At about 10 a.m. two days ago, in an office building less than a mile from my own, a blonde woman eight years my senior was walking into an elevator when, for no imaginable reason, in a split second, it lurched upward and, while two passengers watched helplessly, essentially crushed her to death.
She apparently was an ad executive and a very friendly person, who lived in Brooklyn with her boyfriend, painted in her spare time, and had finally created a backyard garden for herself.
At about 10 a.m. this morning I left my chiropractor’s office, walked into Barnes & Noble, and, feeling the high of my holiday bonus and the crisp, sunny morning, picked up a copy of Infinite Jest (for my 35 Before 35 list) and one of The Hunger Games, not knowing which I will start first. Then I went to the best sandwich shop on my office’s block and treated myself not only to my favorite breakfast “healthy wrap” of avocado, ham and egg whites, but also a bottle of green machine Naked juice that costs as much as a venti caramel latte at Starbucks, which I will go to later for a grande skim chai.
I stepped into my elevator with no unusual issues, admired my choice of bright blue tights for today in the surrounding mirrors, and for the 39-floor ride that I take every day of every week, thought about how great it feels to be alive.