“That is so awkward!” Charlotte said in the cab.
See, I had just posted a picture from her soccer game on my Instagram and it flipped over, as usual, to Facebook, Tumblr and Twitter too.
I tagged Charlotte and captioned the pic, “That’s my girl, on the ball.” I noticed some friends and family liked and cheered.
Only my picture wasn’t of my Charlotte. It was another kid named Charlotte. My Charlotte was right behind her.
“What can I say?” I defended myself. (I can be defensive.) “It was bright – you were far across the field.”
“But I don’t even have those shoes!”
I could not claim that I was confused by the usual screams from the sidelines.
No one was yelling, “Go, Charlotte!” or anything, because it was Silent Sunday. Parents were not allowed to yell, neither were the coaches.
For this one day, soccer was like golf. We watched intently. We concentrated. It was peaceful. Until the cab ride when one of my favorite subjects pointed out that I had misidentified her. Then, it was so awkward!
Below you can obviously see that the first pic is not my Charlotte, but the next one is. I think.
I believe that synchronicity – those magical moments of epiphany – happen more frequently in New York City than anywhere else in the world. I don’t know if there are studies to back me up on this. But I swear it’s true.
Like, one day you wake up in New York City, and all of the yellow cabs’ hoods are covered with these super-bright Peter Max-type flowers. Another day, there are big orange flags flying above you in Central Park.
Another day you’re riding your bike on Central Park West and you see Leo DiCaprio getting out of a car and he’s talking into a phone. So, you slow down to hear what he’s saying. And he says, “Ah, love’s labor lost.” Real sad-like.
That’s what I’m talkin’ about. This blog is an homage to my city. It is a city I dreamed about when I was growing up in the Chicago suburb of Park Ridge, Illinois — also, Hillary Clinton’s hometown, which the New York Times once called the “lily whitest of towns.”
I remember as a kid looking at a picture of the skyline of Manhattan and wondering what life would be like inside that picture. Now, I know.
Living in NYC is not all glamorous celebrity sightings. I live in the slow lane alongside the fast lane of NYC. I don’t go out clubbing or to socialite events. But I do try to see every new show at the MoMA.
I try to get to every one of my kids’ AYSO soccer games. To do that, I usually have to drive through Harlem to get to Randall’s Island where they play. That’s when I wonder if I’m the only Soccer Mom in the country pointing out the historic Apollo Theatre on the way to the day’s game.
Sometimes I wonder if it is the city that keeps me going or is it possible that people like me — people in the slow lane who live in and love NYC — keep the city going?
I love NYC theatre, museums, schools and parks. I love parenting my kids here. I love the brilliant people you meet and the amazing places you walk by every single day.