I just poured the very last of a jar of bubble bath into the tub for N. You know how sometimes you hold an ordinary object in your hand, and suddenly it ceases to be an object, but it becomes an entire experience? That's what happened to this plastic jar as I reached over to drop it into the garbage pail. It stopped being a container, and became instead my friend Joyce and myself, giggling together as we shopped for lotions and potions at The Body Shop in the then-still-relatively-new Herald Center, a "vertical mall" built right across 34th Street from Macy's. I loved Joyce; she was fun and silly and she always made me laugh. And she was one of the few people in the world who simply refused to buy my "I'm not a girly-girl; I don't *do* cosmetics" schtick and instead dragged me from store to store spending money on frilly and fluffy things as if we had nothing else to do with it. (Which, mostly, we didn't. We were single and in our 20s, and aside from buying subway tokens and beer at Cedar Terrace on Friday nights, had very little in the way of financial obligations.)
I could still hear her laughter in my head as I started doing the math: I moved from New York to Los Angeles in 1993. Joyce, if I'm not mistaken, stopped working for ABigScienceMagazine well before that.
Those bubbles, in other words, have probably recently celebrated their Sweet 16.
Lesson of the day: I really need to take more bubble baths.