My, my this has been quite a week. And I thought it was going to be an easy week. I could not have been more wrong about that.
Up early, with the dawn again. Don’t feel like getting dressed; don’t feel like wearing pants (am part of an elite group of friends who should not be called the Women of Winesday, but the Sisterhood of Preferring No Pants). I am a small person; hate having pants hemmed. I opt for an ancient blue dress; orange buttons.
I love orange. It is, as they say, my signature color.
Subways are always empty in Summer: platform too hot; train too cold. Off to work!
The day is unrelenting until the early afternoon. I pick up the packet of papers on my desk that I was supposed to have bound and shipped out days ago. Our Mount Whitney climb is approaching. My pantsless Sisters await this information. (Call out for my assistant but she is doing other things.)
I try to leave the office early, but the day is beginning in Asia. I work in several time-zones. That sounds fancier than it is. It mostly just means that I only get a good night’s sleep on Friday and Saturday.
I have no plans for the night except for maybe the gym; forgetting about my appointment with my Therapist. I leave the office at the last minute to rush to Union Square.
Do my feet look swollen? I think they look swollen. I don’t know what to make of this. My feet haven’t swelled any summer, ever, and they only swell after a full marathon. I’m not yet training hard enough again for swollen feet. Is it the travel, I wonder? Why are my feet swelling.
I love Union Square.
The Squares in New York, I observe, are not like the Squares in London. I don’t know why this strikes me at this moment as I stand on the corner of 14th and Broadway. I am caught up, for a moment, in thinking about London and how I still know almost nothing about the City itself.
It is at that moment that I realise that I still have not unpacked my suitcase from July.
Appointment done; back uptown. The night is getting on, and I still have more work to do. The running scheduled for the evening (set to take place on the treadmill) must be postponed.
11 o’clock rolls around and I put the dog and myself to bed. (He love/hates it when I give him a snuggle before putting him in his crate.)
As I am setting the alarm for the morning, I go to close my blackberry, but then absent-mindedly flip through the day’s pictures, and then some. In my photos is a snapshot from the flight to Los Angeles last week, a line from the New Yorker’s profile on Elisabeth Badinter.
Is it true, then, what Levi-Strauss said? Not just the distance between cultures, but the relationships between men and women; families and tribes; language and stories?
Maybe, it is just a bit easier to understand each other from a distance.