Wise Words

(As written in flight and with very little sleep.)

There comes a point when you’ve been strapped into a seat stationed in the depths of a metal tube, hurtling across the sky at hundreds of miles an hour for around 200 minutes that you realize: you did this to yourself. You chose to be trapped in an altogether too tiny compartment with dozens of other people – some with questionable bathing habits – and to witness for a while their idiosyncrasies and foibles. And there are still another couple of hundred minutes to go.

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Aspiration, Inspiration, and Waffles

I like to imagine myself as an explorer. A culture-seeker. A pseudo-jetsetter. A person who people look at and think “I wonder what Susan is going to do next? Where is she going? What is she planning?”

I roll the idea around in my mind over and over, especially on Sunday mornings, as I sit on the couch with my coffee, delighting in the imagery of it all. Then, finally, I rouse myself into a standing position around noon to brush my hair and change from my bathrobe into a sweatshirt.

I call this side of myself Aspirational Susan. I really like her. She’s kind of awesome. She’s who I want to be when I grow up. She inspires me to say things to Scott like: “You know what would be really fun? If we we drove to Atlantic City. Just because!” And then we all hop into the car and go. Scott has to come along because he helps rein Aspirational Susan in (she can get carried away sometimes), and also because he’s funny and has an excellent sense of direction.

For my soon-to-come birthday, Aspirational Susan had everything figured out: a trip to New York, a Broadway Show, a semi-fancy dinner, and cupcakes. Scott, it turned out, had other plans.

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The Old. North. Church.

In Boston, following the Freedom Trail, Scott and I turn a corner and cross a brick courtyard.

“One if by land, two if by sea.” That’s probably the typical thought that runs through the average person’s head when looking up at this iconic structure steeped in American history.

My thoughts turn to my grandfather. I must have heard his anecdote about a short leave in Boston when he was in the Merchant Marine’s during World War II at least a dozen times, but as I stare at the steeple that launched Paul Revere’s midnight ride, I cannot for the life of me remember how the tale begins.

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A Fancy Digital Camera Does Not a Photographer Make

This past summer, I took a 10-week photography class. Let me rephrase — I took a 10-week course during which I spent hours attending lectures about photography, but rarely took any actual photos. This method of teaching doesn’t exactly yield a student who takes amazing, unforgettable, fantastic photos. However, upon leaving the course with a somewhat tenuous grasp on aperture, shutterspeed and ISO, I figured that I was surely on the road to becoming a super splendiferous amateur photographer a-go-go.

So, when the husband suggested a semi-impromptu road trip to Fallingwater two weekends ago, I borrowed a DSLR, convinced that I would shoot the Most Awesomely Fantastic Photos of Fallingwater Ever.

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33 Minutes in the Morning, 33 Minutes in the Afternoon

If I see you one morning on the train, and I don’t think I know you, I will probably ignore you. I may even ignore you if I kind of sort of think that maybe I do know you. Even if you are sitting next to me and our thighs are touching. I will pretend our thighs aren’t touching, and you will do the same. Because that is the unspoken Commuter’s Rule.

If we are seated facing each other, the only reason I will ever make eye-contact with you is because I accidentally glanced up from my book and you were looking in my direction. It is early and I haven’t had my coffee yet. I just want to sit quietly and absorb myself in another world for a while. Please don’t mistake eye contact for friendliness. It’s too early for making friends with strangers. If our knees are bumping awkwardly, I will do the best that I can to hold my knees uncomfortably to my left. You will position your knees in the opposite direction. We will hope they don’t bump again, but if they do, we will pretend our knees aren’t touching. That is aforementioned unspoken Commuter’s Rule.

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