December 2 - Perfect Day

Sometimes, man. Sometimes the iPod shuffle just nails it.
Take today.
I'm on the subway during morning rush hour, and the car is packed beyond packed with an ocean of salarymen in black suits. A crush of people. Fall down and you won't hit the floor. Vertical sleep, cell phones, quiet misery, and you can't buy a smile.
And in the midst of this, Lou Reed's Perfect Day comes on, and the juxtaposition is absolutely brilliant.
It should be a scene from a movie: The beautiful melancholy dirge of Perfect Day playing while we focus in on one lone man on the wrong side of 40, who struggles inwardly to push away the ghosts of regrets, missed opportunities, and ships of happiness that have long since sailed just long enough to steal five minutes of sleep on his way to another 12 hour day, his only solace is his firm belief that he's unique, he's different from all the others, only he's not. Because we pan out and see that the train car is full of guys just like him, and the train is full of cars just like this one, and the train system is full of trains just like this one, and on and on and on. That's the message that's getting pounded into my brain by the director of the movie that's going on in my head.
But in the midst of the dull, cold, grey chasm of drudgery, tucked in among the miserable bastards in suits, hangovers, and coffee breath, there's one shining light, and that's me. I'm like a shiny red balloon soaring over a dreary charcoal grey cityscape.
For me, on this day, a song called Perfect Day isn't ironic. It really is a perfect day. Today my daughter Maya turns six days old. And she and mom are coming home from the hospital. And the happiness I feel is more powerful than the collective malaise of everyone who is riding on the Tokyo Metro this morning.
I surface from the subway station near the hospital, and turn off my iPod because I don't want to be cooped up in my own world. I want to savor every aspect of this day, the sounds, the sights, the air, everything.
Because it is, by the way, just an insanely gorgeous day: crisp, clean autumn air; blue skies unblemished by a single cloud; autumn leaves of yellow, red, brown, and gold that cling to the trees, fall, and skitter about on the sidewalk. How does the city government not just send out a mass email and declare today an impromptu national holiday?
But it is a holiday for me. Our newborn baby daughter is coming home today, and this is all I can think about.
Tonight, my family is going to be home.
Together.
And I'm so deliriously happy that as I'm walking alone to the hospital I get choked up a few times and I have to talk myself down from the ledge because a grown man suddenly bursting into tears is just weird, even in Tokyo.
But it isn't easy because everywhere, in every girl, I see Maya.
She's the tot over there asleep in her stroller.
She's the toddler holding her mom's hand and pointing at the slide.
She's the little girl perched on her mom's hip.
She's the schoolgirl playing with her friends on the way to school.
She's the kiddo jumping around on the sidewalk for no apparent reason.
She's the smart looking business woman talking confidently on a cell phone.
She's the university student laughing with her friends.
I see her everywhere I look and it's amazing.
And I know I said that last Saturday, her birthday, was the best day of my life. And it was, but now today is. And then it will be tomorrow, and then Sunday, and on and on and on, because this is it. This is really happening. My baby and my other baby. The two Hockersmith ladies, Maya and Misako, M & M.
They're coming home today.
Tonight we'll be together at home.
The best possible ending to a perfect day.