How easily we fit into our little grooves. Even though I try to shake things up on a fairly regular basis—in my own little way—I tend to fall into a routine pretty quickly. I realized on my bike ride home yesterday that it was only an hour later than I usually go home on a weeknight, but the street scene was totally different.

And it's not that it was dark, or anything. It was just an hour or so later, and a whole different set of people were out, with a whole different vibe.

And—this is what got me thinking—again, as I rode up Mass Ave through Central Square—there were a lot of looks exchanged. We're talking cute guys right and left. I even got a smile from an older woman and a totally inexplicable wave from a young lady on the sidewalk. And it wasn't the finger she was waving, either.

As always when this happens I checked to see if there was a 500 lb. gorilla chasing me. Nope.

So, is it left-over fairy dust? Am I plugged into some frequency I couldn't find on the dial before? Is it my form-fitting muscle T? Is there some hidden Boston I heretofore knew nothing about? Have I entered... The Twilight Zone?

If it was just one little stray glance I wouldn't be worried, but there were many, some errant—even on a good day in Boston that's rare enough—others hitting their mark like guided missiles.

Now that I think about it, yesterday morning, traffic on my route to work was a lot crazier than usual. Some days you catch that snarl, other days, nothing. I leave the house at roughly the same time every morning—but fate works on a different scale than hours and minutes. Milliseconds matter.

If you'd left the house three seconds later you'd have missed that green light, and would never have crossed paths with X. If you'd left the office two seconds earlier you'd have caught that train you missed and gotten pissed on by that drunk.

It got me thinking I needed to shake it up a little more, and a little more often before I start making grand pronouncements about the way things work.

I've lived in places, and visited places, of course, where you could sense the magic all around. Boston's got it, but you have to dig for it, I guess.

Speaking of magic, turns out that reports of the death of my neighbor's magnolia were, erm, overstated:


Still struggling—I mean, it's the middle of June, for Pete's sake—but it's alive! And that is reason for hope, and celebration.