Most people are allergic to pollen, peanuts, or fish. I, on the other hand, am allergic to the gym. Sure, I love a good workout, an adrenaline rush, and the burnt calories -- but I just don't like to confine myself in a dreary room full of machinery and guittos. I'd much rather prefer to get my workout from the great natural outdoors, dancing in the studio, and running after the train. Aside from front row views of the NY skyline, my commute to work also provides much needed exercise. It all starts in the morning with a brisk walk to the train station, which often quickly turns into running (in heels), as I hear the train signal pounding in my ear like a drill sergeant. Fast forward to 45 minutes later, and I’m confronted by a mile high escalator, so I naturally take advantage of the benefits technology has to offer and give my legs a rest, and idly wait for the escalator to valet park my feet to the top.
Last week, however, this very technology failed me and my fellow commuters. I was forced to succumb to our archaic ways and climb the 90 flights of stairs, which I had so graciously avoided for the past two months. I’m a healthy 25-year old though, so surely I could do this, I thought. “I was wrong” would be an understatement. About mid-way through my ascent, I contemplated taking a break, but quickly vetoed that idea when I saw a gray haired aging man climbing past me. And that’s when it hit me: not only am I grossly out-of-shape, but also that life is a lot like an escalator.
I hear it constantly echoing in the stories I hear and tell: moving on. Last week a friend had a run-in with his ex, which reprised some of his old wounds. I recently learned of an old flame’s newly “taken” status, which was taken surprisingly well by me, considering how hurt I had been when our “fire” had been extinguished. But these incidents fall pale in comparison to my widowed aunt, who has been trying to piece her life together ever since my uncle passed away earlier this year. In the past 10 months, she has sold off his clinic but kept his memories tightly secured; she has changed cities and moved into a new place, but hasn’t been able to call it home; she has learned to accept he’s gone, but is having difficulty relinquishing her dependencies.
When we find happiness, we become steadfast in our ways – unwilling to acknowledge destiny’s contingency plans. In doing so, what we forget is that life goes on, with or without us. Had I shamelessly taken a break that day during my hike up Mount Escalator, I would’ve seen people maneuver around me. Just like a (functioning) escalator, life goes on as people continue to step on and off of it. The key is to simply keep it moving, because ultimately the only one left standing still… is you.
I hear it constantly echoing in the stories I hear and tell: moving on. Last week a friend had a run-in with his ex, which reprised some of his old wounds. I recently learned of an old flame’s newly “taken” status, which was taken surprisingly well by me, considering how hurt I had been when our “fire” had been extinguished. But these incidents fall pale in comparison to my widowed aunt, who has been trying to piece her life together ever since my uncle passed away earlier this year. In the past 10 months, she has sold off his clinic but kept his memories tightly secured; she has changed cities and moved into a new place, but hasn’t been able to call it home; she has learned to accept he’s gone, but is having difficulty relinquishing her dependencies.
When we find happiness, we become steadfast in our ways – unwilling to acknowledge destiny’s contingency plans. In doing so, what we forget is that life goes on, with or without us. Had I shamelessly taken a break that day during my hike up Mount Escalator, I would’ve seen people maneuver around me. Just like a (functioning) escalator, life goes on as people continue to step on and off of it. The key is to simply keep it moving, because ultimately the only one left standing still… is you.
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