I said goodbye to Lynda and her son's dog, Freddie, that she was dog sitting, and began my walk.
The GPS said it would take me an hour to walk to the Museum of Modern Art, but the GPS doesn't understand what it's like to walk on a crowded sidewalk in Manhattan where I had to wait a minute or two at the end of every block until the light changed so I could cross a street.
Last year I bought a MOMA membership which means I get in for free, well free unless you consider the cost of that membership.
As some kind of special holiday season deal they have hours where only members can walk around on floors 5 and 6 until 11:00.
This borrowed time where I got to enjoy the art without masses of people was worth the entire membership price.
They'd rehung the entire museum, moving the Picassos and the Rothkos. Monet's Water Lilies were in the same place, but everything else was mixed up like a giant game of Concentration.
I walked slowly through the maze of galleries absorbing art. Big. Colorful. Small. Statement. Array. Sounds like.
There's something about viewing art that opens the creativity inside of me. Knowing that everything is art, even a piece of slinky or splashes of color on personal ads.
I left the museum in a fog, maybe I looked at art for too long. Usually I bring a friend with me who tires and forces me to leave. Without a friend I walked and walked until I had walked past every piece of art in the museum at least once.
I ignored the pain and filled up on beauty and slept all the way home on the bus.