POV: Old/Young.

POV ("point of view") is a new series that addresses many of the same themes covered in my Equals Record column: growing up, saying yes to adventure, learning to embrace a quarter-life crisis. Each POV entry will include a photograph and a short reflection based on what’s pictured. While my previous column focused largely on ideas, POV will focus on moments - glimpses, glances, tiny stories.

It came to my attention recently that my ten-year high school reunion is this summer. 

“Ten years,” I said to Jamie. We were sitting on a bench outside our favorite neighborhood bakery, soaking up precious springtime rays. “We’re old.”

“We’re not old,” said Jamie. “I’ll save feeling old for when I’m thirty.”

A woman pushing a stroller stopped on the sidewalk in front of us.

“And where did all these people with babies come from?” I continued. “What is Williamsburg coming to?” I paused. “Oh my god. I’ve become someone who says ‘what is this neighborhood coming to?’” 

I sat back, thought about this.

“There was a time,” I said, watching her, “when I thought I’d be that woman at twenty-seven.” 
After dinner Wednesday night, I strolled the High Line with Megan and Yair (the High Line is an elevated park that extends along rusty old railroad tracks that peek through newly-planted greenery and shrubs, wild tulips and daffodils, sedge and sassafras).

Drunk on wine and chocolate and squid ink pasta, we wandered the park like children. Even after sundown, it contained no shortage of marvels. 

At 22nd Street, we came to a video projection of an artist, Oscar Munoz, using water to paint a self-portrait on a concrete sidewalk. As he paints, the water evaporates. The picture - the face - is never completed. 

My friends and I took a seat on the set of wooden stairs across from the projection and watched. “This is frustrating,” I said. “I just want him to finish already.”

“Hurry up!” Megan said, calling out to the man as his portrait dried. “You’re almost done!”

“I wonder if we’ll be able to tell when the video loops back to the beginning,” said Yair. We sat for a half hour, huddled in our sweaters and scarves. We couldn’t tell.

Still giddy, we danced home.


You can find my previous POV entries, here, and the archive for my personal essay column on the Equals Record, hereThank you so much, as always, for reading!

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