Exhibit A: Patience on the Scaffolding

Though this took place in November, I had written it down so that I wouldn’t forget it had happened, and as I would like for these entries to go in chronological order…I’ll start here as Exhibit A to prove existence of a sweet core!

If you hail from outside the New York City area, you might guess that our biggest (and, perhaps, only) feel-good event of the year is the Thanksgiving Day Parade.  I wouldn’t blame you; balloons, kids on parent’s shoulders, Broadway performances and Santa at the end…what’s not warm and fuzzy about that?  But if you do happen to be from the Apple, and have been to the parade, you know the truth.

Now don’t get me wrong, I love the parade just as much as the next tryptophan addict.  Yes, it’s fun.  Sure, the marching bands are great.  But if you’re watching street level with the tourists (which probably means you got there at the crack of dawn to grant yourself a few inches of standing room, or camped out overnight), after about an hour of the screaming, cymbal-crashing, stay-standing-in-your-spot-or-lose-it-forever mayhem, it starts to lose some of it’s warm and fuzzy feeling.  You’re better off watching it from a rooftop, or on NBC curled up on mom’s couch with your cousins while the turkey’s getting ready for roasting.

Thus, I have to say that NYC’s biggest and best feel-good annual event is the New York City Marathon.  You simply will not find another day where New Yorkers across the boroughs come together for one simple and beautiful reason; to cheer on loved ones, and perfect strangers, and people who are maybe somewhere in between.  That’s it.  Thousands of people (many New Yorkers, some just “posing” for the day) line the streets to encourage runners from all over to just keep going.  And last marathon Sunday, as I stood out on the corner on First Avenue watching and cheering away, I witnessed something beautiful.      

There was a guy, maybe in his late 20’s/early 30’s on the opposite side of the street perched high up between two poles of scaffolding.  I could just see a few renegade brown locks poking out from beneath a blue bandana atop his head.  He donned black jeans and a puffy coat, but I was getting colder just watching him.  As the wind nipped and bit at my face, I imagined how the ice cold metal must sting against his legs (and his rear, for that matter), and how the chilly air must be even sharper higher up- wasn’t he freezing?

Every time I moved my gaze from the throngs of runners to the scaffolding, he was still there, staring down the avenue and waiting.  For over an hour he sat, shifting his weight every so often, just staring.  This guy is out of his mind, I kept thinking to myself.  He hasn’t even taken a break to go to Starbucks.

Then, suddenly, he bellowed: "CYNTHIA!" And scrambled down from where he had been watching.  A girl in a bright blue vest and brown pony tail bouncing behind her jogged over to his side of the street. He looked so proud and happy as she swung her arms around his neck, kissed him (practically mid-stride) hard on the mouth, and then re-joined the sea of joggers. He leaned over the railing to watch her go until she was unrecognizable among the numbered runners, beaming and cheering until there was no way his cheer could have reached her ears.

Then he turned and left and disappeared up 64^th street. And I thought… how amazing it must be, to have someone who would do that.  Who would sit and wait for over an hour in the cold, simply for a kiss and to root their special someone on.

Many of us will never run the New York City marathon.  We may not even know somebody who did or will someday.   But perhaps we can learn something from our determined, scaffolding-bound boyfriend; that even in New York, a place infamous for rushed citizens and zooming cars, we can find the patience and make the time to ensure we are there at the split second a loved one needs us.  You can be from the city and still have the capacity to wait for that moment, even if it takes over an hour on a 20 degree November afternoon.  We are not just professional time savers, people-dodgers and subway hoppers.

New Yorkers are tough enough to wait.