Thoughts on living in a tourist area

Today is beautiful. Take the dog for a run. Shall we go to the Promenade? No. I can't even see the railing through the crowd. No worries, this'll just force me to take a longer route. We'll go to the park. I have been meaning to lengthen my runs. This is a surprise: a lack of Jehovahs. OR maybe they are just masked by the literal parade of mid-westerners walking the most fun part of my run, the down-hill part. Okay dog, we'll run on the street. No cars usually come this way. Ah, the park. It's in full spring bloom. Deep breaths. I have made it. I am happy. I feel great. Running is getting easier. The dog is smiling. It's good to dance around people taking photos. It's working muscles not needed in a straight uncrowded run. I will never get sick of this skyline. Instead of a loop around, why don't we take the streets back? This way I can stop running through people's memories. They aren't so bad. It is Sunday after all, and where would Broadway be without tourists? I am looking forward to conquering this hill, dog, aren't you? Oh. European tourists. Multiple groups of five walking abreast. My dog and I run single file. We are being polite. Really? REALLY! You can't move over just a little? Nope, I will not run on the cobblestone street. I am a clumsy spaz. I will twist my ankle and have to stop running and I will sit around all day getting out of shape. And you won't help me. You think New Yorkers are scary and rude. You think I'M rude because I am running through you, mother f**ker?! That's right. It's 15 against 1....no 2 including the dog. I am conquering this hill and all of it's challenges! An old man with a cane, a Brooklynite, stops to smile at me and the dog. He knows. He'll help me take them down if necessary. We share a knowing glance and a few words. Last stretch. In the sunshine. Lovely trees. Lovely flowers. I play unintentional hopscotch the last few blocks. I feel great. Stupid tourists.

stunted

I spent the night last night with my very close friends in New Jersey.  They are real grown-ups.
They own their own lovely home.  They have a beer fridge and a liquor cabinet. They have a two car garage and a front and back porch.
They also have two adorable children.
Playing with their kids is a highlight for me.  It isn't a biological clock thing.  It's fun.   It's plain and simple fun.
And the thing is, they know I'm not faking it.  They recognize my giggles and games as honest enjoyment.  I don't have the energy to play as long as they can, and I believe that I detected slight pity in their smiles as I said "wow, this is hard," and took my seat at the kitchen counter.
Here is the kicker, and I honestly cannot get over her timing: the beautiful three year old girl turned to me during dinner and said "You're like a grown-up kid."
Her insight shocked me.  Smart girl.
I think I may have to go over to their house to play more often.

Crabby Coney

Even though it was April, it was warm enough to go down to the beach.
So they did.
He waited on the boardwalk, content just to look.
She stopped fighting and went to the water on her own.  First her shoes came off, then her shirt.
Can't help but be self-conscious in a flesh-colored bikini, so her jean skirt stayed on.
The water still feels like April water.  It's not right: April water and June weather.
The shirt that washed up to shore followed by a plastic bag acting like a jellyfish sealed the deal.
It was too soon for her favorite season:
Summer.

Start Today

One day, I will grow-up.