Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77389 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
“God bless. Merry Christmas,” the bell ringer says.
“Merry Christmas,” I respond on autopilot, a little distracted by the time. Playing the “guess the sweater” game has cost me, and my already narrow window of time is now a sliver.
And even my delight in Fifth Avenue at Christmas can’t completely stifle my irritation that I’m here today in the first place.
My plan was foolproof: wrap up work for the holidays, stop by the downtown Tiffany store on my way home to grab my suitcase, and then go to the airport with enough time to grab a beer.
Instead, thanks to some mix-up, my custom order was sent to the flagship store instead.
You know what hadn’t been part of my plan?
Picking up the engagement ring for my future wife. From a store right next door to the office of my ex-wife.
Rationally, I know that the Grinch doesn’t own that entire block. But I also can’t deny that, somehow, her presence seems to haunt this entire street. As though at any moment she’s going to pop out of nowhere to explain sidewalk etiquette to tourists, or pontificate on legumes, or go on one of her infamous tirades about societal double standards on the way men and women are perceived.
The kicker is she’s not wrong. About any of it. Katherine’s never wrong, which is both part of her charm and part of her antagonism. Heavy on the last part.
“Excuse me, sir?”
I turn, grateful for the interruption.
A trio of women smile at me. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”
“Absolutely,” I say, accepting the iPhone as the three women position themselves in front of the store’s window display. Behind them, fake snow swirls around safari animals wearing blue Santa hats.
I try not to hate it. Call me old-fashioned, but Santa should be wearing red. Always.
“Okay, squeeze in,” I say, gesturing with one hand before steadying the camera and taking the shot.
“Hold,” I say before they can move. “I’m going to take a couple more so you have options.”
One of the women grins. “You know what you’re doing. You either have a girlfriend or sisters.”
“Both,” I say with a smile, and I can’t deny it does a little something for my masculine ego that she looks a little disappointed that I’m off the market.
Little does she know that being in my thirties and on the market was never, ever part of the plan.
After a few more hair flips and photos, I hand the phone back, only to find yet another person needing my services.
“How close are we to the tree? And please, for the love of God, tell me it’s close.”
I glance to his left, where three hyperactive boys play “swords” with candy canes.
“You are,” I reassure him, with a point in the right direction. “And even if you weren’t, you’ve gotta do it. There’s nothing like it.”
The middle boy’s candy cane becomes a sidewalk casualty, and losing interest in the game, he shifts his attention toward me. “You’ve been?”
“Of course! I make time to see it every year!”
I feel a little guilty as I realize it’s a lie. I haven’t made time to see the tree in years. But maybe saying it aloud will ensure that next year I’ll make it a reality.
And that in five years, ten years, it will be me who’s exhausted but determined to haul my three kids to the tree.
“Is the tree really that big?” the tallest of the boys asks, clearly determined to be very skeptical, very cool.
“You’ll have to decide that for yourself, but as a little preview, I’d say . . .” I squint my eyes at the youngest and shortest of them. “It’s nearly as tall as this guy!”
The littlest one grins, too thrilled at being described as tall to judge me for my lame dad joke. The older two boys are less generous, rewarding me with eye rolls. Respect.
“Anyway, just a few blocks that way,” I tell their dad, pointing. “You won’t be able to miss it.”
“Thanks, man,” he says with obvious relief. “It feels like we’ve done nothing but walk today. My dogs are killing me.”
“Dad, no,” the oldest says with a groan.
“What!” The dad ruffles his hair. “‘Dogs’ is another name for feet.”
“Yeah, according to Grandpa,” one of the boys replies as he trails after his dad and brothers in the direction of Rockefeller Center.
I watch them for a moment. Outdated use of “dogs” aside, the man is probably younger than I am, yet already he’s got three kids.
It’s fine. It’s fine. I took a Grinch-shaped detour, but I’m back on track now. Same plan, just a new timeline.
A timeline that I’m dangerously close to delaying, I realize with another glance at my watch. I step toward Tiffany’s revolving door. Toward my future.
They’re playing some remixed version of “Silver Bells,” and while I’m a purist about Santa’s costume, I have to admit, this version’s not half bad.