I often vacillate between Eeyore and Pollyanna.

Glass half-full, half-empty, half-full...should I play the game or play The Glad Game? Usually Polly wins, but this summer, I have to say that Eeyore of Winnie the Pooh fame has been a strong contender. I can't blame vitamin D; the sun has been shining almost all of July. I can't blame vegetarianism or any stringent, ultra-healthy diet: I have been consuming cheese, chocolate, variable high-starch carbs and red wine and vitamin B-12 pills nearly every day. The serotonin and vitamin levels in my brain are so abundant and bouncy that they must be having a rave somewhere within. I can't blame any extenuating circumstance: our lives are pretty good with the increasingly rare not-so-good. Nevertheless, I have caught er, Eeyore, me, subconsciously digging up things to bitch about just because --

the glass,
can also be half-empty.

I was walking home from the Columbus Natural Store on 97th and Columbus. I loaded up my to-go box lunch with probably a pound of organic veggies, some errant tortellini and some wilted Indian okra/curry. All of it was jumbled together, mismatched and just the way I like it. I was carrying an iced coffee in my right hand. My cell, in my pocket. My keys around my right pinky. My mind, totally elsewhere. For some reason, I was holding on to the to-go box with four of my five fingers of my left hand. Pretty stupid to have both of your hands full and not hold the things in them with the entirety of your hand(s). Pretty stupid to do this all while wearing a sheer, white T-shirt in the fogged, humid heat of New York City in near-August; pretty stupid to do all of this - risking your lunch to fall unto the sidewalk - when you are RAVENOUSLY hungry, because all that has been consumed is coffee and a burned smidgen of a child's sandwich all morning long.

I almost dropped my lunch; I even cursed aloud and it was an almost, not an actual splat. After looking like every other crazy person in New York, cursing to myself aloud for no apparent reason, I then realized that I was REALLY lucky to have five working fingers. I was really lucky that I could maneuver a last-minute save with those five fingers, so that I could gorge myself and flat-line my blood sugar level. I then thought to myself: How the hell would I juggle my life per se, if I was a crippled or simply, with four fingers instead of my taken-for-granted five?

I chilled out. I inhaled, exhaled. I walked: right, left, left right. I reverted back to a quasi-normal person. I made it to my apartment, three blocks away. I was grateful that the only REAL problems I really have are chronic time-mismanagement skills and occasional bouts of idiocy. This all of course, made me feel fervently guilty. This guilt of course, inspired me to write about the inanity of the first half of my day, yesterday.

The real wake-up call came while walking home with my kids from the park on 100th Street and Amsterdam. We typically pass by the Bloomingdale Library, which is right next door to the free health clinic, which is across from the police precinct and fire house. Needless to say, due to the world's often-dire health problems, crime rates and devastating fires, 100th Street in between Amsterdam and Columbus is not usually the most chipper half-block of real estate in my neighborhood.

In front of us, a couple, male and presumably gay, were walking. They had just left the clinic. They were somber. The man on the left: slight, ashen pale, silently consoled the other with his arm on his shoulder: his shoulder belonged to a vibrant, tanned, muscular and bald man who was crying and in doing so, dropped his wallet and Blackberry onto the sidewalk. He was openly sobbing. There were no words uttered. I picked up his wallet and phone and handed it to him; this man was so engulfed in despair that I could have been a crack addict with a knife, running away with his wallet and he would not have cared less. The man on the left said Thank you"; the man who dropped the items remained speechless in grief. Apparently, there was no good news relayed at the clinic that afternoon. The girls, miraculously, wonderfully, did not ask any questions or make any embarrassing, innocent observations. (They are four.) Somehow, mercifully, they were silent. Within ear shot (we were right behind them), I heard the men talking about blood; I heard the word "A positive" and "positive" and I heard not much else discernible. Presumably, this man was been diagnosed with HIV-positive: I'm willing to place all bets on yes.

Watching the two men light cigarettes and walk-pause-hug-cry-walk down the remainder of street, it was clear that the grieving man has much to grieve for, and more importantly, much to live for.