Monthly Archives: January 2010

It was a quarter after midnight last night when I boarded the A train at 168th Street and Broadway, after an ER shift. As I looked around the train car, I noted that, like many nights when I leave Washington Heights at this hour, my fellow riders were all men, and all minorities. I had a moment of  irrational fear as I sat down, knowing that while I have to be vigilant the truth was that many of these men were hard-working people, likely coming off their night shifts as well.

There were only about 8 of us in that car; two were homeless men. One of these men was familiar to me; I had seen him around the hospital on and off for the last 18 months and had begun to call him George in my head. Although I’ve given him money from time to time, I have never had the chance to ask him his name. He’s either walking past me, or I’m walking past him, or we’re at different ends of the A train car. George  looks to be in his 50s, tall and thin, with short dreads that eminate only from the sides of his head like tufts. Last night was particularly cold, and George was wearing a sweatshirt, sweatpants, and house slippers. He had no socks, and no coat. He was in a sort of fetal position trying to sleep, with his hood pulled over his head almost covering up his eyes. He had no bags with him. Come to think of it, George never carries anything with him.

At 155th street, another thin, tall, 50-something man, this one in a fancy long navy wool coat, dark jeans, and shiny black dress shoes, boarded the train and sat down not too far from George.  The man had a brown paper bag in his hand through which a dark colored aluminum can stuck out. He was taking sips through a straw. Once the doors closed, he looked around with glazed eyes and said to no one in particular, “It is Thursday night, and we are in the greatest city in the whole world. This is NOT Philly, people. This is New York City!”

After this he serenaded us all the way down to Penn Station with broken songs ranging from the Four Seasons to Alecia Keys. I wondered if George was bothered by the singing.

Just the night before,  I was at the Met to see Carmen. It was the first time I have ever been to the opera, and I couldn’t help but think that I had made it! I was finally living the life I had always dreamed of as a girl. It might be strange, but I had always know I wanted to live in New York City and dreamed of a life filled with gallery openings, amazing restaurants, intelligent company, and of course the Opera. Only in the dream I had a job which required me always to wear suits, not scrubs.

Anyway, at the opera my companion and I were gushing about how much we loved New York and couldn’t imagine a more perfect New York City experience. The shimmering lights of Lincoln Center, the handsome men in tuxedos, the $5 bottle of water we purchased — this was all part of our city. And it was true, I loved every moment of it.

So last night on the train, when the well dressed drunk man tried and failed to hit a high note in a ballad I couldn’t quite make out, and George stirred from his sleep to look over at where the racket was coming from, I couldn’t help but smile when I thought about how incredibly interesting, and how amazingly different, were these last two nights in my city. I had, indeed, made it.

My aunt called this morning to wish me happy birthday and give me my semi-annual Why aren’t you getting married? talk. What else are birthdays for, right?

These talks have a pattern; they start with a series of rhetorical questions that may or may not be intended to make you feel like a passive oaf: Are you doing anything to find a boy? Have you ever even tried on-line dating? Don’t you have any friends who know someone for you? Whatever happened to so-and-so (insert name of latest Indian boy whose bio-data, or marriage resume, was sent my way)?

Phase two is the lecture part. Usually a line or two about how it’s my duty as a daughter to stop making my parents worry. Oh – and then the classic you’re already old enough that it will not be easy to find a husband. Of course, this phase would not be complete without reminding me that there are a lot of intelligent men in India that I could go and meet (for a drive by wedding – to be explained in future post) if only I wasn’t so snobby about, well, Indian men.

By now I’m only hearing blah blah blah, and only saying, yes ok yes while secretly watching The Daily Show on Hulu.

The final section of the talk consists of unsolicited advice. Usually it’s about how I should join Shaadi.com and/or email that guy that some auntie’s daughter’s friend recommended again even though he didn’t reply the last three times. But today, I got a new piece of advice – fasting!

Apparently, if you really believe in (insert Hindu God of choice) faithfully, and you torture yourself by fasting every Thursday, then in six months you will be married. It’s that easy! And the best part is that the “fast” is pretty benign – I can eat any fruit or vegetable. And as many as I want. I can even have salad dressing.

“Just no tofu,” my aunt said. Apparently, Hindu Gods don’t appreciate soybean curd.

Well, I guess I did learn something from today’s lecture.

A well known concept in science, and in medicine, is the half-life. It’s defined as the time interval required for a substance to decay by half of its initial value. Recently I can’t help but think how much this applies to getting older. Rather morbid when you consider that it’s an exponential decay.

Next week I am turning 32. So the next few years will roughly be the half-way point in my life, if I’m lucky enough to make it to the average age of 70-something for women. That might be wishful thinking, as I have almost been run over by the M34 bus twice this week already.

Last year, I tried to avoid my birthday by hiding in Barcelona. I had this fear that it would be different now in my 3os, like some biological half-life in which each additional year would make my body feel like it aged faster than the last year. 30 going on 35. Then 35 going on 45. That every passing year halved the chance that I would find Mr. Right. Or even Mr. Close-enough. Or that each year the likelihood of some major career success would diminish. Optimists would say anything is possible. But is it probable?

See why I ran away to the land of Gaudi and pan con tomate? It didn’t work, though.

But this year I’m changing my attitude. Starting with a big party to bring in 32. Embrace being a 30-something woman in the city. Confront that exponential decay head-on, armed with a dirty martini in one hand and some anti-wrinkle cream in the other.