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This Is Forty-Three

 On my 43rd birthday, I took my husband to the Met Museum, which he generally avoids; I think he avoids it because of its overwhelming size.


Seeing art through my spouse's eyes is consistently rewarding. I notice things I wouldn't otherwise notice. We went to the Temple of Dendur--which I always skip over--and I was moved by the crocodile (below). So many, many trips to the Met--and never before had I really noticed the crocodile. The sculpture took me back to Sigrid Nunez, who asks, "Why aren't animals more prominent in contemporary literature?" That ancient crocodile is a showstopper. The Egyptians knew something about what matters in life.

Afterward, we went to see "The Weir," which I chose because of its exalted reputation. What I hadn't considered was this: (1) taking Xyzal at noon will knock you out, and (2) being sedentary, after a parenting marathon, will also knock you out. A weir is a low dam; it briefly interrupts a stream or river. The weir in the play is a bar--it's a gathering place for semi-articulate people, people who likely do not get many chances to examine and speak about their own lives. At the bar, they share stories; also, they argue about liquor intake. One tap isn't working. "A short one" seems like a reasonable choice--except that ten "short ones" in a row no longer looks like moderation. A stranger asks for white wine--and this is like asking for Balenciaga at K-Mart. The question is upsetting for everyone.

Conor McPherson wrote the play because of an elderly relative he would visit in a remote section of Ireland. McPherson would notice how the relative would stand and wave, and wave, and wave at the train platform; McPherson would think, "That's a man who isn't really happy about his solitude." I love the observation--and the fact that a play grew out of that one thought.

This year, I hope to spend more time both at the Met and at the Irish Rep. Life is short. So why not?






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