Lawyerish

Crazy/Beautiful

I think it was back in college that I noticed for the first time that when spring arrives, the crazies come out in full force.  Also the pervs, the ones who feel it necessary to comment on your appearance (like calling your rear view "luscious") as you saunter past or, worst of all, the ones who tell you to smile when you're just minding your own damn business.  (OH, how I hate being told to smile.  I GOT YOUR SMILE RIGHT HERE, JERKO.)  It's understandable, I suppose; when you get to feel the sun on your face and all the ladies in town are suddenly wearing less clothing, you start feeling your oats.  You want to share your delight with the world or...release your energy in some way.  We've all had that skippy feeling when the green returns and the the flowers are blooming.  But we each have our unique way of expressing it.

On Saturday, we took the subway uptown after the play.  It turned out to be a mistake because it took about eight years for a train to come, and when it arrived it was so packed I thought we would have to scale someone's body and surf over people's heads to get in, AND the train was skipping stops (including ours, natch).  And yet, we smushed in and endured. 

At the door of our car was a disheveled man with his shopping cart, which was filled with boulder-sized trash bags.  He had designated himself as some kind of subway official, it seemed, and he used his newfound post to welcome all the passengers aboard and encourage everyone on the platform to go ahead and shove their way onto the train.  When the doors groaned shut, virtually vaccuum-packing us into the humid car, the man began holding forth about some subject or another -- at the top of his lungs, of course, and without the benefit of coherence or forethought. 

As you do in these situations, everyone stared off into the middle distance or carried on quiet conversation with their companions or silently wished for it all to be over as quickly as possible.  Everyone except an older man, that is, who was pressed against the doors with his wife and teenage son, right next to the self-appointed mayor of the uptown local. 

"SHUT THE %^&* UP, YOU SONOFA#$%^*!" the man shouted at the shopping cart guy. 

Silence was kept.

And then.

The car erupted in chaos, as the shopping cart guy started screaming, "I'LL MURDER YOU, I WILL, I WILL $^&%ing MURDER YOU, who the ^%#$ do you think you are" (and so on).  And then the other guy yelled back, and by then they were officially engaged in a screaming match.  The family guy's wife was trying to calm him down ("STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT") while he lunged at the shopping cart man, and everyone was getting pushed around -- there was not a molecule of extra space in that car, so with the slightest motion the entire crowd would pitch and sway.  A few passengers tried to diffuse the situation, but it only set the men off all the more; their epithets and fists hurtled through the stuffy car as it creaked slowly into the next station.

We shoehorned ourselves out through the crowd, and both the shopping cart guy and the man with his family stormed onto the platform.  As I passed by, I saw the wife gripping her husband by the shoulders, screaming, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING??  STOP IT RIGHT NOW!" in his face, even as he put his dukes up for a fight, jabbing into the air toward the shopping cart man, who was still shouting that he would murder him and seemed equally prepared to throw down, right there next to the tracks.  Other passengers stepped in and fought to pull them apart, and we were carried up the stairs and out of the station by the sea of bodies.  I didn't get to see how it ended.

_____________________________________________

On an entirely different note, when I got home from The Ordeal of the Day, I found a package waiting for me from my sister-in-law:  a surprise "welcome to the Mommy club!" present. I ripped it open and immediately got all teary-eyed.  It's a necklace with Noelle's referral photo on one side (the close-up of her face) and a pretty floral design on the other.  It's modern and cool but also precious and sweet, and I love it.  If you're still looking for a Mother's Day gift for anyone in your life, this is a fantastic idea.  Go here and get one. 

And now, as I go through my routine, I can pretend Noelle is there with me (Noelle and I went to church on Sunday, then got pedicures with a friend!  Then we went to work yesterday and had leftover poppy seed chicken for dinner!  You, ah, get the idea).  And when things get out of hand on the subway, I can turn her face against me and put my hand over her and protect her from all the craziness in the world. 

Question Mark

As a follow-up to my last post, I should note that I think a lot about what I want our life to look like in the long term, and what I want our kids' lives to look like and that sort of thing.  Problematically, my chronic overthinking comes into play, and I can't ever figure out which of many imagined lives is the most appealing.

There's the New York life, for example.  In theory, anyway, we would stay in Manhattan, in our same neighborhood, gradually making our way up the real estate ladder to progressively larger apartments.  Our kids would go to Montessori preschool, then magically gain admittance to one of the preferred private schools.  They would take advantage of all the stuff that I would have drooled to have at my disposal growing up, and more: studying at the School of American Ballet, playing soccer in the Central Park leagues, spending Saturdays in museums, taking Vietnamese lessons at the language and culture school in Chinatown, doing internships at the UN.  We'd have a country house somewhere, maybe on a lake or the beach, and the kids would go to cool summer camps.  We would travel a lot, visiting family and friends and exploring the world.  The kids would become sophisticated and accomplished, they'd be part of a big, vibrant, diverse environment; but (I hope) our down-home values, plus our loving extended family and our church and such would keep them grounded.  (Oooh, and they wouldn't have to drive, a huge plus since I am convinced that living outside the city means deadly car accidents and school shootings -- ridiculous, I know, but it's how my mind works.)

On the flip side of all that, we'd need to keep our same jobs -- or something along those lines -- to afford that lifestyle.  Our kids could fall victim to the hyper-competitive thing that goes on here and become total stress cases at age thirteen.  They might feel like poor relations at school since we aren't in finance or part of high society.  They might become snooty, overly urbane.  We'll have to work hard to keep their sense of a coherent family life, with our far-flung friends and relatives and our demanding jobs.

Then there's, say, the Down South life.  We could live close to Allison, David and Maggie, or to my parents, or somewhere in between.  If we were in Charlotte, we could have some of the trappings of a smallish city but be able to have a good-sized house, get together with our best friends whenever we want, watch our kids grow up together and be within a reasonable drive of my parents.  Charlotte has some good schools and a diverse population.  The climate is a touch warm for my taste, but they still have seasons, and we could spend summer weekends on the Outer Banks or the cooler climes of Asheville (with Allison & Co., obviously!).   

But.  THE DRIVING.  After living here for so long, taking the subway everywhere or getting around by foot, it would be tough to adjust to having to hop in the car to go buy a bagel or shuttle kids around.  Charlotte has a little bit of the Atlanta complex going on, where the city grows by sprawling all over the place, and the next thing you know you have a crazy commute and spend ages sitting in traffic. 

Then there's the Small Town life.  Say we somehow found some means of livelihood in the town where I grew up (which is hard to imagine, since commercial litigation is not a booming part of the local economy), we could live in a renovated Craftsman or Victorian house in the historic downtown area, which is within walking distance of a lot of stuff (although people would probably break their necks staring at the freaky people using their legs to get around instead of a car).  I could take adult ballet classes at my old studio and act in the town theater group.  There would be Girl Scouts, swimming lessons, youth group -- oh, and LOTS of grandparent time (also free babysitting -- woo!). 

On the other hand, going back to one's hometown could be...confining, in a way.  I could not WAIT to get out of there when I was growing up.  Just couldn't wait.  I love going back there and seeing people I know, seeing people who care about me and support me, but living there is a different story.  It's diverse, but not VERY diverse, at least not in terms of interracially adopted kids or Asian kids in general (though that is changing, slowly).  And it would be very weird to have a former football player from my graduating class, who never struck me as the brightest bulb, teaching my kid social studies.

Then there is the X option, the various cities that seem cool but we don't know them super-well, like Portland or SF (I've been there, but under weird circumstances and I didn't get a real feel for it) or Chicago (LOVE, love; I would move there in a second), or...I don't know, some college town somewhere -- Boulder, maybe. 

The upsides to, say, a Chicago would be that it's a great city but more manageable and liveable than New York in some ways (cost, for example).  For some reason, even the suburbs of Chicago seem more acceptable to me than the New York 'burbs do.  I love the Midwest, the cleanliness and hominess and NICEness of it all.  We could take road trips to the dunes on the Great Lakes, just like my family did when I was a kid; we could go for football weekends in Ann Arbor.  We'd still have a major airport nearby.  We have some friends there, and some family.  I guess the biggest problem is that we'd have to stick with law firm-type jobs, and we wouldn't exactly be getting an upgrade on weather (this is my husband's principal objection to Chicago, by the way -- he is big on weather). 

So that's pretty much the dilemma.  I know I need to chill out.  I need to enjoy the here and now and let things unfold, especially for the near term while we (ONE DAY) get settled with our baby.  But you can see how there's a lot here to keep my mind occupied (especially as the wait goes ON AND ON). 

What do you think -- if you could live anywhere, where would it be, and why?  Any further insights also appreciated. 

You guys rule.

Unsettled

When Cathy and I get together, we often find ourselves having the "what are we going to DO?" conversation.  We're not unhappy or anything -- we both have good, stable jobs, marriages, families, etc. -- but the existential crisis appears to be ongoing for both of us.  The central issue, really, is living in New York, and whether it's possible to hack it for the long haul.

As you all have gathered by now, I love it here.  For the most part.  A lot of the time.  Even though the guy next to me on the subway the other day was reading his paper all spread-eagled and kept hitting me with his elbow, and then he started digging in his ear for wax, which he proceeded to wipe on the lapel of his coat. 

But few people settle in Manhattan for good, mostly because the real estate is so expensive, but also because people decide they want more space, a backyard, a Target.  I don't really crave any of those things so much (well, an extra bedroom, maybe), and many of the trappings of suburban/exurban living do not appeal to me in the slightest; I have no desire to take on a brutal commute just to have a whole house instead of an apartment. 

When I moved here I didn't think of it as a permanent thing -- I suppose because most people don't consider it to be a permanent thing, so why should I?  In fact, I'm not sure I gave it much thought at all.  I remember in college I would imagine my life-to-be, and it involved a white picket fence and a Volvo and a summer house on Nantucket.  In my daydream life, my as-yet-unknown-husband and I would alternate holidays and summer getaways with each of our families. His family would be fresh-faced and jocular; they would play touch football in fisherman's sweaters and jeans on a sprawling lawn by the ocean.  In the evenings we would drink wine and eat homemade pie and laugh uproariously by a fire, and I would trade clothes with my mystery husband's sister(s).   

Location-wise, I guess I thought that my future husband would get jobs in different places and I would go with him and do whatever I was going to do (write, I suppose, and drive the kids to and from ballet and violin lessons in the aforementioned Volvo) in those places.  That's basically what my parents did -- my dad's career led us to relocate a few times, and in each new place my mom was able to pick up teaching and community service and so forth without a break in her stride.  The model of going someplace and simply staying there wasn't something I thought about. 

Almost eleven years later, I'm still here, and despite the absence of a Volvo or a Kennedy-esque family-in-law, we have no immediate plans to leave -- and if we did want to leave, it's unlikely to be by some happenstance; we would have to make the decision to get out of here and then make it happen. 

The odd thing is, New York feels like home now.  I like the instant gratification of being here, the laziness it permits, and the convenience of mass transit.  I have friends here (not a ton of them since so many have left, but they're good friends, and I'm branching out and meeting new people, too, like Molly -- we met on Saturday for coffee, and she's smart and cool and thoughtful, and I am so glad to have her in our 'hood so we can have drinks and chat and meet each others' dogs).  I'm establishing a community for us and our future family through church and that sort of thing.  I think this is a great place to have kids (except for the whole space thing and the cutthroat preschool admissions thing, but that's another story) because of all the stuff to do and the park and the proximity to whatever you want.  And we own a comfortable apartment, blah blah. 

Even so, when we go to other cities and states, I think about whether I could live there.  I frequently look at real estate websites in far-flung cities -- including some we've never even visited -- and ponder what kind of house and lifestyle we might have in Portland or Charlotte or San Francisco or Chicago or Atlanta; I search for Montessori schools and ballet studios and Vietnamese cultural centers for our daughter, possible employers for us, and a thriving art/food/cuture scene for the entire family.  I ponder whether the lower cost of living would mean I could write or open my bakery/book shop or take a class at a local university.  But I don't act on these things -- I don't send out resumes or contact realtors or anything.  I just think about them.

Ultimately, I'm not sure if I simply need to know that there are other options out there, that if this city has its way with us and tosses us out on our butts, we'll have a backup, a place to go, a pretty life waiting for us somewhere.  I don't know if it's that I really WANT to live elsewhere and do other things; rather, it's that maybe one day I will want to or have to for some reason.  Or perhaps it's just a New York Thing, being uncertain and unconvinced and a little unsatisfied about the whole thing, just like you're always sure that someone else got the best table in the restaurant or the last warm bagel. 

I worry to some degree that, being this way, I'm taking away from my enjoyment of the life we have now, and the life we're likely to have for the foreseeable future; still, it's hard to imagine shutting it all out and treating this as 100% permanent. But who knows; maybe one day, amid all this searching, the answer will simply present itself, and it will be clear as day what and who and where I'm meant to be, at least for the next stretch of years.  Or maybe it will be clear that I'm already there.   

Do You Creflo?

Do you all have Creflo A. Dollar where you live?  A month or two ago, I saw an ad on the subway for a book by Creflo A. Dollar; it was one of those inspirational books about taking control of your life, your goals and your career.  The name was so awesome it stuck with me (I asked my husband if we could maybe name the baby Creflo; he said no, but I am thinking that's just because this one is a girl -- next time, we'll go for a boy and I'll bring it up again), and a week or so after that I was flipping through the info guide on the TiVo and saw that, lo and behold, Creflo A. Dollar has some kind of program on the Prayer Channel.  I haven't endeavored to find out more about him, because I kind of want to let my imagination fill out the details of someone with that fantastic of a name. 

Last night, we were playing Scrabble -- actually, Super Scrabble, because that's just what the cool people do on a Saturday night -- and I was waiting for my turn.  (By the way, does anyone else out there play games with a Long Turn Taker?  I was prepared for this in my husband because my dad is the same way; it's best when settling in with them for a round of Trivial Pursuit or similar to have a novel nearby or perhaps the Sunday Times crossword -- you'll have some down time while waiting for them to make a move, is all I'm saying). 

Anyway, I was looking over the board, plotting my next brilliant use of three I's, two U's, an N and a V, and I realized that the board had perfectly arranged itself, with "DOLLAR" going slap down the middle and the F in "FIB" placed just so above it, such that someone with a fortuitious selection of tiles could form the words "CREFLO DOLLAR."

Of course, I couldn't keep this to myself, so I pointed it out, and we readily agreed that the first person to spell "CREFLO DOLLAR" would get a triple word score on it -- as well as, of course, the lasting joy of having accomplished such a Scrabble coup.  (No room for the middle initial, sadly, but still!) 

We spent the next few turns hoarding L's and O's and squinching up our faces in suspense as we picked new letters.  I was a C away -- I had RE-LO -- when my husband, having poker-faced it through my turn, triumphantly placed down the missing letters.  He won a whole mess of points, and ultimately the game, and is generally the king of Scrabble, at least until the next time.  But I doubt Creflo will make another appearance on our board, so it won't be quite as exciting.  

In case anyone has ever harbored any illusion that big city lawyer types do anything remotely glamorous with their Saturday evenings, I hope that I have cleared that up once and for all.  To complete the Portrait of a High-Powered Saturday Evening, afterward we watched some DVDs of "The Brady Bunch."

Today (Sunday), we went to a matinee of "Come Back, Little Sheba," a play by William Inge starring S. Epatha Merkerson, of "Law & Order" fame.  It was stunning, just devastating and real in so many ways.  S. Epatha (or S.?  Or Epatha?) was phenomenal as a Midwestern housewife in a tired marriage with a haunting past, trying to make the best of things. The whole thing just ripped you up in so many ways, even as it managed to have moments of great humor and light.  The sets were wonderful, too -- I love sets and costumes, and I love the details of sets especially:  the worn rug, the frayed doily on the back of the couch, the box of Quaker Oats on top of the fridge. 

I love the theater generally, so much more than the movies, and before I come off as a total snob I should note that the plays I love are very simple, without fancy, hifalutin' dialogue or obscure themes.  They're slices of life, sketches of people so human you just want to go up on the stage and hug them all and pat their arm until they know it will all be ok. 

I feel like so much in film is cheating, in a way, and in the theater no one gets away with faking it -- not the actors, the director, the lighting designer.  You know?  And Hollywood has cheapened so much; for every fantastic movie that sets you afire, there are twelve or more multi-bajillion dollar crapfests like "Fools Gold" out there. I feel so lucky to be able to go to this sort of thing, to hop on the subway, go a few stops to the theater district, and afterward come out a little changed, at least momentarily more thoughtful, anyhow.  We walked home in snow that blew sideways through the streets, while the avenues stayed totally dry. 

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

For the most part, since I've lived in the city I've been lucky with neighbors.  Either I've lived in pre-war buildings with solid, nearly soundproof walls or I've lived next door to people, whether they're elderly or hermit-like or possibly dead, who didn't make much noise. 

In our last building, we had people (young, jerky frat boys, fresh out of college) on our floor who liked to let their door slam shut with wall-shaking force every time they came or went, but I managed to put the kibosh on that by sticking my head out into the hall and ever-so-politely asking them to maybe cushion the blow a bit, as we were tired of having our pictures fall off the walls whenever they came home from work. 

In our place now, things are generally low-key; I've never heard a peep from the guys who live on the other side of our living room wall and the ceilings/floors are thick enough that, unless someone's doing a tap dance routine with fire crackers (reference, anyone?), we haven't heard it.  There's one guy somewhere in the building who occasionally gets in a good door slam, but it isn't frequent enough to be much of a bother. 

The one complaint we have here is that our upstairs neighbor, a young European guy -- a really nice fellow with great style and a gorgeous apartment (with a massive terrace, daaaaaamn him) -- has parties with some regularity.  Usually they're not a big deal, and after cranking up our white noise machine we can fall asleep to the low thump of bass overhead. 

Sometimes, though, like last night, it apparently turns into Dance Party USA up there, and we are jarred awake by the revelry and by the vibration of our bed from the pulsing bass.  I was roused awake at five o'clock this morning during a vivid dream in which I had befriended Kal Penn (hero of "Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle," of course) while I was rushing to finish several term papers that I needed to complete to graduate (when will the academic anxiety dreams end??  I've been out of school for eight years!).  It sounded as though someone was using a pile-driver over our heads. 

I tried for a while to go back to sleep, but it was unbearably loud, and then someone started flipping through songs on whatever seizure-inducing Techno Pulse Beat Bassfest '08 CD they had on, so you'd hear "THUMP THUMP THUMP THU-- {pause}  CHK CHK CHK CH--... {pause}  DODODO-DODODO--" and it was clear that no one would be getting any rest until these people were stopped.

I briefly considered throwing on my robe over my dingy sweatpants and oversized t-shirt and heading upstairs to pound on the door and insist on QUIET like an old codger of the sort last seen on "Punky Brewster", but between my mouthguard, my sleep breath and my untamed hair, I was not in any shape to be in the presence of a bunch of stiletto-clad, Bordeaux-sipping French women, especially while playing the part of the Grouchy Neighbor.  So I stumbled out to the living room and called 411, and had them connect me to the guy's number.  I got either voicemail or the machine (because, obviously, who could hear the phone ringing over that EAR-CRUSHING DIN), and left a plaintive, groggy message asking for them to please, please, please turn the music down, and were they aware it was 5 AM? 

I don't know if the party-goers heard me leaving my message or what, but there were some scrapes of furniture and rat-tat-tatting of heels and then, blessedly, the thumping muffled to a sleep-friendly level, and I was able to nestle back in for a few more hours of shut-eye.  I am pretty sure, by the way, that the party was still going when I left the house around 9:30 to go for a run. 

So this wasn't so much of an interesting story as a way of me telling you that I am old and cranky, and that I can't remember the last time I saw five in the morning from the OTHER side, the side with flowing Champagne and clingy velvet camisoles and delirious music and flirtatious laughter.  (Oh wait!  Actually, we did stay out until four when we were in Spain, but since we were (1) in a foreign country; (2) attending a wedding and (3) jet-lagged, it hardly counts). 

I am ok with that; I really am.  I can only imagine the level of sleep-deprived mood swings that would occur if I stayed up all night at this age and life stage;  I am fairly certain that no one around me would survive the reign of terror.  Having your sleep interrupted is one thing; remaining awake for more than 36 hours on end is quite another. 

As I drifted back to sleep in the dark of our room, I smiled to myself, thinking of how things will be a few months from now, with a small, often wailing human in the house.  We'll be tired, yes, but oh how I can't wait to get our upstairs neighbor back with the help of the healthy lungs of a small child, which will undoubtedly be exercised when he's trying to sleep off a night of bon vivance.  Bwah ha ha ha!

No Country for Old Men

So I was sitting in church on Sunday -- by myself, because the hubs was back home convalescing with the giant hole in his mouth, which somehow brings to mind an image of a cartoon man with a kerchief tied around his jaw and a thermometer sticking out of his mouth, and to be honest it wasn't far off from that -- and in the middle of the sermon I felt a tap on my shoulder. 

I turned around and saw an old man sitting behind me, probably in his late sixties or so, with hair on its way out, a paunchy belly and glasses that glinted in the low light of the sanctuary.  He leaned toward me and whispered, "Have you been here before?"  He had a strong Brooklyn accent.  His hushed voice seemed to reverberate up to the vaulted Gothic ceilings and back again. 

I nodded curtly, to discourage further dialogue because, hello, someone else, namely the associate minister, was talking, and if there's a fast way to irritate people, it's talking while someone else is talking (that's what landed me in the corner on the first day of second grade, so I should know).  Undeterred, he asked if I was going to the coffee hour after the service. 

I shook my head and started to turn back around, but he nudged me again and asked, "Do you live in the neighborhood?"  I shook my head again.  He pulled himself closer to the back of my pew and whispered, "Would you like to get a cuppa coffee sometime?" 

I'm sorry...what? 

I said in a rush that my husband was sick and I had to get home after, and I shrugged sort of apologetically and probably half-gestured toward the priest (again:  someone else talking), and he sort of gave a dismissive wave and said he was sorry (for my husband being sick? for bothering me? I don't know), and I turned around and tried to focus on the sermon.  When it was over, the man hunched into his puffy coat and hustled up the aisle and out onto the street before the ushers came around with the collection plates.

I'm just not sure what happened, exactly.  Was he lonely and wanted someone to talk to?  Did he come to church thinking he would find people willing to listen?  Did he think I looked like a nice person, or a kindred spirit?  Was he being...predatory?  Did I remind him of someone?  Was he new in town? 

I assumed he was just another New York weirdo, since I have an unusual talent for attracting New York weirdos, especially weird men (I must look the least likely to carry pepper spray and/or a gun, as compared with other women here). 

But then I wondered if maybe it was some kind of test, a way of seeing how compassionate I could be toward a stranger, a person who might be in need.  I worried that I'd been too dismissive, that if he was upset or lonely I could have done something, that I'd failed this cosmic test.  I mean, if he'd chosen a more opportune time to approach me -- say, AFTER the service -- maybe I could have shown him the way to the coffee hour so he could find more people and meet the clergy (not like I'm such a regular, but whatever), maybe he could have made a friend or two.   

But it was just so odd, and it happened so fast, and it seemed off, somehow, and my instinct was to end the exchange as quickly as possible.  Still, it makes me sad in the way that only lonely old men can make me sad.  I hope he finds whatever, or whomever, he's looking for.       

The Nightmare Before Thanksgiving

{stifling a scream}

Is that not the scariest thing you've ever seen?  As if Ronald McDonald isn't frightening enough already.  Sheesh. 

Kermit and Frosty were decidedly less creepy. 

(Do not adjust your television screen.  This is, in fact, an extremely blurry photo.  It kind of makes my head hurt.) 

These shots are admittedly awful.  I had brought my little digital camera, but the batteries were dead, so I had to shoot with my new BlackBerry, and between the long shutter lag and the jostling crowds, it did not make for ideal photography conditions. 

Ok, so that's it.  That's your Macy's parade preview.  Enjoy, and have a great Thanksgiving!   

Serenity Now

Please forgive any typos in this post, as my muscles are so gooey that I barely have the ability to stand up, let alone use fine motor skills.  I just returned from a spa day.  As you may recall, I went for one last March and had what may be the world's most perfect spa experience.  My return visit did not disappoint, but it wasn't quite as unassailable as the first time. 

Last time, my masseuse (aesthetician? massage therapist? I just don't know) was this...well, she was like an earthbound goddess, really, with ivory skin and flowing red hair, and she had the most soothing demeanor on the planet.  She spoke in calm, hushed tones and her every move was carefully choreographed to enhance the overall experience of relaxation.  She hardly made a sound as she floated around the room, preparing oils and scrubs and adminstering her firm but gentle hands to my dehydrated skin and tense, weary muscles.  I was able to clear my mind of everything but the awareness of each sensation.

This time, my person was excellent at the deep tissue massage (oh, the delicious AGONY of the knots being ground out with elbows and forearms and fingers) and the facial cleanse and the scalp rub; she executed the treatments well and everything, but she lacked a certain panache.  Her voice was a hair too loud, her speech a wee bit too casual, and her movement a little...well, clumsy, actually. 

First, she messed up this thing they do at the beginning of the session where they ring a little Tibetan bell (to clear your chakras, or some such thing -- it's surprisingly pleasant).  Her first ring kind of misfired, so she had to clamp her hand over the bell and start again.  Then after I was nestled under the towels, awaiting the start of the body scrub, she puttered around the room, not even trying to be especially quiet, opening and shutting cabinets and occasionally bumping into things -- and all I could think was, "WE ONLY HAVE TWO HOURS AND I NEED TO LEAVE HERE PERFECTLY RELAXED, WOMAN, SO LET'S GO." 

And the topper was that -- twice -- she dropped something, I guess the cap to a jar or bottle, and both times it bounced about on the bamboo floor for what seemed like hours, before she was able to stop it with her shoe and pick it up again.  It kind of broke my concentration, is all.  And with everything that's been flying about in my head lately (see how mellow YOU feel when someone threatens to take YOUR as-yet-unknown Vietnamese baby away), suffice it to say that I needed TOTAL CONCENTRATION to relax. 

In the end it was all worthwhile, of course, and even with those hiccups I came out all mushy and baby-soft and radiant and soothed, and I feel like if I relax just a little bit more, I may actually slip into a coma.  (Although the pain of the deep tissue massage cannot be exaggerated; I kept trying to breathe through it, to help release the knots with my exhales, but OH GOD, it hurt -- yet the release of tension and toxins is so worth the pain.  Also, the precursor to the body treatment is this thing where they scratch you up with a camel-hair brush, which feels like being scrubbed with a Brillo pad and you sort of lay there feeling like your skin is on fire.  Again, painful process, soothing results.) (What kind of a masochist am I?)

Of course, the first part of my spa experience -- no matter where it occurs, on vacation or at home -- is always compromised by my rather anxiety-ridden inner monologue.  Between all the interactions with people who are trying to cater to me (which always makes me a little uncomfortable, even as I welcome it) and also all of the nakedness (question:  is it BUTT-naked or BUCK-naked?  And if it's the latter, why?), there are just so many opportunities for awkwardness and missteps.  To wit:

In the reception area, sipping my complimentary tea:  How long should I sit here sipping this complimentary tea?  I don't want to toss it back like a shot, but I need to get changed and everything; I don't want to feel rushed before my treatment.  Is the receptionist staring at me?  Oh no -- she thinks I'm finished, but I'm not, she's coming with the tray; should I give her the cup with tea still in it?  OK, she realized I wasn't done and retreated...but now I AM finished.  Do I make eye contact?  Signal her?  Get up?  MY GOD, THE PRESSURE.

In the changing room:  Should I change here in front of my locker, or over there by the towels?  Maybe here by the locker.  [Pull off jeans]  Eep!  Someone just walked in and the first thing they saw was my bare butt...maybe I'll move over there by the towels. 

In the Vitality Pool (hee, goofy name -- but OH HOW AWESOME):  Why do there have to be other people in here?  Damn.  How are all four of those women so toned?  They must only be friends with other super-toned women.  Look at them -- are they athletes?  Dancers?  Jeez.  Howcome all my running doesn't give me perfect abs like that?  Oh, yeah, it's probably all the Cheez-Its.  At least I can't hear them over the roar of the hot tub.  If I close my eyes I won't know they're here.  Wait.  Why did I wear my watch in here?  Now I have to hold my left arm out of the water.  I look like a fool.  And why did I bring a cup of water in with me?  Now I have to sit here holding it after it's empty.  I'm sitting here in a massive hot tub with both arms held awkwardly out of the water.  I am an ass.  Oh God, what if I pass out when I get up?  I've been in here 20 minutes -- it could happen.  I could get a head rush and pass out.  The super-toned women would tell all of their other super-toned friends about the girl who sat in the hot tub with her arms held awkwardly out of the water and who passed out when she stood up to get out.  Why won't they just leave?  LEAVE, bitches!  Oh, FINE, I'll leave.  I have to pee anyway.

Maybe one day I will win the lottery and have enough money to buy out the spa so I don't have to deal with other people, especially groups of women.  Who can relax with groups of other women around, particularly when everyone is in various stages of undress? 

You know, the whole thing is kind of hilarious, in a way.  We live these lives that whip us into a frenzy of stress and anxiety, such that we have to go spend a few hours and a few hundred bucks being placated with aromatic oils and honey-ginger tea, and there's just so much PRESSURE on the whole thing, for it to be this perfect aesthetic experience compressed into a few hours, and you want not to have to share it with anyone or to have someone dropping bottle caps around you while you're TRYING TO RELAX, and then when you emerge from the Few Hours of Sensual Delight into the world, you have to ride the elevator down with a screaming baby, you get stuck behind some slow-moving MORON on the sidewalk, and then you can't get a cab uptown to save your life.  And it begins again.      

Biddies and Sloth

Some old bat wrote into the New York Times last weekend to complain that, on the day of the marathon, she found it difficult to drive from the Bronx to Brooklyn.  Gee...really?  The day they have over 30,000 runners making their way through all five boroughs was not a good day for tooling about, trying to get somewhere that is IN THE MIDDLE of the race route?  You could tell the lady was about 500 years old and probably arrived in New York at the same time as Washington's Army.  Old enough to know better than to DRIVE AROUND on marathon day, that is. 

New York's elderly have got to be the most cantankerous people on the planet.  When you see an old woman with a cane, a walker, or one of those creaky metal shopping carts, get out of the way.  They will not hesitate to run your ass over, or at least shove you off the sidewalk before you even know what's happening.  Especially if it's raining.  And God forbid you get behind one at the bank or the Metrocard machine.  You will die a slow death as the tedious transaction unfolds, as the clock begins to turn backward and it appears that you will never know life outside of that artificially lit spot in the universe. 

I get that you develop sort of a thick skin living here (unless you're me, a total softie and naive as the day is long), but the almost violent sense of self-importance is something else entirely.  In my hometown, the old ladies are kindly and church-going; they drink sweet tea and eat orange blossoms and play bridge.  Here, I get the feeling a lot of them carry guns.  Or at least know how to use one. 

Separately, I thought I would revisit the list I made last May of things I would do to pass the time until our referral (which I'm sure I needn't remind you we do not have yet).  Let's see how many of these things I've accomplished, shall we?

-- Learn Vietnamese:  Well, I started the Rosetta Stone program.  And I've gotten through three lessons.  I know how to say, "The girl is walking" and "the airplane is flying" and "the boy is on the horse", all of which I am sure will come in handy when we travel.  Time to step it up.

-- Work on my book and/or screenplay:  Bahahaha!  Yeah.  Well, I have tinkered with the novel (subtracting more than adding; I think it is now shorter than when I started the tinkering by about 10 pages) and started working on something else, but I have gotten exactly nowhere with either project.  Or any project.  If only I could figure out why attempting to write anything real instantaneously puts me into a coma -- it's the damnedest thing; I'm writing one minute, and the next I am dead asleep on the couch.  It is not the most productive system.

-- Join and become active in church:  Yyyyyeah.  Still have those good intentions; still haven't acted on them.  Although we did go to church...once...back in June.  Awesome.

-- Raise money for a charitable cause:  Yes!  Yes!  We did this one!  We've raise over $6,200 for Child's Play.  Woo hoo!  Still not quite up to our goal, but close.  And they're going to begin construction on two of the playgrounds after Tet!  Mission (almost) accomplished. 

-- Run the marathon again:  Well, we know how that turned out.  Next.

-- Read a lot:  I think you could say I've read a lot, and I've certainly read a lot about Vietnam.  I'll consider this one accomplished, even though it's a work in progress, and kind of a softball since I'm always reading.

-- Go to Spain and Des Moines:  Check!  (Not exactly strenuous items, but...check!)

-- Spend time with friends:  I have not made tremendous strides in socializing, but I have gotten to see quite a lot of people I've wanted to see in the past six months.  And just last weekend I reconnected with a girlfriend I hadn't seen since last March -- and she actually lives here.  So this is a half-check.

-- Be a tourist in my own city:

Cooper-Hewitt
City Island
New York Botanical Garden
Brooklyn Botanical Garden
Ellis Island
Day trip to Montauk/Hamptons
Coney Island
See a play (Inherit the Wind)
Day trip to Mystic, New Haven, Princeton and/or Philadelphia
Walk around Williamsburg
Host a kitchen-warming party

One.  We did ONE of these things.  To be fair, we spent a lot of weekends away and had people visiting as well, so the summer seemed to...dissipate without a lot of time for wandering about.  Plus lots of our weekend hours involve taking advantage of city-specific stuff, like Central Park, which isn't exactly new to us, but we love it and it's...well, it's touristy to other people.  So that should sort of count. 

Well, that was a great reminder that I have done basically none of the things I wanted to do in the last six months.  I thought having them down in writing would motivate me -- I do love the act of crossing things off of a list -- but apparently not.  What is my problem?  Am I too ambitious?  Do I set my sights too high?  Or am I truly lazy, as I suspect is really the issue here? 

I think I need to go lie down. 

On the Sidelines

This weekend involved a lot of running...by other people. 

Yesterday, we strolled outside with the dog and hit the loop just as the pace vehicles passed for the Men's marathon Olympic trials.  We got to see Ryan Hall go blazing by, the other runners trailing him by nearly a minute -- an eternity, it seemed.  I jogged back and forth between the sides of the park to see the leaders on their last couple of laps.  I'm always amazed at how relaxed the elites are, how they seem to glide over the road even when they're streaking up and down the (killer) hills of Central Park at a pace that I couldn't match for even a minute. 

After I got home and retired to the couch (all that spectating wore me out), I learned of Ryan Shay's tragic death early in the course, which seems about as senseless as it gets.  My thoughts are with his family and friends. 

This morning, we went to the park again, this time to watch the top runners soar through mile 24 of the New York City Marathon.

Holy muscle definition, right?  That Paula Radcliffe is something else.  She just took off right from the start and never let up.  Look how far she gets off the ground with her stride!  You could drive a car under there!  Next to her, I do not run.  I SHUFFLE.  Oh, and by the way, she had a baby nine months ago.  Anyone else feeling inadequate right about now?

Here's Tegla Laroupe, two-time winner of the NYC Marathon and the first African woman to win the race, working it out:

I'm still feeling mopey and lame that I didn't bother to train this year -- naturally, it's a perfect day for the race and it would have been amazing to be out there with the crowds again and all that.  Ah, well.  Watching these kickass runners has at least somewhat relit a fire under me to get out there more than my wan 3 or 4 times a week lately, and to get back into Road Runners races.  They're worth doing even when you're as slow as I am, and they're good for motivation in those long, dark winter months. 

More importantly, with more races and maybe some speed work thrown in, I can eat all the more pumpkin chocolate chip loaf cake and mulled cider, which I had the pleasure of consuming this weekend (nothing goes better with a crisp day and a Michigan football game than mulled cider -- just throw some cider in a saucepan and simmer it with a couple of cinnamon sticks, a pinch of cloves, allspice, nutmeg and ginger, and if you're feeling kicky, some cardamom...mmm). 

It's fun being on the sidelines sometimes (except when you have to jostle your way to the side of the course and then you've been standing there in your spot for half an hour and just as a pack of runners approaches some French dude steps RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU as if he has some God-given right to stand there -- oh, and also, someone near us was smoking weed...the hell?), but for me there's nothing like having a moment -- however brief and however dim -- in the spotlight.  Plus, there's still the matter of my wanting to get a better time out on that course after last year's injury debacle and the previous year's smothering heat.  I do have a guaranteed entry for next year...

(Ignore my crappy time -- I was hurt!  I spent probably 30 minutes total in medical tents!  Bah!)