This has been a strange, restless week in New York. As my company handed out Purell for every desk, New Yorkers waited for the day when they would be wearing masks like Hong Kong and Mexico City before them. I have been washing my hands more than a sleepwalking Lady MacBeth. We all shook in our boots a bit when a photo op looked a little like an image we had seen before. Our newly minted stadiums were stacking up the losses, and not many people seemed to be watching. Summer came racing in far too quickly, with temperatures reaching in the 90s, only to drop 40 degrees in a day. My friends in real estate continue to have to bow out of every "catch up" dinner because they are, quiet simply, running out of money. More stores have closed on my walk to work, including one butcher on 9th Avenue whose sign said that he was "closing his dream after 45 years."
Things feel strange here, I have to admit. Everyone is wondering when the good news will start, and when we can start being happy again. I was commiserating with an old friend the other day about the long-gone feelings of unbridled joy and promise we felt in the by-gone period of the late 1990s. I miss those feelings. After being pounded with bad news for almost a year now, it is easy to see why such feelings are missed.
I have decided to try to be more positive. I have always believed that such feelings truly start with oneself. So, once again, I recommit myself to trying to force out more positive thoughts and perspective, and maybe the world or at least New York will soon follow.
In the meantime, I will be watching some old 1990s TV shows on YouTube. Some uplifting Party of Five or Alf, anyone?
