While sitting on a bench in a tiny slip of a park that marks the west end of 113th street on the upper west side of Manhattan, waiting to ascend to apartment 3F in a nearby building, I noticed Mandy Patinkin ambling past. Of course I said nothing. I have never been one to shout out “Hey Mandy! Loved you in Sunday In The Park” or anything of the sort, or to even hint at the fact that I recognized him. I let him pass in peace, and with a faux sense of his anonymity, something I personally cherish and would hate to lose. I did however remark internally as to how old he looked. He has gray hair, and tight, bunched shoulders, and walks with a gait that shows signs of stiffness in the hips. And then, after he had passed, I took stock in the fact that I too had aged. I first became aware of him at least 20 years ago when he was certainly younger than I am now. I reluctantly admitted that this is what 20 years will do. I then surveyed a nasty bathroom retiling job, hopped on my bike and rode home. It is nearing time to cease tiling and to (somehow) create earth shattering threats to my anonymity lest I stiffen like Mandy, unseen.