7 Minutes in Heaven

I was a late bloomer. So I have never been involved in the authentic teenage-ish game of seven minutes in heaven. I’m curious what happens. Out of sample size of 10, I would hypothesize, 2 trials include talking and fake-kissing, 2 trials include laughing and giggling and coming out before the seven minutes are up, 2 include a peck every 3 minutes and fiddling with the clothes and other items in the closet. And then there are probably 4 that adopt the true goals of seven minutes in heaven. A peck with an invitation for more into an extended French kiss. Who knows, maybe one wild pair of fifteen year olds enjoy the kiss, and start to round second base. I love comparing notes on the bases, so I’m happy to during our next visit.

This morning, my 7 minutes in heaven were immensely different than the teenage game. My morning started with hot yoga. The light stretching, core work, planks, and sweat was desirable and necessary. It was frankly an unbelievable hour of work. After a quick steam and cold and luke warm shower, I left the gym feeling refreshed. More refreshed than you can imagine. So I walked to the Subway.

The subway stop I go to is on 23rd street and Broadway, nestled alongside a park and also along a dirty street littered with people who slept there overnight and more trash than a side street in Tribeca. The subway monitor read “7 min” for the next uptown R train as I lurked underground into the not unbearingly humid, but warm and sticky terminal.

I took a seat on the chairs, sitting next to people who were in their early to mid 20s. This is when my seven minutes in heaven began. My phone stayed in its pocket. It was a conscious decision. I was feeling relaxed, and had no impulse to review work emails I had already seen, check the Journal, see an ESPN article I probably already saw, or scroll through texts I already read. I sat there. For seven minutes. And it was so incredibly peaceful. Three to four trains loudly sprinted by (these are the express ones in the middle lane). I established eye contact with the mix of subway riders from ages old and young, not necessarily exchanging LA smiles, but New York colder smirks without emotion. A little kid scootered by with his dad – he was wearing goggles and a helmet which I appreciated.

The world has changed a lot since some my ‘cooler’ peers played seven minutes in heaven in eighth and ninth grade. That was 2006. The iphone was released in 2007. Snapchat was released in 2011. Instagram was released in 2010, but it feels like it didn’t really take a hold until years later. TikTok was launched in 2016.

While I sat peacefully on the chair, the two 20-youngins next to me did the usual. The gentlemen, wearing worn-down Reeboks and dirty blue pants (I’m glad Alex made me get new work pants recently) was awaiting a message on Snapchat from probably a girl he had a crush on. He read unread emails in his spam folder (hilarious, but totally get it) and then did some other stuff. The girl scrolled through Instagram for a few minutes, checked something else, and to her credit, put her phone away for a few minutes. It was actually her quiet chuckle that alerted me to see the little kid gliding by.

Generational change is inevitable. Not every generation played seven minutes in heaven in middle school or early innings high school. And I’m not running around like a chicken with his head cut off to urging people to burn addictive yet useful smartphones.

But I’m encouraging everyone to play the new game of seven minutes of heaven. And when you are in moments that you always have your phone out – a) waiting for the subway, b) the 20 or nowadays 200 minutes after boarding and before taking off, c) waiting for a doctors appointment, d) sitting on the couch – try to play your own version of the game.

I guarantee you will be shocked at how relaxing it will be.