Up the River

 It says so in the Bible (sort of): “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became [a really old woman], I put away childish things.” And so it has come to pass. When I moved to the Upper West Side four years ago to an apartment just steps from the bike path, I bought a fire-engine-red bike, and I started pedaling like a 10-year-old. Riding my bike was an unexpected late-life pleasure that gave me intimate views of my new neighborhood and beyond. It gave me access to places I couldn’t reach by other means, like the little red lighthouse and the great gray bridge of storybook fame: “Once upon a time a little lighthouse was built on a sharp point of the shore by the Hudson River. It was round and fat and red. It was fat and red and jolly. And it was VERY, VERY PROUD. [Then a great gray bridge was built, dwarfing the little red lighthouse and causing a crisis of confidence. But all’s well that ends well.] Beside the towering g...

Like the spiked sphere that has become its symbol, COVID-19 is multidimensional and multipronged. It fucks with your body, and it fucks with your mind. Lately we have come full circle with the mind-fuck part. In the beginning, more than a year ago, there was an eeriness to the virus. No one (and let’s be honest here, not even scientists) knew how you got it—or how you blocked it. Would masks protect you? The answer seemed obvious: Of course. But the CDC said No. But then it said Yes. Could you get it from fomites? Yes. Scour surfaces with bleach and alcohol. Even your food. But then No. Fomites were a trivial source of transmission. Jogger and bike-rider breath? Yes. Then no. Could you get it from your dog? Yes. Is it still yes? Who knows?   The uncertainty bred paranoia. The enemy was invisible—but all around us and strong enough to kill us. Then came a rational phase. Get the vaccine. Get it twice. Safety is 99% guaranteed. No mask required. But now the killer-zombie-movie sequel...

 

My husband and I sometimes have conversations that others might consider morbid, but really they’re a kind of love talk. My husband will tell me that actuarily he knows he’ll die first, since he’s a man and older than I am, so he wants me to know how to do such-and-such. And I’ll protest, saying I know I’ll die first because of my history of cancer and its treatment, so I want to make sure he knows where I put this or that. Needless to say, our daughter freaks out when she hears us talk this way, so we try not to do it in front of her. Truthfully, I’d have been grossed out if my parents talked like this. A couple years ago, that same daughter got a cat. And since she often travels for work or pleasure, she often needs a cat sitter, and she often asks me. If I’m free, I pack a suitcase and take the subway from the Upper West Side of Manhattan, where I live, to Crown Heights, in Brooklyn, where she lives. I don’t have many friends in Brooklyn, but I make dates with those I do. Mostly I r...

I love my family above all else but have weirdly always put my job first. No matter how dire my domestic circumstances, for nigh on 45 years I’ve dragged myself to work. When I was slogging through a brutal regimen of surgery-chemotherapy-radiation, a substitute was hired to fill in for me on days I was too sick to come in—but the sub was never needed. A senior colleague rebuked me for that extreme work ethic: “You don’t have to be Ms. Cancer Super Star, you know.” I’ve had many jobs at Time magazine—proofreading, reporting, writing—but toward the end of my career, I asked to be reassigned to the copy desk so I could have a regular schedule and spend less time traveling. The regularity helped, but it’s been a while since I looked forward to going to work.   My current job is not difficult, and since I turned 67, I’ve worked just a day or two a week, but understaffing has made it stressful. So at the end of a close, I’ve felt no sense of accomplishment—but a big sense of shame about...

A couple nights ago I dreamed that I could carry a tune—and all night long I warbled happily to myself. Then I woke up to the truth—that I cannot now nor have I ever been able to sing.  Last night I dreamed one of my regular panhandlers asked me for my phone number. No, he wasn’t making a pass. He wanted to remind me to put cash in my pocket so I’d have it when he asked for it. Addendum: And a few days after I posted these dreams, I had another good one. Michelle Obama and I took our rifles and went to a shooting range to do target practice together. She’s a crack shot!

I do not want trivialize LGBTQ issues--or commit cultural appropriation. But. Sometimes people address me as a man. And sometimes they eye me with perplexity as if trying to figure out what the hell I am. I get it. Though it's none of my business, I too try to attach a gender to people I meet. And I am tall with short gray hair and an unreconstructed mastectomy, and I wear jeans and T-shirts. So who can blame people for wondering? It's just that 10 years ago I had no idea what "trans" meant. And now I feel like I have some idea of what it feels like--from personal experience. The other day, I bought a tote bag with bright rainbow-striped straps, and on the outside pocket is a children's-book rainbow arcing over a little red heart. It looks like a mom bag, but also like a pride statement. Now when people look at me with inquiring eyes, I can't tell if the answers are clearer or murkier.