The mean reds

{ East River Snowman by Unknown Child  |  9 February 2013 }

Only a few months after Hurricane Sandy, the idea of being battered by another force of nature had set everyone on edge. We were hunkered down, the frustration and anxiety as we waited for Blizzard Nemo to arrive rolling over the city in an ominous haze, the news outlets proclaiming "the storm of the century" and "historic, deadly force approaching" egging our worries on.

Maybe it was that.

Or, maybe it was something else niggling at my mind.

Either way, Friday I felt a kinship with Holly, as a severe case of The Mean Reds settled in, heavy on my chest and shoulders.

First, a gloomy day at work surveying preparations in Soho, staring into my monitor hour-after-hour as my eyes started to burn. Then, home. Moving through cycles of isolation, fury, unease. Questioning everything I've recently said and done. Festering.

The Mean Reds, indeed.

+ + +

Saturday morning broke with hazy sunlight drifting among soft-as-down-feathers-snow in pretty piles around the city. While other areas of the Northeast, even as close as Long Island, had waist-high snowdrifts to deal with, New Yorkers had delightful light-as-air snowflakes to play in.

+ + +

A day at home—picking up my languishing crochet needle to teach myself a new stitch, going for a walk on the waterfront and admiring the many snowmen that children (even those growing up on a concrete island) knew how to make, coming home to my homemade chicken soup made from a beautiful Epicurean Farm heritage Pollo Buono bird that had tangled with silky strands of leeks and celery and a hefty dose of turmeric all afternoon on the stovetop, watching documentaries (until I switched back to my regular witty TV shows), and having a long, much-needed talk brushed my mean reds aside.

Monday, I'm ready for you.