• Tweet

• Tweet

One day last year, I woke up with the feeling that I wanted to change the world, or at least, change the way I saw it. I hadn’t had one of those days since I moved to New York City the year before because around every corner there was another reminder of why I couldn’t (economy, job market, men are immature, etc., etc.)

You would think walking a mile to work that day in the dreary, cold rain, with a flimsy umbrella that threatened to turn inside out with every slight push of wind would have put me in a bad mood. But when I got to work, I was surprisingly disappointed that my walk was over. Sure, my pants were soaked, my thighs were frozen and tingling, and sweat was creeping down the back of my neck from my scarf being layered too thick, but I wasn’t ready to come inside.

I’d been taking that walk to and from work every day since I’d moved into my Upper East Side apartment, and I didn’t realize how much I loved it until that day. I used to complain that it was too far. I mean, two long avenues and 15 blocks? It sounded like a marathon to me. Well, hopstop.com informed me that day that it was actually only .77 miles. Yes, I’d been complaining about three-fourths of a mile.

I’d leave my apartment at the same time and pass the same people on the same streets every morning. I knew that when I crossed over Second Avenue on 60^th Street in front of Tramway Diner I’d pass the woman in a wheelchair who held a change cup but didn’t ask for money. Instead she said, “Good Morning” to everyone who walked past her, whether they acknowledged her or not. And she’d have longer conversations with regulars who’d stop to talk to her every morning,. People she’d come to consider her friends.

I knew that on 60th between Second and Third I’d pass a Hispanic man in a cream-colored jumpsuit who would stop unloading his truck and drop everything he’s doing to watch me walk by and give me the head nod. I’d undoubtedly be creeped out, but smile back because I knew that’s what he was hoping for.

Then I’d hang a left onto Third Avenue and join the crowds of men and women in their suits and skirts, with bluetooths or iPod earbuds lodged in their ears. I loved to listen to them bicker with spouses about who’s going to be home in time to pick up little Jimmy from therapy, or with coworkers and secretaries about delaying or rescheduling meetings.

But most of all, I loved to watch people walking along to their own soundtrack. They walked with a certain step that let you know if they’re listening to a pop song or a rock song. Every once in a while I’d see someone smile about absolutely nothing, like they’d just remembered an inside joke, and I’d know one of their favorite songs just found its place in the shuffled playlist. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself when I’d see people try to stand still while they’re waiting to cross the street. They’d tap a foot or mouth the words, but I could tell they just want to break out and dance or sing.

As I’d continue down Third Avenue, I’d look forward to passing the Washington Mutual at 53rd and Third because there was a beautiful black man who worked at the front desk facing the window. He looked so classy in his suit, and he’s always smiling when he was with customers. It was one of those smiles that if one day we did make eye contact through the window and he smiled at me, I’d probably just drop dead. He was usually there every morning, a normal fixture in my daily commute. But for the past three days he’d been MIA. Maybe he wasn’t back from his holiday break yet. Or maybe he’d switched shifts because there was a creepy Hispanic girl staring at him every morning. Hey, you win some, you lose some.

Everyday I’d pass people who had moved to the Big Apple to pursue their dreams, just like me. There was one face in the crowd who inspired me more than anyone I’d met there. I wish I knew his name, but I’ll never forget his face. He looked to be in his late 40s, dark brown hair, always wearing a beanie on his head and it’s always a little off-center. He wore navy blue sweat pants and a sweat shirt that never seemed to fit quite right, with jogging shorts and a sleeveless shirt over it. And every day he ran. And every day it both broke my heart and filled it at the same time. He didn’t run like the rest of us. He seemed to be half-paralyzed to some extent, possibly from a stroke or some kind of accident so one side of his body was much slower than the other. Each step he took with his limp side looked like it took so much effort and looked so painful that I grew exhausted watching him.

But it didn’t stop him. He still ran. He didn’t stop. Even when he had to wait to cross the street, he jogged in place. His run was slower than my walk, but I knew that to him, he was running, so to me, he was running. He wasn’t in a rush like everyone else around him, and he didn’t seem to care that it took him five minutes to jog one block. He was perfectly at ease with his pace, perfectly at ease with his body. I admired him. I wanted to talk to him, hear what his story was. That morning, he smiled at me and said, “Good Morning” for the first time. I smiled and returned the greeting.

That was the morning I woke up feeling like I wanted to change the world.

Image: Lauren P

Click here to share this post on Twitter!