Rush Hour

The subway at rush hour is, let’s face it, torture. Today I was sitting next to a large man with lousy earbuds in his ears, through which I could hear tiny, tinny trumpets and drums—Cuban music. He was grooving a little, his arm rubbing against mine, but it wasn’t like he was dancing in my lap or anything (hate that). The stops were slow, though, and the car was mobbed, and I was starting to get antsy when I looked up and realized that the craggy guy hanging onto the pole above us was grooving too, only he didn’t have an ipod or anything—he was grooving to the tinny whisper of sounds coming out of my guy’s earbuds.

That cheered me up. That, and the fact that it was my stop, which meant I could climb into the Starbucks at Astor Place and get a grande hot cider to take the place I’m staying.

Anyway, here’s a secret, just for you, my blogateers: I appreciate the non-life that I have now—I can do yoga and walk around and not see pretty much anyone but my therapist and the man I “cook” for, and very rarely my friend Angela. I can ride on the subway and drink all the hot apple ciders I want. I can go for days without watching television or drinking wine or eating much of anything bad. I can practice for two hours, and it turns into three because why not? That’s good, right? It’s good to have so much space.

But you know what else is good? It’s good to have someone you really love to come home to. The truth is, I’d really like to go home.

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