Green Bagels and jams
If you aren’t from New York City and there’s an event that makes you want to come here, it probably makes most of us who live here run the other way.
I mention this because today is, of course, St. Patrick’s Day. A day where we celebrate all things Irish by having bridge-and-tunnelers join forces with the omnipresent tourists to thoroughly infest the city with their strollers, slow walking and upward stares causing pedestrian movement to congeal like chicken fat on cold stock. That brew is seasoned by the AAA (Amateur Alcoholics Association) who take this day as their cue to drink just enough alcohol to clean out their systems of any remaining foodstuffs from the holiday season three months past. Unfortunately for the rest of us, said cleaning tends to take place on moving public transit vehicles or sidewalks.
On days like this we grab onto manufactured traditions as comfy, fluffy security blankets even if those traditions have absolutely zero basis in the stated tradition of the holiday. Two of my co-workers asked me if I knew where to get green bagels. “Why the hell do you want green bagels? They don’t taste different. It’s just food coloring.” “Because it makes us happy!” they replied almost in unison. I didn’t bother to ask why. I knew the answer. People have to do things that they feel are integral parts of this day. Ritual and repetition are important particularly for people their age (late 20s) who are in that uncomfortable transition time from when life has potential (the college years and first jobs out of college) to when it has settled into what it is going to be until or unless some massive change steers it toward being something else. I remember that time well, the struggle of “should I go back to school” or “should I start a new career in another field” vs “should I accept my lot in life and just get through it until I’m financially secure enough to scale back?” It’s an uncomfortable internal dialog and it’s much easier to run around making sure you engage in all the proper daily or seasonal or religious or sports fan or TV watching or book reading or museum going or art staring or whatever whatever whatever to avoid having that conversation. Green bagels are easy. Life changing decisions are hard.
Of course, there is another course that I didn’t mention. There are those who flit from path to path, somehow remaining barely financially solvent. They move from town to town, career path to career path (maybe different jobs or maybe a never-ending run of grad-student classes in a variety of areas) ever restless, never quite satisfied. I wonder if they experience the same kind of dissatisfaction that those of us who have just decided to slog it out do? Do they eat green bagels too?
Right now, representatives of the sloggers, the flitters and those on the cusp of change are lining 5th avenue to watch people walk uptown. Another ritual is beginning. Switch it all off and engage in the dance. It’s all just part of being a human being, right? I’ll be engaging in my ritual too. The ritual of the cranky New Yorker trying to figure out his way home around yet another obstacle. Parades, infrastructure damage, fender-benders, sick passengers, they’re all the same in the Ritual of the Commute. Plan, execute, and watch out for those puddles. Not all of them are water.
I mention this because today is, of course, St. Patrick’s Day. A day where we celebrate all things Irish by having bridge-and-tunnelers join forces with the omnipresent tourists to thoroughly infest the city with their strollers, slow walking and upward stares causing pedestrian movement to congeal like chicken fat on cold stock. That brew is seasoned by the AAA (Amateur Alcoholics Association) who take this day as their cue to drink just enough alcohol to clean out their systems of any remaining foodstuffs from the holiday season three months past. Unfortunately for the rest of us, said cleaning tends to take place on moving public transit vehicles or sidewalks.
On days like this we grab onto manufactured traditions as comfy, fluffy security blankets even if those traditions have absolutely zero basis in the stated tradition of the holiday. Two of my co-workers asked me if I knew where to get green bagels. “Why the hell do you want green bagels? They don’t taste different. It’s just food coloring.” “Because it makes us happy!” they replied almost in unison. I didn’t bother to ask why. I knew the answer. People have to do things that they feel are integral parts of this day. Ritual and repetition are important particularly for people their age (late 20s) who are in that uncomfortable transition time from when life has potential (the college years and first jobs out of college) to when it has settled into what it is going to be until or unless some massive change steers it toward being something else. I remember that time well, the struggle of “should I go back to school” or “should I start a new career in another field” vs “should I accept my lot in life and just get through it until I’m financially secure enough to scale back?” It’s an uncomfortable internal dialog and it’s much easier to run around making sure you engage in all the proper daily or seasonal or religious or sports fan or TV watching or book reading or museum going or art staring or whatever whatever whatever to avoid having that conversation. Green bagels are easy. Life changing decisions are hard.
Of course, there is another course that I didn’t mention. There are those who flit from path to path, somehow remaining barely financially solvent. They move from town to town, career path to career path (maybe different jobs or maybe a never-ending run of grad-student classes in a variety of areas) ever restless, never quite satisfied. I wonder if they experience the same kind of dissatisfaction that those of us who have just decided to slog it out do? Do they eat green bagels too?
Right now, representatives of the sloggers, the flitters and those on the cusp of change are lining 5th avenue to watch people walk uptown. Another ritual is beginning. Switch it all off and engage in the dance. It’s all just part of being a human being, right? I’ll be engaging in my ritual too. The ritual of the cranky New Yorker trying to figure out his way home around yet another obstacle. Parades, infrastructure damage, fender-benders, sick passengers, they’re all the same in the Ritual of the Commute. Plan, execute, and watch out for those puddles. Not all of them are water.
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