We were in the city for Bob’s latest appointment at the Proton Center, but as part of our journey to keep the cancer dance as pleasant and upbeat as possible, we visited the butterfly vivarium at the Museum of Natural History.

You should know that I’m not very patient in art museums.

Nor in science museums.

Nor natural history museums.

But give me an exhibit on social history, and I’m there ’til closing.  Let me watch people in a park, and I’m there all day.

So the butterfly thing was really for Bob.  I was just determined to hang tight and forbear.

But oh….

The people watching!

The butterflies were nice enough, I suppose.  But the true joy, for me,  was watching everyone roaming about, drifting from plant to plant, butterfly to butterfly (or moth, as it were), these beatific smiles upon their faces.  I don’t recall ever being in a place where so many New Yorkers were crammed into a tight room, and all of them had a joyful glint in their eye and an upward curve to their lips.  Strangers giggled together, children hopped with excitement.

And then.  There was the one.

A woman huffed and pushed her way through the crowd, remarking loudly,

“WHY THEY LET CHILDREN INTO A PLACE LIKE THIS IS BEYOND ME!!!”

And just like the child who released the full belly laugh when a butterfly landed on her nose, I erupted with joy, watching her.

Such grumpiness in a sea of joy and wonder!  She was a rare butterfly herself.

She was the exception that proved the rule.  No one can possibly be grumpy in a room filled with butterflies.

Or can they?