Making The Scene

Post-Marathon Monday was miraculous in a dozen little ways, all of which served as reminder why chronography is superfluous.

First, though, thanks to the dozens and dozens of you who sent your congratulations and encouragement. You know I was disappointed, but your generous emails certainly served as a gentle salve to my wounded ego. Thank you.

That said, in nearly 100 road races — triathlons, duathlons, marathons, half-marathons, 10ks, etc. — I don’t remember ever feeling this sore afterwards. Of course, it could very well be the deep tissue massage I received yesterday morning. Holy shit! This guy was gettin’ in there. Like, with his elbows and knees. And it hurt. I kept imagining black inky poison seeping out of my muscles and rinsing away, and it too passed. Of course, I limped outa’ there in more pain than I entered with, but far less localized.

So I came home and took a nap. And a bath. Then hit the town. Which is where everything turned miraculous.

I had a beer on the East Side with my friend Anne who, bless her heart, has had my url on her email signature for years. Which in addition to sending traffic to the site, is a terrific and well-appreciated compliment. She’s kicking ass, living in Madrid, and seeing the world. Which I need to do more of (seeing the world, not ass kicking).

Then I walked over to the Post House on East 63d. I sat next to my uncle, whom I admire very much, and peppered him with questions about business and life. I never met his father, my grandfather — he died when my mom was 19-years-old — so I asked him to share a tale or two. He told an eloquent, moving little anecdote that even my mother, who was also in attendance, had never heard. Then he shared some terrific, huge (and confidential) news with us, to which we toasted.

At which point my cousin Brian walked in to tell us that his wife Roxane had made partner. They were dining around the corner, so after polishing off the largest, rarest, and most delicious porterhouse steak I can remember eating (probably the third piece of red meat that I’ve had in as many years), we stormed the other restaurant toast her. She is, incidently, 9+ months pregnant and headed into Mount Sinai this evening to induce her second child.

So my mother orders The Dom. And it is good. It’s delicious. It’s the best champagne to ever cross my lips. And I’m grateful, and full of joy and light. My mom’s the giddy little sister. My uncle’s the eye-rolling older brother. My cousin and I are laughing. And we’re all making just a bit of a scene, while Brian and Roxane attempt to finish their meal with grace. And I’m trying to take it all in, to appreciate the moment. For these are times — milliseconds, really — when everything is beautiful, everything is aligned, and cast in lush, dusky, golden light.

They are the only true measure.

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