Monday, March 13, 2006

Of Mice and (Scary-Ass) Men

Most New Yorkers are revolted at the sight of large rodents.

I've been in a nasty mood lately. The combination of hating my job, endless health problems, working out but gaining weight, steroid shots and never getting enough time to do the things I want to do have been bringing me down and making me angry. I knew it was a danger sign when, after watching the well-done but extremely disturbing prisoner rape episode of Battlestar Galactica, I found myself unable to sleep and downloading Iron Maiden songs. The evil, oppressive, imperialist, abusive white men are coming to get us all! Run To The Hills, indeed. (Also, evidently I have regressed to the age of 13. I mean... Iron Maiden?)

I was in a foul fettle during my incredibly-delayed-as-usual commute this morning, reading about the continuing malevolence of the Bush administration in The New Yorker and listening to heavy metal (it really is the music of Satan!). I nearly yelled at the Screaming Preacher Lady who regularly touts Jesus as a remedy for hellfire in a West Indian accent at Atlantic Avenue, but we all know that rarely comes to any satisfactory end, so I just fumed. Finally arriving at my stop after multiple delays, I geared up into the disgruntled worker race-walk of Monday mornings towards my office. And that's when she appeared.

One of these things is not like the others

Incongruously, before Alice Tully Hall stood an animal mascot-costumed version of Maisy the mouse, super cute star of toddlers' books and television cartoons. Maisy looked happy but a little confused, teamed up with a giant rabbit I did not recognize and a woman in a suit, who seemed to be prepping them for whatever event that had not yet started. I can't explain why my heart lifted as I saw this group - it was just a couple of underpaid day labourers in fuzzy suits, no doubt - but they were damn cute, and just so random and silly. As I passed by, Maisy's gaze seem to follow me as she reached up and suddenly squeezed her nose at me as if it were a bulb horn. Why? I don't know, but a giggle bubbled up and I grinned. Maybe Maisy saw my sour puss and knew I needed a smile. Maybe a frustrated actor was adjusting his sagging headpiece. Whatever reason, it's the little things that get us through, sometimes. So thanks, Maisy, for the lift.

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