On occassion I write with out goal; simply observations that spill out and occupy themselves in my thoughts’s scrapbook. Generally I stumble throughout these phrases and they’re like a heat sweater on a chilly day.
The grass is at its prime in Central Park – simply having drunk three days price of spring showers. Like a contemporary haircut, the blades dance within the wind, glints of solar, like glitter, are sprinkled all through the Nice Garden.
Overdressed in my late winter parka, I stroll amongst the athletes, the vacationers, the non-public highschool children in phys ed. Kids run one step in entrance of the nannies – but one step behind the mommies on the Blackberries.
I stroll behind a little bit Indian boy and his prolonged household of 4. He too is overdressed. The outer most layer is a crimson quilted vest on prime of a sweater concealing at the very least three extra layers. The would-be grandma chases him with a tissue; the grandpa fumbles with a digital digital camera. I witness the older era attempt to catch up – with children, with expertise. They stroll round making an attempt to be knocked down by unpredictability.
My thighs begin to warmth up as I stroll, cooking below the tight blanket of denim within the afternoon solar. I discover a seat on the inviting grass and unload my lime inexperienced spiral-bound Staples pocket book. I scribble a bit however get simply distracted.
A dad in a leather-based blazer, pink button down, 1980s Ray Bans a la Tom Cruise, and loafers brings his three-year-old red-headed son for a day within the park. Inside seconds the boy’s footwear are flying by means of the air. The divorced dad (no ring and wandering eyes) breaks out the catcher’s mitt. So cliché. The boy wears a Manning jersey. He throws the baseball and it lands three ft from me. I smile and look away into my pocket book.
An previous Hasidic Jew walks on the perimeter of the park. He’s much more overdressed than me – black wool hat and coat. My ensemble ended with the black coat.
abound in numerous flavors. The younger and seemingly in love plop their asses on the bottom and intertwine their appendages right into a sport of Tornado for 2. One other couple is available in bathing fits and produce a blanket, a cooler and cell telephones outfitted for 2. He stands up, low-rise denims hanging under his waist. (Is that this nonetheless trendy from the late 90s or is it again?) He walks away to talk on the telephone. Stretching his arms up as in salute to the solar – his boxers driving up about four” above his denims. He seems to be round. This one will all the time be wanting round. The woman, within the meantime, takes this chance to rotate onto her abdomen – wiggle her ass within the air and test her telephone all the identical. All to point out him – “a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.” Both that or – “I got options.”
NYC is all about choices. You’ve received choices – a plethora of choices. For every little thing. Bars, eating places, reveals, males, girls, jobs, residences.
It isn’t lengthy till the dad of the crimson headed boy is on the bottom – leaning on his elbow, and scrolling by means of his Blackberry. Nobody is ever right here anymore. Everyone seems to be in a chess sport – all the time two steps forward – making an attempt to foretell the long run. Predict your opponents’ actions. Make all the proper strikes – win the sport. We actually are by no means taught the artwork of shedding.
One other makes their house in my quadrant. Center-aged and rich – they’re discovering their happiness on prime of a cashmere throw and ingesting crimson wine. They put on the uniform: khaki pants and matching white polo shirts. Getting buzzed below the spring solar – their eyes escape some unhappiness that has no financial answer. Like Kleenex for the soul – they take a giant gulp of the vino and lean again on their elbows to solar their faces.
Crowds of baseball-clad college children stampede the sphere in shades of crimson, gold, navy and white, all proudly representing their overpriced academic abodes. Children today put on their elementary college manufacturers on their attire – a strolling endorsement to go together with their mother and father’ tuition checks of over $35Okay.
Strollers parade across the park as if from a 64 field of Crayola Crayons. Big ones, umbrella ones, funky house age ones, overpriced ones. A taste for each style.
The wind blows and from the bushes, “snow” falls, the remnants of the dried flower petals. They create a white runner on the carpet of mulch.
Inside half an hour, the boy and the dad are rolling round about arms distance from me. The clouds are shifting faster because the wind picks up. I’m glad for my further layers.
A teenage woman on rollerblades slows down and turns round to verify she’s not skating too quick for the older man who’s following her. She spins round as if being watched, if solely by her viewers of 1, and nearly loses her steadiness. She adjusts and strikes ahead with a new-found must show her talent. A gaggle of hardcore skaters comply with her; a beacon on wheels.
An obese girl, inappropriately wearing spandex, makes her house inside 10 yards of me. She lays down on her fluorescent orange shmata and rolls up her tight black shirt to only under her boobs. She proceeds to hike up her leggings for what I might solely collect to be “calf sunning.” As she rolls round on her again, she rubs her jiggly stomach a bit. The white flesh appears so shiny on the inexperienced grass. After I lastly stroll away, I might nonetheless see her like an X on a treasure map. The Jelly Stomach Woman on the Nice Garden.