The First Interview

“So you’re from Virginia and you’re moving to New York for grad school.”

The blonde HR representative smiled across the desk at me. He was thin, and wore a well-tailored black suit with no tie. His office smelled a bit like mold, but it was kept cool despite the suffocating heat that had enveloped New York City in the summer of 2010. 

“Yes, I’m headed to Pace University to get my Masters in publishing,” I said with my best interview smile. I looked him directly in the eye, like he was the only person in the universe I had any interest in.

Which, at the time, wasn’t far from the truth. I needed to scoop up a job (any job) as quickly as possible. School was starting in a month, and I’d yet to secure a place to live or any form of income. This is why I sat in the basement of Bloomingdale's, applying for a part-time sales position at $12 an hour—after graduating with honors from college.

The past two months had been a humbling experience, to say the least. I’d quickly learned that if you hoped to work in the editorial field, you needed connections. While this realization reaffirmed my decision to dish out thousands for grad school, it also crushed my idealistic hopes of immediately beginning my career as the ever-coveted “writer type.”

Basically, I was no special snowflake.

“So tell me about your work experience,” Ned smiled.

“Well…” I told him I was a leader, but a team player. I wasn’t afraid of hard work. I respected my managers, and did he need a reference? I could communicate, I loved people, and I understood the customer was always right even when they were oh-so wrong. Couldn’t he see? I was MEANT to work at Bloomingdales!

Apparently I’d passed the first test. Two more executives wanted to “chat,” if I still had time. “Absolutely,” I smiled, silently praying that no one would ask me in-depth questions about fashion.

“Huh. So you live in Newark, New Jersey?” the last (and most intimidating) of my interviewers asked.

“Live” is a word that depends on how you define it.
“Yes,” I smiled. If you count “living” as crashing in a friend’s closet near a church in the projects—then yes. I lived in Newark.

“How is it…?” she asked with some hesitance.
“Great!” I replied enthusiastically.  

If you count “great” as sleeping on the roof of an apartment when the AC blows out, or needing to be home before dark because it’s moderately dangerous for a girl to walk around past 9PM—then yes. It was great.

“They have excellent Brazilian barbecue,” I added for legitimacy.

The truth was, I had no intention of staying in New Jersey for long, but I didn’t want to appear unsettled. Salesgirls in New York City are a dime a dozen, so why give HR a chance to worry? 

(They also didn’t need to know that, just to get to this interview, I’d taken the midnight Chinatown bus by way of Virginia, and walked from Canal Street to 34th Street with my luggage at 6:45AM. Because I couldn’t find the right subway. Or a map.) 

The other truth: I had no intention of working at Bloomingdale's for long. This was a pit stop; a job I would probably grow to hate, and eventually run from the second I had the opportunity to do so.

But every New Yorker needs a job they take, only to make rent. And every college graduate needs to discover life is hard, and getting what you want is even more difficult. I was in the midst of this realization so I unabashedly continued to fake an optimistic smile.

“Can you start Monday?” she asked. 
“Of course,” I replied with practiced nonchalance.  

I had three days. Three days to go back to Virginia, pack my things, find an apartment, and move to New York. Many people had made this same jump before, so I took confidence in the city's collective story.  

Walking out of Bloomingdale's into the afternoon sun, I felt genuine thrill.
What a frantic adventure this life would be. 

The above picture was snapped at The Raccoon Lodge the day I'd gotten  a job offer. (My feet are, to this day, terrified of wearing heels in the city, thanks to this rookie "night on the town."

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“Our life always expresses the result of our dominant thoughts. ”

— Soren Kierkegaard

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Doing the Polite Thing

I am not a “gym rat.”

In fact, I might be the opposite—a “foot cat,” perhaps? I’ve never enjoyed being indoors, wearing cute yoga clothes, or showering and redoing my hair everyday. That all sounds tremendously repetitive, which I don’t endure well.

Alas, it’s winter and this insomniac can’t sleep unless exhausted. So I did something I haven’t done in 4.5 years: You guessed it… I joined a gym.

Now, as a novice to this whole healthy living thing, I was a wee bit nervous on my first visit. There are rules to every social sphere in life—and I knew the gym world of New York City would be no different. Should I pack a workout bag, or could I stuff the necessities in my trusty purse? Did I need to buy a lock, or would they sell them there?

“It’s polite to use a towel,” my boyfriend had gently reminded me the day before.
I scrunched up my nose. “Why do I need a towel?”
“Because, you know… if you sweat, you’re supposed to clean off the machines. And it says online that this gym doesn’t have a towel service.”

(I wanted to ask him, “How hard do you think I’ll be working out?” But I refrained, knowing that he too was only trying to be, well, polite.)

Bring a towel, bring a towel… His words echoed in my mind as I haphazardly packed my first-ever exercise duffle. I didn’t have a proper “gym towel,” so I ran with the second best option and grabbed a rainbow plaid dishtowel instead.

That’ll do, I thought as I locked up and headed forth on my grand adventure to the land of ellipticals and protein shakes!

The sign-in process and locker room hustle went off without a hitch. My gym wasn’t too crowded so I quickly jumped onto a machine, and did that thing gym rats do, dishtowel in hand.

Call it paranoia but I began to notice a few people looking in my direction. Was I doing something wrong? Was my dishtowel offensive? Mildly embarrassed, I shoved the plaid cloth into the cup holder of my machine and finished up a decent work out.

As I repined my hair in the locker room post-run, a woman about my age approached me. “Sorry, but there’s no toilet paper in this stall,” she said, looking at me expectantly.

I don’t mind passing toilet paper between stalls, or even walking some over to a helpless person who’s mid-squat and sh*t out of luck (pun, intended). But I couldn’t fathom why this chick would specifically ask me for toilet paper when she had two perfectly good legs.

“Uh… Well I see some in that stall,” I said, pointing.
“Oh! You don’t work here?” she asked.
“Ha, nope. Sorry.”  

After she apologized, I continued looking in the mirror for a second, wondering what she saw in me that screamed “gym employee.” I by no means look like a trainer (and I was still holding that blasted dishtowel).

But as I turned to go, I saw the reason.
I knew why she thought I worked at Blink Fitness.

Across my back read the words “STAFF” in big, white letters. The t-shirt was a relic from my camp counselor days—and the exact same color as the employees’ shirts. This locker room revelation also explained why people were starring at me on the elliptical...

Life suddenly seemed a little less confusing.
I should have thanked TP girl.

So here’s what I learned on my first visit to the gym:
1) Don’t wear a shirt that says “STAFF” on it.
2) Dishtowels are only moderately acceptable.
3) If you DO bring a dishtowel, you need to own it. Be proud!
4) On second thought, maybe just buy a gym towel.
5) Or, ask your friends to steal you a gym towel from a fancier gym... #BOOM

Yes, it actually says, "Flex that smile." 

3 Reasons to Love New York

Rush hour in NYC is the abrupt, fast-pace rat race that you’d imagine it to be. In fact, there’s a certain thrill to making your train, making the light, and making it to work alive (sans coffee stains or black eyes).

With nearly 8 million people moving ungracefully about the city, it isn’t the time for pleasantries. Rarely is anyone outlandishly rude—but best of luck getting a conversation or smile out of a New Yorker doing their daily dash to the 6 train.

Think of it this way: If you were getting in your car, headed to work and a bit rushed, would you be overly chatty if at every stop light someone frantically knocked on your window and screamed, “PLEASE! PLEASE, TELL ME WHERE THE EMPIRE STATE BUILDING IS?!”

I’m guessing you would help, because you’re a good person.

But somewhere around the 9th time this happens, you’d begin to give hasty instructions with a shadow of a smile. The truth is most commuters simply don their headphones, zoning out the distress that is New York City from 7-9am and 5-7pm.

Now, take the people and puffy coats and the messenger bags and backpacks and, of course, the precarious coffee cups—take all of that nonsense, and stuff it into a crowded subway car.

Then add the dreaded suitcase.

That’s right… I was traveling home for the holidays and boarding a crowded N train with my terrible blue suitcase. He often acts out when under pressure, doing irritable things like getting stuck in doors, rolling over people’s toes, or even battling with other luggage for more space. Plus he’s usually too heavy to lift over the subway turnstile, so I have to do this strange swipe, push luggage under the bar, catch luggage with foot, walk through turnstile move.

So by the time I got to Hell on Earth (also known as Penn Station), I was exhausted and irritable. But the good news was 1) I was going home to visit my family and 2) I had time to run to the nearby Starbucks for a quick cup of caffeine.

“Following guest, please step forward.”

The line was long, per the usual. By the time five people were left in front of me, I began to nervously check my iPhone's clock—I’d still make the train to Richmond, right?

“Following guest, please step forward.”

“You can get in front of me,” said an Indian man with a striped scarf. 
“Oh, it’s OK. No worries,” I smiled back.
“I’m not waiting for a train.”
He grinned and moved behind me.
“Wow…uh, cool. Thanks so much."

“Following guest, please step forward.”

“I’m not waiting for a train either—my son’s about to arrive!” a plump blonde woman said in front of me, beaming. You could tell she was beyond delighted because her kid was coming home for the holidays. “Here, scoot up.” 

“Oh. Um… thank you,” I smiled, barely believing in a reality where two people let me cut the Starbucks line at Penn Station.

“Following guest, please step forward.”

If you’re a moderately astute reader, you can probably guess by the title of this blog post what’s about to happen: The man in front of me saw my prior line promotion and extended his hand, gesturing I step up to the counter. I thanked them all again, grabbed my coffee, and fought my way through Penn Station.

But I was fighting with a smile, dangit!
And for the next hour, I was doing something like this…

Because NOBODY cuts the rush hour Starbucks line.  
It's just one of those rare feats that must be celebrated. 
(Or at least blogged about.)

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“By comparison with other less hectic days, the city is uncomfortable and inconvenient; but New Yorkers temperamentally do not crave comfort and convenience—if they did they would live elsewhere. ”

— E.B. White

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The Time We Thought We'd Die on Vacation

After that first year of living in New York City, you begin to realize the importance of quietly escaping our buzzing epicenter of a town every few months—the absence will keep you sane.

I have a group of friends scattered throughout NYC who vacation together 2-3 times a year. We call these little trips "The Classic," which can be shortened for social media purposes to #Classic, but should typically remain a proper noun.  

The Classic entails a lengthy (and at times, aggressive) email chain. Schedules are discussed, budgets are outlined, projects are assigned, and many gifs are used to express bursts of digital emotion. After renting a car—or occasionally doing it youth group style with a 15 passenger van—and finding a house on Airbnb, we embark on our grand adventure. 

But last month’s Classic to a Catskills farmhouse was truly something special.

“So, a woman is staying here, too…while we’re here. And she’s, uh, well… she’s interesting,” a friend said with sincere confusion upon my car’s arrival. As if on cue, a plump lady with frizzy white hair sticking out of a knit cap entered the room and shuffled by.

Oh.
Oh my.
That was Pat.
And Pat owned this property.

The downstairs of the farmhouse was strangely chopped up, with random beds and bathrooms haphazardly sprinkled throughout.  The only source of warmth was a wood stove in the living room, and since it was 12 degrees outside, this “rustic” feature wasn’t exactly a selling point. The upstairs consisted of a long, creepy hallway with mirrors and rooms.

And all of these rooms had doors.
And all of these doors locked from the outside.

Weekend Rule #1: Never leave the group for more than 10 minutes at a time.

“Did someone say they needed garlic salt?” We were now in the kitchen prepping the traditional Classic chili. Omniscient Pat popped out of nowhere, wide-eyed and questioning. I noticeably jumped, eyeing the knives that hung on the wall beside her. 

Weekend Rule #2: ALWAYS announce yourself when coming into a room.    

After a whiskey or two, the group relaxed and decided to head outside for a late-night bonfire. But we found something quite particular toward the side of the house: A pentagram, or five-point star popular with Satanists and cults, had been tiled into an old concrete patio. A fire pit sat in the middle of the eerie symbol.

Weekend Rule #3: If you think you are about to be sacrificed, please alert a member of the group.

As I walked into the kitchen for a chili refill, a friend and I noticed several magnets advertising a website about forgiveness on the refrigerator. We eyed each other and began nervously laughing—of course the cult leader was a fan of being pardoned.

But the internet led us to some fascinating discoveries. First, our host was in fact a “healer,” known for her ability to speak to other dimensions. And apparently, our weekend farmhouse also doubled as a “retreat center” for people seeking forgiveness, with the help of Archangel Michael and the Circle of something somethings…

“How’s the fire going?” I stumbled backwards, as Pat shuffled into the kitchen. I closed her blog on my phone, and produced a weak grin. “Fine!” I squeaked.

She looked at me.
I looked at her.

“There’s an axe in the corner of the den, if you need it.”

Um…
Eh… 
Someone was definitely going to die tonight.

(This is the point in a scary movie when you start screaming at the television, “No! Don’t go in there. TURN AROUND!”)

But Pat shuffled away, and didn’t reappear for the rest of the evening. 

The sun rose the next morning.
Our house slowly stirred to life.
The coffee began to brew...
And no bodies were found.

Pat popped into the kitchen that second day. I found her much less terrifying in the early-afternoon light, munching on a blueberry pancake. In fact, she said our group was like the “family she’d never had.”
<Insert questionably sinister grin?>

So, I suppose it all worked out just fine...
The moral of the story:
New York City is much safer than Upstate New York.

For Christopher

"Soon as he touched you, he was dead.”

We were watching the pilot episode of "The Wire," an HBO show (that I should have already seen) set in the projects of Baltimore circa 2002.

The series has an interesting drug-hustling, detective-hunting kind of plot, with more corruption than a Dan Brown novel. I'd watched quite a few episodes for a class project—but for some unknown reason, I’d never jumped back into it post-college.

"You going on point, picking us business in the pit.”
"Why you giving me the low-rises when I had a tower since summer!”

The towers they're referring to are the tall, city projects with a plethora of drug traffic in the stairwells and elevators—a crack dealer’s dream. The disgruntle character (dubbed D’Angelo) had just been demoted to “the pit,” or the smaller buildings near the courtyard—less business, more visibility.

The scene ended as he jumped in a car and headed down the street.
Another scene began…

"Miss Britney, you know you sound like Hannah Montana?!" one of the girls ran over to me.  She wore glasses and had braids separated into pigtails. Her pink puffy coat was too big in the sleeves.

“You’re only saying that ‘cuz I’m from the South,” I said with a grin.

“Nooo,” she said with exaggeration. “Say somethin’ else like Hannah Montana!” I appeased her as we crunched through the snow blanketing Hyatt Court, hand in hand. The projects were quiet tonight. Even the Crips, who usually huddle in the corners waiting for God-knows-what, had moved indoors.

It was the end of March, but spring doesn’t always mean new life and growth. Sometimes things stay frozen, and it’s out of our control.
Newark, New Jersey taught me that lesson.

Baltimore looked run down as the camera focused back in on “the pit.” A drug deal had just gone terribly wrong, and there was blood to pay. My stomach dropped as an angry crew descended on an addict who’d tried to score some crack with fake 10-dollar bills. Kicking, punching, and yelps of pain ensued…

There was a squeal of laughter.
It was Christopher.
He was one of my favorites.

I know you’re not supposed to have favorites when teaching children.
But I did—and he probably knew it.

The first year I’d worked in Newark, we were on a college spring break trip. I’d hated it. The cold was unbearable, the children were utterly insane, and we’d slept in a dirty church with no heat. Weren’t 18-year-old freshman supposed to go to Mexico?

But there were a few great kids who, I’m now realizing, will forever haunt me. Christopher was shy when I met him, but you could tell he was something different. With 2 younger sisters, the 12-year-old was slightly softer than the razor-sharp, soon-to-be Crip kids of Hyatt Court.

 "You show that kind of weakness, you lose everything that comes after.” My wandering brain switched back to the television. One of the drug ringleaders on “The Wire” was reprimanding D’Angelo, disgusted by his mercy. He was too soft.

Soft like Christopher, the gangly kid who’d made me a cross out of popsicle sticks that said “I love you” in 2007.
The kid who still hadn’t totally lost his squeaky voice in 2008.
The kid I had to remind to give me a hug in 2009.
The kid who wasn’t so soft in 2010.
The kid I’d lost track of in 2012…

(I was beginning to remember why I hadn’t finished this show.)

“One or two in the back of the head. No witnesses. No suspects. You got a .380 casing on the ground there.” The pilot episode was wrapping up with a murder and a moral dilemma.

Then the credits began to roll. I felt awkward as I asked my boyfriend what he’d thought of the show. The entertainment. He’d liked it, fine. I’d like it, fine. We’d probably watch it again soon?

After he stood to grab a drink, I was left with my own thoughts. So I sat on the couch hoping (praying) Christopher’s story hadn’t ended the same way.

It seemed my conscience was still infected with whatever holy poison Newark had injected into my heart. If I couldn’t watch “The Wire” without thinking of Chris, or walk down Avenue D without a small twist in my gut…

I assume that I’m not doing something I should be.
Because even though we don’t have power over what’s frozen, we who have been shown warmth can cut the cold’s bite. 

Newark, 2009

“The world is a dangerous place to live, not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don’t do anything about it. ”

— Albert Einstein

After the Jump

To the owners of apartment 3F: Welcome to Astoria.

It’s a long walk from the subway, but I think you’ll like it here. I’d take the N train over the R, when possible. You’ll have internet access for longer, and the cafes on 30th Ave are adorable.

The outlet on the far side of the kitchen doesn’t work. Yeah, it never has. When I was writing my thesis in grad school, I would plug in my computer on the opposite side of the room and pray no one would open the door. That (usually) worked.

Oh, be sure to pull up on the handle of the toilet before pushing down. It’ll flush much easier.

Your new neighbors: They’re quite a collection of personalities. The one to the right is a clown. Yes, face paint, wife beaters, and all. He used to have a little, yippy dog that would make me want to self-mutilate my eardrums. Each Saturday, the mouse-like creature would bark and bark and bark until someone called 311 to complain. Don’t worry—the pup has since passed.

Down the road you’ll find ol’ Charlie and his elderly neighbor, whose name I never learned. They’re both dapper gentleman from Italy with a penchant for gardening, so don’t be surprised if one of them offers you some grapes.

Just so you know, the fan in the small room is a bit loud. But I think you’ll come to love the white noise—all that squeaking blocks out the car horns and the drunk millennials, stumbling back to the closets they currently call home. Some nights my mind couldn’t be shut off, full of worry and uncertainty about the next job, the next roommate, the next anything. That fan rocked me into a serene sleep, drowning out my overactive mind. I think I’ll miss it.

Oh! And the roof—you have access to the roof, as long as you are never caught on the roof. So actually you don’t have access to the roof, but the roof is, in fact, accessible.

Either way, promise me you’ll go up on the roof.

Promise me you’ll watch the sunrise over the city after an exhausting summer night that’s bled into morning. Promise me you’ll pop a beer on the ledge and take in the man-made horizon around you. Promise me you’ll celebrate the sky! Promise me….

One last thing: This tiny apartment in the middle of Queens was loved. It was my slice of New York City for four years, and it protected me from a world I barely understood. When I moved here I had stars in my eyes; the great NYC was mine for the taking! I would be a writer, or an editor… or maybe work for a magazine?

1,460 days later, I can tell you all the PB&J’s were worth it.
All the microwaved potatoes were just fine.
I can look back at my time in this apartment, and smile.

This is where I “grew up.” This is where I paid bills, and applied for loans. This is where I made my own doctor’s appointments, and learned how to drink whiskey—straight.

This is where I found internships that led to jobs. This is where I cried when boys hurt my feelings. This is where I watched “Little Women” each Christmas. This is where I burned cookies, and danced around in my underwear every time I got a paycheck.

See the rug over there? That’s where I fell apart, and put the pieces back together. See that chair in the kitchen? That’s where I wrote all of these blog posts for all of these years.

This apartment is where I learned to process life. When you move to New York (or any new city) at a somewhat naive 21, you’ve still got so much discovering to do.

So look.
You can forget to do the dishes.
You can complain about the commute.
You can worry about the cockroaches.
You can whine about the rent.

But you must love this apartment. I can’t stand to pass it off to someone who doesn’t.  

I remember nervously setting my bags down in that tan-colored room for the first time, fresh from Virginia. It was 200 degrees, my car had just gotten towed, and I was working at Bloomingdales—yet everything felt just right, and everyone I knew was working hard, playing hard, and ready to do, do, do.

I can’t wait to see what we do next... 

And as for me?
I move on to the next neighborhood and the next job.
I’ll no longer look at the city’s skyline from my roof in Queens. Instead, I will be a part of that skyline, looking back at the borough that helped shape my post-adolescent, pre-adult experience.

So good luck, my friend. Apartment 3F has harbored many actors, writers, and creatives, trying to both save a penny and touch their version of "success." May you conquer your dreams, or create new ones along the way.  

PS: You actually should worry about the cockroaches. They are absolute monsters and attack about every 7 to 8 months. Beware the ones with wings.

When to Jump

My hair was wildly whipping around my head and I was going fast—maybe 30 mph? I quickly removed one hand from the railing to zip up my jacket. It too was flailing in the wind, repeatedly hitting my collarbone. As I readjusted, I looked up.

Whoa.

To backtrack: I can always smell when the seasons are changing, and that night was first time I discerned a difference in the scent of New York. The coming of fall smells smoky and earthy, while the beginning of winter is crisp and fresh. Snow has it’s own distinctive aroma, as does any beach on a hot afternoon. But spring days and summer mornings on the East Coast both smell the same: sweet and floral.

Walking to the train, I noticed undertones of the next (highly anticipated) season in the air. I smiled to myself—after a lengthy winter Mother Nature was finally relenting.

There were a handful of other thoughts floating around my mind (work, boyfriend, vacation?), so I didn’t notice that when the train rolled into the station, everyone avoided the car I stepped into. On autopilot, I chose a seat and pulled out my book.

“BLAAAAAH!”
Whoops.
It appeared that I was the only person on the train with a mentally unstable man.

“BLAAAAH DE BLAH!”
(I’m not being inconsiderate; I’m simply recounting my story as it happened. And at this moment, I was becoming a little worried.)

Typically I would wait it out. At the next station, more people would flood the train and any fears of confrontation would fade. But because I was riding from Brooklyn to Manhattan, the next stop wouldn’t be for another five to seven minutes. When the man suddenly jumped up and moved closer to me, I made the split-second decision to hop trains.

If you’ve never ridden the subway, there are two things to note:
1) Every car has an exit door located at the front and/or rear that links to another car.
2) You can get heavily fined for using these doors, unless it’s an emergency. But people hop pretty frequently, and because this man was now aggressively screaming, I found my actions to be excusable in a court of law.  

The last thing worth mentioning?
I love jumping subway cars.

So I grabbed the door handle, twisted it quickly, and stepped onto the ledge. It’s always windy in the train tunnels, but I smelled something… it was sweet.
And floral.

The realization that I was above ground hit me as I zipped up my jacket. Our N train had breached the end of Brooklyn’s tunnel, and we were now zooming over the Manhattan Bridge. I looked up to see moving cars, flashing lights, and hints of the city’s skyline. The bridge’s beams were all around me, cradling our train like a man-made spider web.

I couldn’t bring myself to go into the next car until we hit Manhattan’s tunnel. There was something hugely freeing about being in-between.

Between cars.
Between boroughs.
Between seasons.

But the state of being in-between doesn’t last for long. You cannot perpetually be “in-between” something; you always choose one way or another. And in that, our moments of being in-between often bring change.

How I loved tasting sweet change in the air…

Side note: It's finally rooftop season (see above). Let the Saturdays where we never go indoors begin. 

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“In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.”

— Albert Camus

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The Gray Days

The sky was gray.
The sidewalk was gray.
Even the surrounding buildings were painted in the same monotone shade. On my way to work, everything was gray.

I would like to say I’m affected by nothing—that I’m a force to be reckoned with, resilient and rarely phased. I’d like to say that the end of “Big Fish” doesn’t make me cry, and that I’ve never been homesick. I’d like to say that loneliness has yet to touch this extroverted soul, and that no, I’ve never openly sobbed on a New York City street.

Because I am brave.
And I am strong.
And I am invincible, yes?

But that would all be a lie.

It would also be a complete fib to say winter has no affect on me. Regrettably, something as flippant as the weather alters my mood—and the colorless commute was becoming intolerable. This February, it seemed that even the flawless, white snow was mutilated into gray sludge the second it hit the pavement. 

(Are you feeling the heaviness of winter yet? I could describe to you gray subway cars and gray food carts. Or I could explain how the gray clouds sometimes cover up the tops of gray building, blocking out any hope of light. But then, I think you get the point… and maybe it’s all a matter of perspective.)

I knew the seasonal blues had struck when I saw a fat beagle peeing in the snow. It was greedily squatting in the middle of the sidewalk, soiling everyone’s path to the train. I might almost love dogs more than humans, but all I could think was that this selfish pup was destroying something.

“Snowflake ruiner.”

The phrase crossed my mind, and I wanted desperately to say it aloud. Didn’t the owner see that 1) her pet was grossly overweight and 2) he was turning the pretty snow into ugly, gray mush? While stuck waiting for a light to change, I starred furiously at the dog. “Snowflake ruiner. Snowflake ruiner. Snow…flake…ruiner.” It seemed my brain had taken hold of this (albeit strange) idea that the obese beagle was murdering a bunch of perfectly lovely snowflakes by drowning them in his urine.

It made me very sad to think about, so I turned away from the genocide and walked down a different street.

Then I stumbled across something quite peculiar. There, in the middle of the sidewalk, was a huge heart formed from faultless snow. It appeared that no one, except its creator, had touched the small sculpture, leaving it completely untarnished. I couldn’t help but smile at the random “street art.”

That cold, snowy heart made me forget the hesitant warm weather. I imagined other people hurriedly walking by, bundled up in scarves, sweaters, hats—the whole winter bit—catching a glimpse of something subtly beautiful; something out of the ordinary.

And despite the gray…
They might smile.

(As long as that fat beagle didn't waddle down this street.)

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“Laughter is the sun that drives winter from the human face.”

— Victor Hugo

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