I work in Rockefeller Center. You know, the place in Midtown with the humongous Christmas tree. That august, old, and beautiful tree that was alive before someone decided to kill it to decorate Rockefeller Center. Soon it will be mulch. But I digress (of course).
Being a New Yorker with some compassion for tourists, I try to walk around (as opposed to through) a snapshot taken by one tourist of others. Sometimes, I even offer to take a picture of the whole brood. And I don’t cut off the one with the biggest hair, just for spite. (Who says I have been naughty this year?)
But being in Rockefeller Center in December is like living your life on a rush-hour subway car.
As quickly as I dodge one photo op of tourists, I am captured in another. My face appears in so many photos of treasured memories of strangers. I am part of their New York experience. So close to them; just sooooo not a part of their family or experience.
I was just trying to steamroll them so I could get to the subway faster.
But now I am a part of their photo albums. Short and with a beard (ok, the beard is fake.)
That’s Aunt Garden Gnome to you, thank you very much.
Whoa, I need a shave and a wardrobe consult.