How old were you your first time?

I was eight. Or maybe nine.

It was sometime after the funeral of poor Old Mr. So and So, lived a goodly life, but never ironed his orange and teal sports coat on Sundays. Nice guy, allegedly, although his appearance was a little rough around the edges. He was one of those middle-of-the-church, all the way on the left side attendees, blending in so well every week, that after a while you forget they’re there. One week you’re laughing with your friends over his unkempt hair and the way his tie clashes with both his jacket and his slacks, and the next week the loud seventies patterns die out and blend with the other invisible non-essentials associated with the Sunday service.

Sure, the filament surrounding the fuses in the attic are important and the little rubber stoppers in all the electric outlets do a great job, but just like Mr. Wrinklecoat, you don’t think about them until one is missing and little Timmy sticks two fingers, wet from the sacramental Welch’s into the hole in the wall. “Yes,” you think, as the paramedics load the ambulance with Timmy, his dye job mother, mustachioed father and two or three earnest deaconettes, “something is definitely missing.”

The same thing happened with the unexplained absence of clashing flannel from across the aisle. My eight or maybe nine year old self wasn’t privy to the information regarding those who were passing on, breaking hips, or spending time with their life partners in Anaheim. For all I knew his mysterious disappearance was related to his spending quality time with his family upstate. A few weeks came and went, and with them the change from late summer to fall.

Seasonal changes were marked by a change in wardrobe. For a child of the nineties, impending winter meant embarrassingly functional leg warmers and pullover Starter jackets. For Mr. Left and Up Three Rows, cold weather meant corduroy suits. In three colors. As the leaves came out with flamboyant displays of color and dance moves usually saved for retro discothèques, I was worrying myself sick towards the back of the rows of pews. My abstractly patterned sweater was causing my side ponytail to be incredibly static-ey. Looking for confirmation that someone looked more ridiculous than me, I kept glancing to the left. “Yes,” I thought, trying yet again to flatten my bangs, which were trying to meet the ceiling, “something is definitely missing.”

“Mom?” I asked, when we were invited to greet those around us, “Where’s that guy been? Y’know: the one with the ugly coats?” “He died months ago,” she informed with a tone that suggested this was something I should have somehow came to know, without having to be told. She scooted off to complete her handshaking rounds within the allotted time, leaving me to comprehend death in its entirety on the hard, fart-smelling cushion.

How could something as talked about and worried over be as simple as a missing outfit on Sunday morning? How could it be possible that one week a person can be halfheartedly singing “Our God Reigns” and grimacing when that one leggy-blond goes for the high soprano on the last refrain, and then be pushing up daisies the next week? I realized that if dying could be done as spontaneously as buying an orange soda instead of a caffeine-free Pepsi, then any of us could die at any moment. Somewhere between the shake hands and repeat this phrase routine and the accidental accidentals the organist added in during the “Now is the time to return to your stations and listen!” song, I grasped mortality for the first time. Armed with the scariest information the church had given me since the Junior High Sunday School teacher attempted Revelations: The Musical, I did what anyone does while in a church service and something makes them uncomfortable: I faked a throat tickle and excused myself to the water fountain.

In the privacy of the creaking gymnasium, I sat on the floor and considered the relatively short lifespan of humans, and how unimpressive death is, and then if the culmination of our entire existence can happen like a puff of breath on an early morning in October, then how our lives themselves must be unimpressive: merely steam on the wind. I considered the death of those I loved and those that loved me. And then, for the first time in my life, I let my mind venture into the lurking shadows on the edge of every child’s thoughts and considered my own mortality.

The knowledge that everything could just stop in my realm of existence at any given moment left me reeling. Never before had I left insignificant within the universe as a whole. I felt small and dizzy and a little sick. I sat on the floor, lost in my thoughts, but not really thinking for a few very long moments.

Shocked back to the present by the organ’s announcement of another impending hymn, I sucked in a few calming breaths, stood up and leaned over the water fountain for some refreshment. As the water tickled my lips, I realized that life is not insignificant. Those water molecules were thousands of times smaller than me, yet there presence on Earth is the one factor that sustains all life here. Existence is only cursory if you allow it to be. Don’t let your life pass by with a hushed fizzle. Instead, make it loud. Make it memorable. Don’t let an electrocution or bad hair day be the impetus for someone to realize you’re missing. Don’t grimace at the high soprano: don your powdered wig and one-up her with the descante. Don’t live spontaneously. Live as if it’s what you were born to do!

Joy

Actually written while working at Glen Arden back in November.

Watching that mylar smiley face balloon rising up into the clouds, hitting air out of its way as it rockets towards the impossible, the smile that, independent of any thoughts I might have about the now bareness of Katie's fifth birthday, flies onto my face does not seem like it should be there. Eight ninety five down the drain. I've got to turn around and go straight back to get another or the party just won't be the same.

And yet, watching that balloon fly past my outstretched fingertips and buildings, snag for a moment on the branches of encapturing oak and then saor off on a breeze of opportunity and exploration, I cannot help but feel it. It's right here, right now.

It's joy.

I feel like laughing, but soon-to-be and already been shoppers are staring and curious about my outstretched arm and fingers. I let those relax a little, take a breath and burst out laughing. Turning around, an elderly couple physically moves themselves backwards, convinced of something sinister, and I head back into the store, still shaking my head and supressing those silly giggles that threaten to overrun my entire being like a shaken soda can that just won't stop frothing.

You say you've got joy, but your muted disposition and the expression on your face beg to differ. You haven't laughed in days, might even be a week, and your glow is somewhat dim of late. C'mon; let's go into the store. You can buy any balloon you'd like...maybe a smiley face, maybe a flower, could even be a Power Ranger. The choice is up to you.

Then we'll go outside and set that sucker free. It might linger for a moment or two, pushed around by some forces it has no control over, but before you know it, that balloon will be flying through the air, surpassing anything that is within our reach and then it's off, and before you know it, your lips are turning upwards, cracking a little from the effort that they haven't been exerting for a while and you might even feel a chuckle rising in your throat.

Don't supress it.

Let it rise up, laugh and feel it.

You've got it now.

It's not so hard when you don't think about it and let that balloon do all the work for you.

You've got it now.

It's joy.

My Beef With Bagels: A Response

Although there is nary a food I will actively and publicly criticize for any reason at all (except for lima beans, of course), the time has come to explain why bagels are a source of frustration to me. My beef with bagels does not stem from their unholy background as the illegitimate child of bread and doughnut. Nor does my grievance arise because of the way everything bagels’ taste hangs around in my mouth for entire calendar weeks. In fact, my love for bagels runs deep and strong. I can ignore the fact that the best bagels come from the worst-smelling delis. I can embrace the poppy seed in tooth for hours phenomenon. My problem with bagels and the source of this griping is not that I hate bagels. It stems from the fact that I am a bagel snob.

Although a hard admission, I am positive that I am not alone. Ask almost any New Yorker where their favorite bagel shop is and they will almost certainly have an answer. Ask any two New Yorkers where each of their favorite bagel shops are and prepare yourself to hear a very long argument regarding baking times, flavors and variety of cream cheese spreads. In classic eclectic New York fashion, delis that sell bagels, lox and beer out of the same storefront get bonus points, as do delis that sell yuppie cream cheese such as Low Fat, no Calorie Scallion or Organic Seaweed.

I know I shouldn’t discriminate against bagels from other regions, but the truth of it is, bagels are better in New York. There aren’t many things we do well in general (see recent headlines about our State government), but circular boiled and baked dough is one thing we can take pride in. Our bagels are so good that bagels from other areas can’t compare. Bagels from chain restaurants or bagels that come from the frozen section of grocery stores are practically a sin to eat. Bagels from pseudo-Jewish delis situated in other states (except for some parts of New Jersey) are actively shunned and often ridiculed by residents of New York who are used to a much higher standard of rounded dough.

Chalk our expertise on the huge number of competing Jewish delis if you will, but I believe it’s simply in our blood to create good breakfast foods. My favorite bagel shop is Not Just Bagels in the small town of Goshen, New York. It is owned by a practicing Presbyterian and could not be farther from the typical Jewish deli. Lox is not sold there, nor are any fancy-schmancy spreads. It is down-to-earth, friendly and most importantly, delicious. A large amount of my hard-earned money has been spent buying everything bagels toasted twice with plain cream cheese, although sometimes I spring for the extra thirty-five cents and get vegetable spread.

But bagels aren’t the only thing we do really well in the category of breakfast food. Where else can you go to the neighborhood diner at three o’ clock in the morning on a Wednesday and order chocolate chip pancakes to settle your stomach after a heavy night of drinking? Where else can you drink you order a bloody mary with your Belgian waffle and not feel like you’re three steps away from rehab? No where but New York (and possibly some towns in rural Iowa).

Although there are culinary high points in every place I have lived, New York truly takes the cake when it comes to early morning sustenance. Whether it be a quick trip to Denny’s with the fam on Saturday morning, the weekly meeting with close friends at a diner for late-night waffles and cheaply brewed and since then scalded coffee, or a lone trip to the local deli for a bagel and juice-from-concentrate, New York is truly the best place to partake in breakfast delights of all sizes and shapes.