Ridiculous in the City

Occasionally, Ridiculous in the City waxes emotional. Today is apparently one of those days so get your ultra-soft facial tissue out.*

As a rule, I try to be open messages from the universe (“Are you there God? It’s me, Ridiculous.”). I generally have very few rules, so take that for what it’s worth. I attempt to receive whatever small kernel of knowledge or information may be lurking out there in the various forms it takes on—Magic 8 Balls, fortune cookies, horoscopes—hoping for some insight or a signal that maybe, just maybe, I am getting it. What “it” is however, is often subject to ridiculous interpretation.

Many times a message can come in the form of a found object. We’ve all found things here and there that may or may not have been transmissions from the cosmos: that penny from the year of your birth you just picked up is a message; “Funky Cold Medina” coming on at the exact moment you walk into the bar is not. Similarly, that ripped Steely Dan “Aja” t-shirt laying in the gutter is not a sign of anything but the years slowly being reeled in (and to think I thought I’d never achieve a Steely Dan pun). Occasionally though, you find something, or something finds you, at a key time in your life when you need a little shout-out from the universe to let you know it’s all okay, that you’re not alone, not totally losing your mind—just enough of it to be still be conscious.

In discussing the subject of found objects recently, I was reminded of perhaps my most clearly-a-message-for-ridiculous-me finding. It happened purely by accident, years ago, but I remember it so vividly it’s like I took a photograph of that exact moment. If only I had. There I was, haggard and out of it (as usual), slowly climbing the steps out of the West Fourth Street subway station on a lackluster night after a crappy day in the middle of another frozen winter month, heading home to be in a horrendous mood for the next nine hours until I had to be back at work. Yeah life! I looked down and saw a scrap of yellow out of the corner of my eye. I kept moving robotically, but as I continued to walk up the stairs, buried in the herd of people around me, something pulled me back. Something stopped me, turned me around and walked me back down the stairs.

When I got to the bottom I located the yellow object. Gazing down at what turned out to be a small yellow sticky note, I saw something scrawled across it. I crouched down to get a better look. On the note was written one word: my name.

My name? I stood there staring at the note, briefly glancing around to see if it was a prank (but like, who would bother...?). It was no prank; it was an actual piece of paper with actual writing on it that actually said my name, and nothing else. My name!

As the note began to sink in, I smiled. I hadn’t realized how much I’d needed a sign like this. Something that said, “you’re okay, we’re with you, keep going.” There I was: having an emotional event with a post-it note in the bowels of the subway. It was heartwarming, and exceedingly ridiculous. Looking down at the note once more, I nodded my head in acknowledgement. I thought briefly about picking the note up and taking it with me, but I realized that it was better left there, where maybe someone else could take something from it or where perhaps it would serve as a symbol that I was going to keep going, keep moving forward, not let the bastards grind me down.

I could win the war, smack some fools, persevere; kick ass and take names. I could break out of my rut of shitty day after shitty day. Start fresh with renewed enthusiasm. I was awesome. I was a winner. The post-it note had told me so.

After our touching moment together I moved along, shuffling up the stairs amongst the herd, feeling bathed in the glow of my message from the universe. When I reached street level I took a breath. The air smelled faintly of pizza and trash, and Nag Champa.

Yes, I was moving forward. I would live to fight another day. So too would the other eight million people in New York City, the ones who hadn’t received a message of affirmation on a post-it note.

There is surely some ridiculousness in interpreting messages from things that are merely random, everyday occurrences, but sometimes those messages come at the moment you need them most. Besides, if we don't have our ridiculousness, what do we have?

Oh right, Steely Dan puns.

*I will not be mentioning Kleenex by name until I receive my sponsorship check. Take that, Kimberly-Clark.