Friday, 16 June 2006 | Adaptation

Because I work in Manhattan and live in Brooklyn, and because many after-work events take place in Manhattan, it's rare that I make the hour-long round-trip to visit my apartment simply to change clothes, drop off my things, or lie down next to a cat for a quiet thirty minutes.

As a result, I've learned to adapt. When I get dressed in the morning, I think more about what clothing is appropriate for the upcoming evening than I do for work itself (they aren't so different, anyway...work is casual), and I carry enough bags with me to spend a weekend away (my camera and lenses, a sweater, reading material, music, toiletries, etc.). In lieu of the cat half-hour, I've taken occasional early evening naps under my desk, in the crawl-space beside the filing cabinet. Once you're asleep, it's kind of the same.

Sometimes, however, evening events come as a surprise, and I'm not prepared for the more elegant outings. On those occasions I take a quick trip to H&M to 'fancy it up' with a $9 shirt, or in more extreme situations, I've gone on a reconnaissance mission, or been forced to shamefully wash my bangs with handsoap in the Barnes and Noble bathroom.

On one such night, I found myself in a classy 1920s bar with round booths and competent waitresses who can recommend cocktails like they're reciting the alphabet. I was at a small birthday gathering consisting of 8 people, and me and my silky Barnes & Noble bangs were sitting opposite the only woman at the table whom I didn't know, but who looked very familiar. I spent the first ten minutes trying to figure out where I'd met her before when it dawned on me: I met her in my living room, when she was on my TV.

She was very friendly and unassuming, this actress from the WB, and she never mentioned to me what she did for a living, although she certainly had opportunities to bring it up. Instead, she talked about the small, boring Southern town where she'd been living, and she shyly asked us all to contribute to a scrapbook that she carries with her.

No one jumped at the offer (it was a little premature; we'd only taken the first sips of our drinks and didn't know how to be silly yet), but I immediately started scouting the area for scrapbook-worthy material, so that she wouldn't feel rejected. There wasn't much to choose from. Eventually I pasted in a flower that had arrived in my drink and wrote something forgettable next to it.

I had fun, and felt almost relaxed. By the end of the night, we were taking snapshots of each other, as I continued to pretend that she wasn't abnormal on account of being famous. (I think I did okay on the surface, but my brain wouldn't stop producing exclamation marks.)

It didn't really matter to me that, one day soon, she might look at her pictures and strain to remember who I am, or that the evening was no doubt more meaningful to me than it was to her. I was much more concerned whether what I'd written in her scrapbook made any sense.