young at heart

I walked down an obscure brick-paved road in Manhattan one sunny Sunday afternoon. (I know, obscure roads and Manhattan practically never share a sentence together.) I was admiring the beauty of the afternoon sunlight, reflecting off a delicate glass high-rise and hitting the worn down brick-paved road at just the right angles to illuminate the ground. The autumn air bit my cheeks as I walked down the starry lane towards the river. This was my version of the Yellow Brick Road, sans the scarecrow, lion, and tinman. As I strolled along, half staring at the dazzling water and half looking at an artfully designed wall with paint splatters, something caught my eye through the hedges hovering over me. 24 Pez dispensers of different colors and characters lined up neatly on top of a white frame of the doorway to a 2 level brick house. It looked like the doorway to a grown-up playhouse. A symbol of youth. A welcoming gesture to leave your worries at the door because ‘worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble-gum’ (thanks Baz). Written on the façade of this beautifully kept New York City house was the message that you are never too old to be young.

My guilty pleasure? Losing myself to my once upon a time 10 year-old self.

Each morning, I ride the train with crowds of suits reading the Financial Times or the Wall Street Journal on their iPads while I hide my eyes behind fictional books about shopaholics, hunger games, werewolves and young lovers. For those precious 45 minutes before my eyes are set on spreadsheets and numbers, my mind is lifted from the speeding train and gently placed in a land far away where magic exists and imagination breaks new boundaries.

Occasionally after a long day, I catch myself whispering secrets to my stuffed animals (friends, if I may), waiting patiently on my pillows. I tuck my friends into bed before I leave for work and hug them close when I fall asleep at night. My habits more accurately resemble a 5 year-old child rather than someone in her late twenties, but hey, age is relative and a friend is a friend is a friend. There’s something about having an invisible confidant. The familiar faces by my bedside. Calvin and Hobbes. The idea of having that rock, that solid foundation in my life when everything else is changing too fast for me to breathe, keeps me utterly sane.

Thank you, 10 year-old self.