The Lovely Macaroon

I’ve taken to walking to work on Thursdays. Why Thursdays? Because that seems to be the time during the week when I begin to come undone. The trip is six miles each way and not exactly a safari or a walk in the park. The challenges of concrete, smog and noise render the journey unsuitable for the foolhardy and/or the bashful among us.

This evening as I made my return passage I stopped at one of the biggest and busiest intersections in Westwood. I waited for my crossing signal as I recapped the day’s events. One of the pleasures of this peregrination is the time I have to myself. Time to roll around my thoughts like those tiny marbles in a Chinese puzzle. Each marble looking for its own personal little hole. Some don’t have holes maybe and those can be cast away exiting through the ears perhaps I don’t know.

Finally the walking man appeared on the signal post accompanied by flashing numbers which start at 22 and count down. This 22 seconds is the time one has to haul ones ass across the intersection and I’m here to tell you this is no small task. I’m pretty fast and it takes me the entire allotment. What if I were elderly or short-legged? Motorists in the city at rush hour are not the most compassionate people on earth. What if I tripped? As I made my way across I recalled a recent walk during my lunch hour. I had just secured myself a sandwich along with a macaroon to soothe my spirit later in the afternoon. It was a big baseball sized macaroon from Whole Foods with chocolate covering on one side. Exquisite. With booty in one hand I was faced with one such crossing. In Brentwood they don’t have the timers but they do have little islands in the middle and they expect you to cross in halves and therefore twice the waiting. I usually try to pick up the pace and dash across having it all in one go. Unfortunately, my toe caught the island curb and I was cast hands and knees onto the pavement sliding about four feet as if the street was frozen. The traffic progressed as usual as my lunch escaped its brown paper sac. Not one driver or pedestrian showed any sign of rescuing me or my macaroon as it bounced down San Vicente Boulevard like a brand new puppy. I hobbled the rest of the way back to the office, my swollen knee bleeding beneath a hole in my new pants. My humiliation was tempered only by the coconut cookie I had saved from certain ruin several car lengths away. It had been exposed and the wrapping was tattered but hey… the inside was still good.

Tonight as I successfully reached the south side of Wilshire Boulevard I thought about that macaroon. I was so shamed by that experience I hadn’t purchased one since. Maybe I was ready for another one. This much walking really inspires the appetite.