🎬 BELIEVE
Subway Rides, Serendipity Signage, Shoe Stores, and Champagne Showers
✍️ June 12, 2023
I love being smashed on the subway with a vast swath of humanity: yawning half-asleep morning commuters, parents doting on their children, cautious people still wearing masks, and a young woman sitting next to me with extraordinarily long, hot pink decked-out acrylic nails that made ASMR sounds every time she clicked around her phone.
Just another Monday.
I exited at 14th Street Union Square, taking the longer route toward Soho House down Jane Street, sparking memories from the last 11+ years I’ve lived in this city.
My mood floated ever higher as I took in the fragrant smell of summer in the air, a random office chair covered in remnants of cat fur left out for garbage pick-up on the curb, reminiscing as I passed restaurants where I enjoyed wonderful meals with alongside some of my dearest friends who no longer live here.
Soon I turned the corner onto Horatio, and peered into the Christian Louboutin boutique, with shades drawn to hide the treasures inside. I remember feeling titters of excitement upon nervously walking in and choosing my first pair thirteen years ago to celebrate my first book deal. (I’m basic, I know: I couldn’t shake the Carrie Bradshaw dream, despite the fact that they did actually cost more than my first car, a silver hatch-back 1989 Mercury Tracer that I nicknamed “The Gem.”)
I made a lifelong friend by asking which shoes the woman next to me liked best. This resulted in a spontaneous invitation to go out to lunch together, followed by skipping a block-long line to dance on tables at a Bagatelle brunch party while a server poured champagne on us.
Back then, I still lived in California and worked at Google full-time, and they used to fund a weeklong stay at The Standard Hotel in Meatpacking so I could coordinate with my manager based out of New York City.
That friend Ann, who became my “NYC Angel,” was turning 40 in December, and after our magical day in May, invited me to fly back out to New York and attend her celebration.
Now I’m the one turning 40 and taking stock of my life.
I don’t feel very celebratory, and I can’t imagine wearing stilettos anytime soon.
Try sweats and fuzzy socks.
I do feel deep meaning and joy.
Michael and I have had great conversations about what we’re building, and we constantly marvel at the little angel-in-fur-coat at our feet, sometimes sleeping, sometimes pawing our leg to entice us to play, sometimes squeaking with sounds of hunger asking Michael to get up and fix Ryder’s Plate.
As I round the corner of Horatio Street onto Greenwich, which turns into the cobble-stoned part of Ninth Ave, I see a “No Parking” sign for a movie shoot on a street pole that says in big capital letters on a bright yellow colored paper: