Ka-Boom

It started like a thunderclap but then it didn't stop. Our offices, with their million-dollar views down Park Avenue South, provided a frighteningly good view of the roiling smoke clouds billowing over the skyscrapers from what turned out to be a steam pipe explosion, but we did not know that at 6 pm last night. After a few frozen moments gaping at the skyline, my colleague and I agreed it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

Evacuations are flustering. Do I turn off my computer first? Should I put on my running shoes? Do I have my house keys? No, no and yes. Saying a quick prayer of gratitude to the fashion gods for decreeing that ballet flats are in for 2007, I hightailed it down 23 flights of emergency stairs to the street.

Controlled chaos. One woman was crying, but most people were heading away from midtown, trying to get their cellphones to go through, asking police officers for updates. A woman I passed was broadcasting her phone conversation with her mother in New Jersey to all within hearing distance: "The news says it's a transistor explosion or something. It's not terrorism. A building did not collapse."

I was due to meet Michael way down at the South Street Seaport for a show an hour and a half later. Having no idea at that point whether the subways were running or if this would bring all of New York to a halt for a few hours, and not wanting him to be waiting there for me with no idea of when and whether I would turn up, I called his office to track him down ("In a bar, naturally," I chided teasingly. "For work drinks with the new recruits!" he defended himself.)

The show did indeed go on - we took the west side subway lines downtown and made it in time to catch Absinthe at the Spiegeltent. (Think avant garde cabaret meets low budget Cirque de Soleil, with a healthy dose of Las Vegas by way of Williamsburg.)

Which provided a good couple hours of distraction from the internal reflection the event seems to have caused for me. After everything else that has happened this year, you'd think that fleeing from a building wouldn't throw me for a loop. But it did cause a "little wobble" (Michael's words) that made me realize that perhaps I am skipping a few steps of healthy self-reflection in the rush to get back to a "normal" life. I don't expect to come up with the answers in the space of a few hours, or even months, but I am committing to myself to dedicate more time thinking about the questions.

Measuring Up

Weeks since last chemo: 18
Weeks I have been feeling "back to my old self" after surgery: 9
Number of airplanes I have been on since surgery: 6
Number of nights last week I made it home from work before 9:30: 1
Number of countries I am traveling to on vacation next week: 3
Number of doctors' appointments I am having this week: 5
Days until my big 200 mile bike ride: 72
Number of (outdoor) miles I have ridden since surgery: 42
Number of people I have told "I keep meaning to post photos but haven't had a chance to get around to it yet!": 34 and counting

So here is one in the meantime, a more current hair photo, taken with Michael at the "Taste of Litchfield Hills" festival in Connecticut a couple of weeks ago. For those playing along at home, after 2 haircuts I am right around 1.75 inches. They say hair grows about half an inch per month, so considering the cuts (mostly to keep back and sides neat, but also adding some texture on the top) I am right on target.

As for the other measurements....as you can see, I don't need to worry about being called "Ironing Board" anytime soon. I am giving myself the summer off surgeries (all the aforementioned appointments are followups, plus a "normal" trip to the optometrist and the dentist), so for now I am happy to live with the .25 inches I am lower on one side than the other.

Fake ID

As a student at a women’s college in a dry town, a fake ID was crucial to having a social life. Mine was more for the getting into bars than for the drinking once I was there, given that I waited until my sophomore year to have a single sip of alcohol (even after fighting cancer, I can’t imagine surviving the crushing guilt I would have felt if I had started drinking in high school, whether or not my parents caught me at it).

But at Wellesley, we generally had to go where the boys were – Fort Lauderdale being a little too far for the average Saturday night, we settled for the Crimson Grill, the Boathouse, the Spaghetti Club. On a good night, we’d hit the clubs on Landsdowne Street or on small backstreets near Chinatown, assuming I could convince my friends to pay the cover charge and spend the night dancing instead of standing around a bar, pretending to find electrical engineering fascinating so some 5’8” guy with a complex (his real ID claimed 5’11”) would buy our drinks.

Not one to tamper with state or federal documentation, I chose to break the law the old-fashioned way – by pretending to be someone I was not. Susan Gregory (names have been changed to protect my unwitting accomplice) had kindly passed on her old ID before she graduated, and it had ventured into Boston in the purses of several other minors before making its way to me. She had two inches and four years on me, but she was blonde with green eyes, and most bouncers only expected a half-hearted stab at accuracy (same gender would suffice at the Grill.) Always the overachiever, I nevertheless memorized her birth year (1969) and sign (Capricorn) as well as her street address in Georgia. I was even confident that I could produce a reasonable facsimile of her signature, should anyone ask.

It’s rare to get carded in New York, at least as long as you avoid the bars around NYU. But tonight, dropping by Arlene’s Grocery on the Lower East Side to check out live Rock’n’Roll Karaoke (a subculture that merits its own blog entry some other time) with some girlfriends, the bouncer stopped us and asked to see ID. “You look like a whole different person,” he said, holding the picture up while squinting at my face.

“Oh, the hair,” I said. “Yeah, it’s a pretty big change. What do you think?”

“Looks good. But has Momma seen it yet?”

“She likes it better this way,” I assured him, as we laughed and walked inside to the strains of Aaron from New Jersey wailing “Welcome to the Jungle.”

Sometimes I forget that this is what I look like now. The reflection in the mirror no longer takes me by surprise, but when I look at group photos, I still look for the girl with the shoulder-length blonde hair. At a recent global conference for work, I had to reintroduce myself to several people with whom I talk on the phone regularly, but who had not seen me in person for a few months.

At least the height, eye color and face shape on my ID was convincing enough to get me past the doors tonight, and I think I can probably manage my zodiac sign (which is what, you ask? Cancer. Of course.) But I may start practicing my signature again, just to be safe.