Since when has it ever been 60 degrees in New York City in December…? Since the polar ice caps started melting is when, and it’s nothing to cheer about. But if a cloud ever had a silver lining it’s this: we woke up with the insatiable desire to get our shirts off outdoors, for what will surely be the last time this year.
We met up on the west side of Central Park, scant yards away from the classy, century-old apartment buildings of Central Park West. The trees set a fine example, being bare of leaves, and we shed layer after layer until we were similarly denuded. Then, realizing that 60 degrees is a far cry from 90 degrees, we put some bits of clothing back on…but only some, and only bits, so that we could enjoy the pleasant breeze and the sun against our skin.
Is there anything better than this? We had gourmet chocolate and apricot hamentaschen and onion bagels and coconut water, and books by Stephen King and Harlan Ellison and Lawrence Block and Russell Hill, and a conversation that ranged from David Foster Wallace to equine gerontology, from acupuncture as a treatment for sinus conditions to library science, and from Buffy to Angel. (Okay, maybe not such a big spread there.)
And now we’re all aching to do it again! But when? How?
There was talk of naked snow angels the first time enough snow sticks. We’ll see. But if you felt like whistling “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas…” we wouldn’t say nay.