This weekend my lovely and talented cousin L got married in Manhattan. It was quite an event!
Both of us spent a lot of time in New York at different points in the late 1990s. I was doing theater stuff and he went to Grad School there. So we were fairly confident that we could make a trip straight downtown to 44th without too much fuss.
As we traveled, we talked about our family, the city and other stuff. I noted the Waldorf-Astoria between 50th and 49th, a beloved spot that witnessed many happy memories for me from various visits in my teens and 20s. Hello, old friend.
Then we drove through the tunnel in the Helmsley building and made our way along the mysterious Park Avenue Viaduct.
Before we knew it, we were spat out at 39th.
“Wait, what happened to the 40s?,” I asked.
“Well that’s a bit what life’s like, isn’t it?” my quick brother quipped.
There’s a tunnel, you’re not paying attention, you whiz through your 40s and then it’s “on to the big tunnel at the end.”
I haven’t hit my 40s just yet, but I have had a few years here and there that were so hectic, or introspective, or whatever that I would need a calendar and a consulting detective to remind me what the heck happened during them.
What did I miss while I was busy doing whatever it was I was doing?
Anyway, after a few wrong turns, we got to the club and had a good time. I’ll worry about zooming through my years on this earth later. I went to New York for a party. I didn’t get into a new pair of uncomfortable fancy heels for a life lesson.