I’m not there (on my back porch). Because I’m here (at BlogHer in NYC).

As quickly as I’d put on the wet wooly cloak of dependence and trepidation, I threw it off. It helped that my husband drove me to the airport and didn’t even get out of the car to hand me my bag from the trunk. He has many fine qualities. Indulgence isn’t one of them.

“Do I have to get out of the car?”

So I am here at the national BlogHer event with what feels like a couple thousand other people,  all women and nearly all at least twenty or thirty years younger than me. The seasoned bloggers really stand out, like men would, if there were any here.

I had three hours to kill before my room was ready so I walked to Central Park. In the five blocks between the hotel and the park, I learned how to cross streets like a New Yorker. Just keep going unless that car’s bumper is actually touching the fabric of your pants. It helped that there were so many people. So when the herd started to move across a packed intersection, I’d become some guy’s little shadow. If Mr. I Have a Fabulous Suit can get across with or without a light, so can I. I watch. I learn.

My hours at Central Park passed in the most sublime, peaceful way, being around a lot of people but not having to talk to any of them or, worse, have them talk to me, except for the hot dog lady who wouldn’t quit with her inquisition about whether I wanted ketchup and/or mustard. She was disbelieving about the no mustard. I must be a foreigner. I could feel it.

I walked. I sat on a bench. Several benches. I read a book. I watched a hundred people take pictures of a big turtle on a log at the pond. I watched boys playing bad catch and watched a man in a wheelchair sit slumped over, his green striped socks matching his shirt perfectly. I conjured that he was parked at the ball field because he used to play there but I have no way of knowing. He stayed after I left.


Anyway, I’m glad to be here. That’s all. Nothing profound. Just glad to be here.