Despite the cold, and mostly because it's Friday, I walked up Fifth Ave. to Central Park after work. I can catch the subway there, and then the ride goes lickety-split. So I trudged up the avenue, past the giant library and its lions, past St. Patrick's Cathedral and the sculpture of Atlas across the street, past the enormous Abercrombie & Fitch that pumps its cologne out onto the street so you can smell the store from a block away, and all the way to the Plaza and that crazy Apple store that's open all hours of the day and night.
My train was waiting in the station when I got there and I happily hopped on, feeling gold star and sort of in cahoots with the city. It took me a few pages of my book to realize I had gotten on a downtown train. I undid all those dozens of blocks of walking in a matter of minutes. And my ride home was not lickety-split whatsoever.
In other news, I found my New York Magazine, which has been missing since Monday, sitting on the steps when I got home. Someone stole it, obv., but they gave it back and now I have something to read tomorrow morning with my tea and that's all that really matters.