Invisibility. Absolutely.

A few years ago I heard a great story on This American Life. It was about superpowers - two specifically. Flying and invisibility. When people were asked to choose one, they were often pretty passionate about their choice. They couldn't imagine choosing flying over invisibility, and vice versa.

I felt pretty passionate too. For me it was flying, no contest. What's not to love? You could just step outside in the middle of the night and jump up into the air. You could soar over everything, have this private place (the sky). It would be exhilarating. Invisibility would come with too many temptations - the main one for me being the urge to spy on people. Aren't some secrets better off kept? Do you really want to know the secrets of exes, strangers, and the famous? Flying. Hands down.

The years have passed though, and the more I think about it the more I want to change my answer. Invisibility. Absolutely. I could board planes and go anywhere in the world - for free! I could go into places and see things that are currently off-limits to me for one reason or another. I've often preferred observation to participation, and this would be my chance to go into homes all over the world and see how people live. They would be themselves; they wouldn't be polite for their guest. They would talk the way they normally do, do their normal things.

I know there are a lot of logistical questions to work through. Would my clothes be invisible? Could people still touch me and if so, how would I handle crowded streets and airplanes? Would my invisible feet make impressions when I walked on carpets, leave footprints in the dirt? Would it be possible to get some sort of translation device that enabled me to understand the language of any country I went to?

I do not have answers for these questions. All I have is a desire to see the following things (among others), invisible:

Space

I've lived in three different apartments in the last three years, and each has been smaller than the last. (More expensive too, cruelly enough.) I like small. As I've said before, it keeps me from buying unnecessary things. It makes me feel like I'm living more deliberately, being more responsible with resources, etc. etc. It's good.

Okay, but sometimes it's a little less than good. Like when I try to wash my face in my tiny bathroom sink and as the water goes from cupped hands to face it splashes all over the floor - the sink isn't big enough. Or when I have to stand on tiptoe and move the mixing bowls to open the cupboard that holds the tupperware containers - there's nowhere else to put them. Or how each morning, as I open the drawers of the ad hoc bureau I keep in my closet, they ram into Oliver's chest of drawers - the chest of drawers that rams right up against the bed - the bed with the head that rams right up against the radiator. Nowhere else to put any of these things. I could go on and on - we don't have any drawers in the kitchen. Our 4-foot high, rotating fan is currently broken up in bits and stored in different corners because we don't have enough space to store it in one piece. A fan! We have to sort, fold and hang-dry our laundry in the living room, so every couple weeks there are sweaters, socks and t-shirts everywhere for a day or two. Never a dull moment!

We have two closets. Each is about 4 feet across. That is the sum total of our storage space. Did I really grow up in a house with a basement? With a garage? Did I used to have apartments with storage units in the basement? Amazing. Did I really used to live in an apartment that had a whole room just for dining? And a giant front porch?

Will I ever have those things again?

Eh, do I want them?

We've been talking about buying a house at some point in the next couple years, which is both exciting and scary. Buying seems so final. A tiny apartment is an adventure, but what happens if "small" becomes permanent? What happens if you officially realize that you will not in fact be moving on to a more affordable area, that you will not in fact have a backyard. Or a second bathroom. Or a real kitchen. Or a coat closet. Your son and daughter will need to share a bedroom and your parents will be forced to sleep on your couches when they come to visit because there is no guest room. Does an amazing neighborhood make up for that?

All in good fun, right?

Why don't I hate myself?

It's February. The middle of winter. I'm not exercising regularly (refuse to pay for an overpriced gym membership when spring is just around the corner). I'm eating heavier, less nutritious foods (fare thee well, blueberries - helloooooo pancakes!). By my calculations, I should be in my dark winter place. Full of self loathing and regrets. How have I managed to beat the odds? I wish I could figure this out - I'm sure the information would come in handy for future winters.

No use fretting. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, right? I've enjoyed this season of cold so far, and thought I'd share a couple images:

Frozen rocks on Lake Michigan. I took this photo on a clear, chilly day over the Christmas holiday. Christmas at home is always great, which means guaranteed good memories associated with a cold time and place. Not bad.

Oliver the runner in Central Park. He ran a 4-mile race last weekend, which - full disclosure - this photo does not capture. I stood at the finish line for the entire race, swearing quietly in the frigid cold and straining my eyes to catch a glimpse of him in the sea of runners that streamed past me. I missed him of course, and made him pose for this picture a few minutes later.

I had limited dexterity in my fingers for several hours after the race, but it was worth it. Winter doesn't have to mean full retreat. You can still get out and do things. Just be prepared to use two hands to lift a fork during the meal that follows.

 Snow! There's a full-on blizzard here today, and I love it. I love all New York storms. All the fun of extreme winter weather with none of the hassles - no shoveling, no digging out your car, no dangerous roads. Pictured below: the view out my living room and the view out my building's front door.