When I was nine, my mother brought me to New York City for the first time. On that trip I received a pair of shoes almost identical to these (sans hearts & deer):
I wore them until they had holes in the bottoms, and then I taped them up and wore them some more. Even more important about that trip, however, was the night we went to Cats. At that age I wanted nothing more than to be a dancer (slash movie star slash doctor slash horseback rider) and there, on the front row of Broadway's longest running musical, I sat in awe.I loved the cats, wanted them to come closer to me, to crawl right off the stage and snatch me up by the nape of my neck and take me into their little hovel. I'm pretty sure I held my breath the entire show, and towards the end, as if in answer to my manifold prayers: it started happening. Rum Tum Tugger danced his way downstage and was so close to me that if I had been brave enough I could have reached up and grabbed his perfect tail.
Music pounded through the room, and Rum Tum began a wild succession of Foite turns. The world spun around us, and in a moment that in my memory is slowed down almost to a stop: a single bead of Rum Tum's sweat flew off of him and onto me.
My wrist shined with wet hope; I brought it to my mouth.
A more germaphobic child would, of course, have found this repulsive; a less delusional child might have just wiped her wrist on her jeans, but me, I took it for what I believed it was: a sign, a glorious sign. I was, I reasoned,--by way of sweat from this curious cat!--destined for greatness.
I mention all this because for the past three days I've been running wild all over the city with mom and my little brothers and sister (happy birthday, madeline!): I'm just hoping that somewhere between the Beast and Coney Island, Central Park and Soho, Legally Blonde and Rice to Riches, Times Square and The Statue of Liberty one of them got hit with the proverbial cat sweat. Trust me, it feels good; I've been riding this wave for a long time.