jane's step-mother Gretchen, a woman who proves that German descendants really do lack all emotions. When she reached up to dab away nonexistent tears, dad's Rolex slipped down her slender wrist. Jane remained paralyzed on the periphery, reminded why she never came to visit even when she knew her dad had only a short time left.

Done. We’ve got setting, characters, conflict and quite possibly one heck of a story. Sure, it isn't perfect but it's just the first words that came to mind. I’m in no way claiming to be Chekov or Homes but I know I can write.

We read and discussed three short stories. I contributed thoughts and randomly listened to what fellow students had to say. I commented about how the father in one story was better defined than the son and it was done with fewer words. That the absence of words spoke more than the abundance of them. The teacher praised me for being so observant and I wanted to poke him in the eye for failing to bring this to our attention. He was too busy talking about the father son relationship to evaluate the structure of the story.

I bundled up in my scarf and jacket, tossed my messenger bag on my shoulder and headed for the door. There were three blocks to stroll back to my car and I took that time to internally argue the value of the class. The fee wasn’t so high as to make me angry but was the benefit enough to balance the cost of both my hard earned dollars and my limited time?

With my bag in the backseat and my body strapped into the front, I lingered in my parking space for a few moments. A decision needed to be made before I pulled my car out into traffic because once I got out of first gear, I needed to start pondering dinner. Macaroni was mentioned in the last short story we read and I now had a hankering for some old school Kraft with the powdered cheese. Butter, hold the milk.

I’m seeing it through. I might not be able to get the in depth and sophisticated critique I was looking for but if I learn one thing from this experience, it will be worth it. Especially if what I learn is how to avoid having a run in with the tip of a charred pin.

Stepping Stones

I am going back to school. Actually, I’m attending a class on a university campus but it isn’t for credit and it doesn’t technically fall under the academic umbrella. You have to dig deep on the Penn website to find the class, which is just what I did a few months back. Before clicking the purchase button, I called Allison for some guidance.

“Should I pay $225 to attend a five week long, creative fiction class taught by a no-name prof at Penn or should I pay $450 for an online, twelve week long, correspondence class taught by some odd looking poet via the Gotham Writer’s Workshop?”

“Just click the button, Paige.”

“How’d you know….”

“Because I held your hand through the arduous process of buying your first Prada bag. Three years of my life. Gone. Forever.”

“Done. I did it! I’m doing it!”

Taking a writing class is the next stone in my stepping stone life as a writer. I took a leap off the soggy bank when I started my blog, posting pieced together words on the web for all the world, or at least those who randomly stumbled across it, to see. Landed smack dab in the middle of the second stone when I formally announced my blog to friends and invited them to be my audience. I’ve been teetering on the edge of that second stone since August of last year.

The last time I attended a writing class, I sat in awe of those around me. The instructor told us to spend five minutes describing a room from the point of view of a thief. Afterwards, students volunteered to read their work aloud. My posture transitioned from straight and strong to hunched and weak. The confidence I had a mere five minutes earlier disappeared as I listened to eloquent sentences and captivating descriptions. “A big dark room with lots of shiny things.” I never literally wrote that sentence but when I glanced down at the scribble on my page as other students read their observations aloud, that was what I saw. It’s been over a year since that class and I still feel paralyzed.

Tonight I’m scheduled to reenter the classroom setting, sit at a desk and start the learning process all over again. I have my Trapper Keeper and sharpened No. 2 pencils all ready to go. I was going to bring an apple for the teacher but decided to eat it myself. Nerves.

I’m scared. I have knots in my stomach. The kind I only get just before performing in front of a large crowd. They were there the day I stepped onto the bimah for my Bat Mitzvah, the night I performed in the ninth grade production of the Mikado and the first time I ever stood up in front of fifty disgruntled employees and relayed the unfortunate news that both their health insurance copays and their premium costs were going up.

What if I mess up? What if I do something silly and they laugh? Worse yet, what if I think my words, my actions are brilliant and I’m instead met with blank stares and complete silence? That my performance is so bad, it can’t even justify the expulsion of air to verbally express dislike.

There are many magnets on my fridge but one in particular catches my eye every time I open the freezer door. On a black square there is a Henry Ford quote in white print. Whether you think you can or think you can’t, you’re right. Ford might have been an anti-semite but he’s 100% correct in his statement. I might need to write that down on the inside cover of my Trapper Keeper. So when the teacher asks for volunteers to share their work, I can avert my eyes and still have something to read. Or perhaps I'll take those words to heart and I'll leap off, my leg extended and my eyes clenched closed, aiming for the next stepping stone.

Past, Present, Future

I’ve maintained relationships with many exboyfriends. I’m not sure if it's a good idea or a bad idea but it hasn’t backfired yet. So when Ex said he wanted to remain friends, that I was his best friend and he wasn’t sure he could manage losing a girlfriend and a best friend at the same time, I agreed to being friends. What I forgot was that, in the past, I never made a quick transition from girlfriend to just plain old friend. Time had to pass before I was settled in on the idea that being apart was better than being together. I had to move from the past into the present on my own before inviting the past to join me. With Ex, I was his girlfriend at 10:00pm and his friend at 10:03pm.

People suggested I rethink things. After all, the issues that plagued our relationship were personality issues. Meaning, they weren’t going to resolve themselves just because we weren’t sleeping together. It all made sense but I just didn’t have it in me to cut Ex loose. I didn’t extend myself like I did before but, surprisingly, we didn’t speak much less. Where I lagged, he picked up the slack.

Then I met someone, Date. He has two cats and he doesn’t seem to socially venture much more than five blocks beyond his residence. We did Indian first (five blocks) and drinks next (two blocks). For the time being, I can work with both things because he is charming, smart, funny and we seem to overlap on some interests. Asking Ex, an Art History major, to go to a museum was less productive than trying to thread a needle with a piece of rope. It just isn’t going to happen and you’re better off saving your time and not even trying. When I asked Date to a PAFA exhibit, "what time" was his reply.

I was a little foggy on my last Date outing (12 blocks - but you can't negotiate a museum's locale). Recovering from a feverish bug of sorts, I found myself running so hot I had to fan myself with the Nan Goldin promotional postcard. I tried to act subtle but when Date's attention was focused on a photograph, my wrist went into full force fanning mode. From the museum we waded through puddles and rain to a café and then a movie. Flanked by empty seats on either side of our two, Date leaned in on our shared armrest. I leaned out. I wanted to lean in. In fact, I wanted to rest my hand on his arm. It was right there. I just couldn’t. So, I uncrossed and recrossed my legs and returned my attention to the movie and my popcorn.

“I’m sorry for being blunt but I’m just not getting an interested vibe. And I don’t want to waste your time or mine if that’s the case,” Date said as we stood by my car.

Kiss him. Take two steps forward and kiss him, you twit. Hello? Why are you still standing there? Left foot. Right foot. Moooooooove.

“Hmmm. Okay. Well, I’m guarded. For one. And though I’m technically single, I’m still in the moving-forward-from-my-last-relationship phase. If you’re up for taking it slow, I’m in.”

“Slow it is,” Date said with a smile.

I got in the car and headed home. Date emailed me early the next morning, well before I’d even hit the snooze button on my alarm clock. We’re working on future plans with various ideas on the table. I’ve challenged him to some ski ball and he took the bait, hook, line and sinker. Little does he know that I'm a ski ball guru.

As for Ex, I randomly left the phone in the cradle recently when the caller ID had his information posted. Just because he calls doesn’t mean I have to answer. And then, on Sunday night, I did it. I told him. This gray area of friendship isn’t working. At least not now. He did the mature thing and said that if it didn’t make me happy, I shouldn’t do it. So, I moved on. We haven’t spoken since and I don't foresee speaking with him again for a very long time, if at all. Maybe the past is best staying in the past instead of trying to muddle it with a potential future.

I Have A Question

(1) Why do baby carrots get wet and slippery in the bag but regular old carrots manage to stay dry?

(2) Why can’t all voicemail key instructions be the same? My cell phone uses 7 to delete but my work and home use 3 to delete.

(3) When will NYC cabs install a debit card machine so you don’t have to always have a spare $20 in your pocket? PS: I already patented this idea along with my microwave tent to shield from exploding food so don’t even think about beating me to the punch.

(4) If every Pennsylvania resident boycotted the state liquor stores, do you think we might be able to finally overthrow the government and have privately owned shops with liquor worth buying and sellers who can recommend more than a screw top, gallon jug of Ruinite?

(5) Why is it that when I have to pee and there isn’t a bathroom nearby, the urge to go triples?

(6) How is it that science has figured out how to put hair back on men’s heads but they haven’t figured out how to get hair off their backs?

(7) If the camera adds ten pounds, does that mean Nicole Richie and the Olsen twins have a combined weight of 15lb off camera?

(8) I haven’t read this Pieces book but I’ve heard plenty of the outrage. Who cares? He wrote a book that apparently resonated with many people. It resonated ultimately because he is a talented writer. Period. An amazing story, whether truth or fictional truth, is crap if it isn’t told well.

(9) Not much research on my part has gone into this question but I’ve got to ask it. How are the Jews, with the creation of Israel, any better than the Palestinians fighting to get their land back? I’m looking to learn with this question, not offend. If I wanted to offend, I’d stand up at synagogue during Yom Kippur services and ask it then.

(10) I know the world is mostly water but much of it is rather salty. So what happens when we run out of the non-salty stuff? I just don’t buy it that the Evian stream didn’t run dry something like ten years ago and I’ve been drinking Parisian tap water ever since.

(11) Can someone explain to me how it is that George Bush (the dumber one) is still president? No one can find something to impeach him on? Someone call Monica Lewinsky. We need a favor.

(12) Why does your heart literally ache when you get hurt in love? Not your knee or your liver but your heart.

(13) What specifically does Zabars do to make their rugellach and babka taste so damn good? On second thought, I don’t want to know.

(14) Why do I always assume a bad driver is a man? Admittedly, 9 out of 10 times I'm wrong. Men always assume it is a woman. Is this cultural or are men just right that women are suckier drivers than men?

(15) How is it that sunsets are always more breathtaking when your line of vision includes sand and ocean?

Early Retirement

I’ve always referred to Florida as God’s waiting room. Once you start collecting social security, you stop caring that comfortable shoes are ugly and start pondering retirement in the Sunshine State. It might be hot has heck in the summertime but it's pure delight the rest of the year. Plus, when steam is coming up off the street, you just move your mahjong game from a table outside by the pool to a table inside the social room.

During my recent trip to Sarasota, I took retirement out for a test-drive. On the first day, we slept in until ten, had breakfast and then went for a walk by the marina. From there, we joined a sea of retirees for a leisurely lunch at a lovely eatery just off of St. Armands Circle. Food was followed by poolside chatter at an enormous beach front complex. My seventy-ish relatives are down south for February and March and invited us over. Simmy taught Jenn how to play Sudoku and Morty talked me up about his tennis game. With two replaced knees, he still could kick my ass on the court. We packed it in at six o’clock and stopped off at Wholefoods on the way back home. For the first time all day, we were not outnumbered by old people.

I’m not sure if it was just wanting to relax or not having any notable place to hit for dancing on table tops but our evenings were lowkey. Actually, lowkey is an understatement. We spent our Friday night at a Target. We tried to do a movie but the times were too late. Saturday night got whittled away with outlet shopping and Mexican food. We all forgot to order the much talked about margaritas. Must have been a senior moment. Sunday we did a double feature at the Dollar Movie. Yes, you read that right. All daytime films are $1, though they do jack it up to a whopping $1.75 for evening times. They also offer a senior citizen combo at the refreshment stand. I thought about finding an old person to buy the soda popcorn combo for me because it was $2.50. The same combo without the discount was $6.00. Pssst. Buddy, buy me some food? There's a buck in it for yah.

We’d walk around Sarasota and neighboring areas shuffling behind people with walkers and cataract glasses. Whenever I go to New York, without thinking, I assume the pace of the city. I walk quickly with my eyes focused deep into the distance. The same transformation happens when you get to Sarasota. You walk slower, drive slower and do pretty much every physical activity slower. In other words, time all but stands still. It was a nice adjustment to the usual treadmill life I lead, every so often jogging to keep from slipping off.

"Morty, do you know any widows looking for a hot young thing?"

"You don't want any of these men."

"Why? I give up the next five years of my life, he'll die and I'll then reitre myself. Not a bad idea, right?"

"It's terrible."

By the last day of our trip, I was ready to fidget my way back to the northeast. Life in the slow lane was relaxing but after three days of it, I was ready to get the rental car above 25mph. The activities that I spread out over five days in Florida would have easily fit into one Philadelphia day. I pulled retirement back into the lot, handed over the keys and bid adieu. I'll be back for another spin but don't keep the car out front. It'll be a while. A long, long while.

The Point of Planning, or Is There One

I’m one of those people who will do everything in her power to dictate the outcome of a situation. That sounds so controlling now that I’ve actually reread the statement. Alas, it is true. My goal is to avoid things going awry. If you do everything to push scenarios toward a good end, odds are you’ll get to a good end. Last minute spontaneity is fun and all but I’m more of a planner.

Jenn and I booked our Florida flights long ago and we picked two seats together in a row that originally was only two seats across. As we boarded the plane, it quickly came to our attention that something was different. The side of plane we were slated for was three abreast and one of us was smack dab in the middle. Worse yet, there was someone else to make it a full row. She wasn’t smelly or an armrest hog but when push comes to shove, an empty neighboring seat is always better than a filled one.

After take off, we noticed multiple rows further back with absolutely no passengers. With some shifting around, Jenn and I each landed entire rows to ourselves. She stretched out to snooze while I meanwhile dropped the tray table of the middle seat. I love tomato juice at 35,000 feet and I especially love when I can let the remaining plastic cup of tomato tainted iced cubes linger in an out of the way spot. Three seats to yourself in coach trumps one first class seat any day of the week.

We landed, retrieved our bags from the claim area and then went to pick up the car rental. In the 48 hours prior to the trip, I booked and cancelled a rental with the same company three times. The fourth reservation was the one that stuck. First I booked the car without too much research. Then I found a cheaper rate. Then I found an even cheaper rate. Then I realized that I could earn miles if I registered with their rewards program. Finally, I had the cheapest rate to date for an intermediate class sedan with the benefit of some frequent flier miles. Book. Cancel. Rebook. Cancel. Rebook. Cancel. Rebook. It was a total of forty-three minutes spent but it made me confident I’d done everything I could to ensure things would go well at the Dollar check-in desk.

“What car would you like? I’ve got a Magnum, a minivan, a PT Cruiser, a Sebring Convertible, or the Stratus you originally booked.”

“For the same intermediate class rate?”

"Yup. It's late and you can have whatever you want.”

Jenn and I hemmed and hawed. The minivan and PT Cruiser, two cars that are outright mommy mobiles, weren’t even in the running. The convertible sounded appealing but there would ultimately be three of us and it wasn’t fair to whoever didn’t shout “shotgun” first to get the messy hair shaft.

“We’ll take the Magnum, guido-ish as it is.”

“It's a great car," she said while tapping away at the keyboard. Then she halted, looked up and said, "I told you we had a Grand Cherokee, right?”

“We’ll take that!” Jenn and I excitedly exclaimed.

I crawled into the front seat of the brand new SUV, new car smell and all. Sixteen was the registered number of total miles driven. Not the little trip meter but the actual total distance the car had rolled since coming off the assembly line. Sitting behind the wheel of this brand new Jeep elicited the same emotions I feel whenever I reach into an old jacket and unexpectedly find a crumpled twenty dollar bill.

Our return flight was scheduled for mid-afternoon on Sunday. Many hours were spent determining the right time to head home. Leaving too early would mean forfeiting more of a vacation day. Leaving too late would mean no downtime to unpack and recover from being away. In the end, the perfect timed flight was cancelled as Philadelphia and other Northeast cities got pummeled with a blizzard. We reconfigured the departure for Monday and extended the vacation, a leisurely test-drive of retirement, by a full twenty-four hours.

What I realized this morning as I briskly walked two miles on a Sarasota waterfront path is that all of the planning in the world doesn’t mean you’ll get the outcome aimed for. There is a good chance that while shuffling through a haze of bad luck avoidance, things can turn out differently and sometimes even for the better. I won’t halt my usual planning efforts but perhaps I’ll be more welcoming when things don’t travel the path I so diligently created.

Once a Kid, Always a Kid

I’m 32 and 5/6 and my parents still sometimes coddle me like I am twelve. Tonight I head south for a long weekend respite with some friends. The destination is Sarasota and the only reason that's the destination is because my parent’s second home is down that way. They closed on it in November and I booked the trip in January. Just as clothing is more attractive the more it goes on sale, vacation destinations become more appealing the less they cost.

Before extending the invitation to friends, I double checked with both parents that it’d be okay to borrow their house. Their eyes widened with excitement as they quickly gave me a thumbs-up to my plans. “We’d love for you to use the house,” they said in unison. It was nice to know my parents trusted I wouldn’t trash the place, not that I would’ve done that even when I was younger. I was too fearful of getting caught. My idea of living on the edge sans parents was eating Captain Crunch.

The flight and car rental were easy to manage. My dad passed off a key last week and I bought a Sarasota specific guidebook at Barnes & Noble the other night. It will hopefully lend some assistance if the museum, waterfront and outlet shopping aren’t enough to entertain us. Then, out of nowhere, my parents kicked into high gear.

“Paige, can you come into my office. I have to talk with you about something,” my dad intercommed. Oh shit. What the heck did I screw up now, I thought as I slowly strolled from my desk to his.

“Take a seat,” he instructed.

Gulp.

“I drew you a map. Here is how you get from the airport to the house. Be sure you are paying attention when you get over the Tampa Bay Bridge. The road splits and quickly, at that. There are two exits you can take to access Sarasota.”

“Dad, the last time you gave me directions, I ended up in Delaware when I was aiming for Philadelphia.”

“Are you listening?”

“Uh huh. Where is the 7-11 on your map?”

“Right here. I put a 7 on that corner. The W is for Walmart. And Outback is, well, Outback.”

What more can a person need on vacation other than a 24 hour convenient store, a Walmart and Down-Undah steak, Matey? I realize as I write this that it sounds like my parents bought a double wide trailer on a dusty road. For the record, they have a lovely “lake” front home in a gated, 55+ community. Yes, it is for those 55 and older. My friends and I will have to enter and depart under the cover of darkness. It would take two of our ages combined to break the cut off.

“And here is the Cheetah.”

“Thanks dad. I was wondering where that strip joint was just in case I wanted to earn some extra cash to subsidize my vacation.”

I went back to my desk with lots of papers including a hand drawn map and contact information for everyone and anyone my parents know in Sarasota. Just in case of an emergency. I’m surprised I don’t have a note pinned to my shirt.

After folding up the papers and shoving them into my handbag, I took a deep breath and returned my focus to my desk. My message light was blinking.

Message #1: “Hi PJ. It’s mom. Be sure to ask your dad how to adjust the thermostat. Oh, and there are clean towels in the closet and some dirty ones from when the guys delivered the bedroom furniture. The washer and dryer are working now so feel free to launder the dirty ones. Have a safe trip!”

Message #2: “It’s me again. The gate might be down at the entrance. If so, Karyn told me the code is 1111. Get her number from dad in case you get stuck at the entrance. Okay, have fun!”

Message #3: “Mom again. The garage code is 1234. Then press the big button. I think it says enter.

Delete. Delete. Delete.

As I swivel my desk chair to face my computer again, my intercom goes off.

“PJ, can you order flowers for mom to be delivered on Monday for our anniversary. Oh, and stop by my office, I have thermostat instructions written down for you.”

Got the Point

After listening to me rant about wanting to be healthier and thinner, Jenn sent an email inviting me to do a fitness challenge. It was hard to come up with an appealing prize that didn't involve caloric intake. We eventually settled on a mani/pedi, courtesy of the loser. I liked this challenge idea but was immediately suspicious. I’m pretty competitive. When I want to win something, I only enlist competition I know I have a shot at winning against. Is that cheating or selective winning? I own a treadmill but I'd come to view it as a sculpture by the artist Vision Fitness. Jenn, on the other hand, has a gym membership and she uses it.

On the upside of things, at least I’ve matured enough to know Jenn’s invitation wasn’t an attempt to call me a fat sloth to my face. I could’ve gone down that road. Asking someone to start exercising is like asking them to be a diet partner. You don’t invite someone to diet unless that person should seriously consider putting a lock on the fridge. No one’s banging down Nicole Richie’s door in search of a Weight Watchers partner. Come on Nicole. We get to count points and go to meetings and step onto a big scale. It’s so much fun! I know because I’ve done it. Five times. At least.

Jenn’s also one of those organized people. Just one more thing to make me feel worse about myself. I have a Palm and I keep everything in it. Jenn has a tiny notebook, lists, a Blackberry and various other color coded organizer things. She never forgets a birthday and diligently sends holiday cards. I gave up on holiday cards way back when I realized I was spending over $100 just to send fun, interactive, non-denominational, December wishes. A Santa-less card that is worth putting on the mantle is one tough find.

After agreeing to the challenge, Jenn forwarded a grid that would have taken me months to prepare. On the left were various activities that, if completed, earned you a point. Across the top were the days of the week. She with the most points wins. Not wanting to go into shock starting this cold turkey, I jumped right in the day I got the grid. It was my training period before the official gunshot start on February 6th. For the first time ever, I could relate to an athlete's hard road to Torino. Michelle Kwan, I feel your pain.

I was unusually enthusiastic about physical activity. Thirty minutes pounding on the treadmill. Point. Twenty push-ups, albeit girly ones, on the floor by my desk. Point. Thirty crunches. Point. Twenty hover squats while blowing my hair dry. Point. Eight glasses of water. One sec. Have to go pee.

The toughest part of this whole thing has been the healthier eating activities. If you eat 3 servings of veggies and 2 servings of fruit, you get a point. This doesn’t sound difficult until you start paying attention. I tend to leave perishables on the grocery store shelves unless I know I’ll be eating them in the next twenty-four hours. This week I ambitiously bought three bags of celery, my idea of a great snack. Two went bad before I even got them to the sink for a rinse down.

Then there is the “No Food” category. We each picked three foods to cut out. It’s like Lent, but worse because I’ve never had to deal with this Lent crap. And you Lent people cut out one thing. I had to pick three. If you bypass the food, you get a point. But if you slip up, you lose a point. I picked candy, ice cream and white foods, shorthand for going the grainier way with carbs.

I spent the better part of last night on my sofa with my laptop on my sitting-indian-style legs. I’d already done crunches, lunges, push-ups, weights, water, veggies and fruit. Had brown rice at dinner and wasn’t in the mood for ice cream. I also wasn’t in the mood for the treadmill. But I was in the mood for the four lingering chocolates sitting in my candy dish just beyond arm’s reach. I tried to focus on writing but instead found myself looking at the chocolate to my right and then at the treadmill to my left. Candy. Treadmill. Candy. Treadmill. Candy. Treadmill. I looked like one of those Garfield clocks. I knew I couldn’t have the candy without getting on the treadmill but I knew there was no way in hell I was getting on the treadmill at eleven o’clock at night. There was only one thing to do.

I unplugged my laptop and relocated to my bedroom, a safe haven from both temptation and guilt. I have a feeling I’m going to be spending a lot of time in that room, a place usually reserved solely for shut eye, these next few weeks. By the way, I got the point - literally and figuratively.

Snap Shot

Before whipping out his camera and telling me to pretend I was a lion, the instruction all photogs give to their statuesque models, Artist pulled out a little black book. I looked confused and taking my cue, he explained. He wanted to show me some of his work so I could better understand what he has done. Um, okay. I'd been practicing my smile and come hither look for the last three hours but what's another ten minutes of delay.

Two of them I especially adored. So much so, I plan on saving up my allowance to buy both for my collection. You are nobody until you own a private collection of art. Look out Gettys and Guggenheims, there is a Paige Jennifer on the horizon.

“Where is this?” I asked pointing to a curved walkway with lights dotting the edges.

“Right by Chestnut Hill College. Remember that bridge that was out forever? This is the one that appeared once the road reopened.”

So it was. I’d driven over that bridge many times. Usually traveling ten or more miles over the piddly 25MPH speed limit. I initially noticed the charm factor of the new bridge with architerual accents and details. I also noticed the pain in the ass light they installed. More often than not, I hit it red, even though there is no true cross street or reason anyone would want to get from one sidewalk to the other at that particular point. That is it. I never noticed anything more than that.

It got me thinking. How much in life do I see only one way? Or worse, how much in life do I never see? The stretch of road that includes this bridge is the hardtop that links two of my favorite places; H&M in Plymouth Meeting and CinCin in Chestnut Hill. Nothing tops deeply discounted digs better than some steamed dumplings and sesame chicken, a guilt-free dish because someone over in the Abington Memorial Hospital Cardiology department kindly tagged it as a Healthy Heart menu item. In all the months since the grand reopening of the bridge, I never once saw it the way Artist captured it.

Maybe that is why I love photography the way I do. Not in the sense of looking at someone’s, out of focus, poorly cropped pictures of their recent trip to the Bahamas or Disney. I'd rather hear the story told with words than see an array of photos capturing the same person in the same pose in front of different landmarks. I love photography more in the sense of snapshot-ing a moment in time. A single second in a lifetime filled with too many seconds to notice each any every one.

I saw the Nan Goldin exhibit at PAFA on Sunday. Allison introduced me to her work. She had two Nan Goldin’s hanging in her studio apartment back when she lived on 46th at Lex. It was the rawness and edge of the self-portrait that lingered with me and made me an official fan. As I strolled the gallery and took in the photographs, I fell in love with two pieces. They were of two men, a couple. In the first, they are healthy and looking right at the camera with expressions saying more than any words I could print. In the second, one is sickly and gaunt in a hospital bed with the other, still healthy and strong, leaning over his body. The presence of the camera this time around is irrelevant. They aren’t posing but being captured. Click. One second in a lifetime filled with too many seconds to notice each and every one.

The funny thing is I don’t own a camera. Not even on my phone. I received a Minolta as a Bat Mitzvah gift and it died sometime a few years later. While it crossed my mind, I never bothered to replace it. I’m not all that talented with a camera. Just ask my high school photography instructor. My only strength, if you can call it that, was the ability to ruin no less than 75% of the roll during the developing process. I’m surprised I wasn’t assessed a fee for the excess paper and chemicals I used to get my mediocre art from film negative to printed page.

In all honesty, I think that if I am the one taking the pictures, I am focusing on a moment in time, a brief second, that was overrun by my attempts of getting everything about the shot right. In the meantime, I have quite possibly missed the best second to capture. I'll be able to return to it over and over again, though it will never resonate with me the way it did when I originally saw it, fuddled with the camera settings, missed it and then clicked the shutter. A photograph by someone else capturing a moment I’ve never seen, well, that is priceless. I’ve been invited to see something I missed, sometimes without even realizing it had happened. And I have the rest of my life to enjoy that snippet, a single second in a lifetime filled with too many seconds to notice each and every one.

PS: At the risk of exposing Artist's identity, not that he ever asked for privacy, John Mullaney is responsible for the shot in this posting. If you are interested in buying this or any of his other amazing photographs, feel free to post something in a comment.