When a Cigar is More Than Just a Cigar

When I pass the United Nations headquarters in Manhattan, I think about my father, and not really because his diplomacy was occasionally the only thing that prevented our Brooklyn apartment from erupting into all out war. I think about riding in the back seat of his Cadillac on Saturday mornings, catching a glimpse of the windowless southern flank of the soaring symbol of peaceful international coexistence as we turned off the FDR Drive onto the 42nd street exit.

We were, more often than not, on our way to Bloomingdale's. Both my parents looked forward to these Saturday morning excursions. My mother was always impeccably dressed in whatever designer clothing was in vogue at the time. My father, as I recall, was impeccably dressed in Sans-a-belt slacks and, usually, a sport coat. My mother's credit cards were fired up. My father's cigar was ready to be fired up. He had everything he needed with him: the cigar, the tiny guillotine he would use to cut off the tip, a lighter, and his New York Times. I don't remember being particularly excited about the trip, but I don't remember being particularly unexcited either. It was just part of the routine -- as predictable as reading the cereal boxes while I ate breakfast and sipped milk laced with coffee at our tiny kitchen table.

Rounding the corner to head north on 1st Avenue, I would marvel at the broad gleaming windowed facade of the U.N. and the rainbow of international flags waving in the breeze. I rarely thought about what was going on inside, although I had been on a tour there, once, on a school trip. What fascinated me was the swiftness of the traffic flow on 1st Avenue. New York's urban planners had gotten things just right, syncing the traffic lights on 1st Avenue to facilitate uninterrupted trips north for a never ending stream of taxis, buses, and regular old passenger cars like ours. It was the reason we exited the FDR at 42nd rather than 61st, only a block north of our destination.

Intelligently programmed traffic lights: these are the things New Yorkers love about New York, the hidden gems that make life just a little easier in an otherwise overly hectic place. They are the things you take for granted the way you take all the famous tourist sites for granted -- you only notice them when they are gone. Which is why I was slightly annoyed the other day when, green light notwithstanding, I was held up so that a large black SUV with flashing blue and red lights could pull out of the United Nations gates. With its meager entourage of only one nondescript car, the SUV could not have been transporting anybody other than a minor dignitary. Nevertheless, diplomatic privileges trumped what I had long thought of as an entitlement to unimpeded progress all the way to East 59th Street.

The unexpected stall forced me to notice my surroundings, not the least of which was the massive tourist attraction to the right. What struck me, this time, was not the gleaming facade or the row of colorful flags but the small crowds of visitors with cameras poised so they could memorialize, I assume, their trip to the U.N., and not the marvel of the northbound traffic flow on 1st Avenue. They crisscrossed the broad street with abandon, thwarting our progress further as they focused with single minded attention on capturing a good shot. They were oblivious to the true beauty of the city, and they were pissing me off.

So many things have changed in New York since those days in the sixties and seventies when my father would chauffeur his ladies up to Bloomingdale's so he could enjoy a few hours of pure joy with his cigar and his Cadillac and his New York Times. Those were the days when cars had ashtrays, not cup holders. Those were the days before police cars stationed themselves at both ends of every bridge and tunnel crossing into Manhattan. I often wonder how they know when a passing car poses a threat and when, on the other hand, a passing car is just a passing car, just a Jewish guy with his cigar,  miniature guillotine, and butane lighter.

Almost a decade and a half after terrorists altered my favorite view from the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway of lower Manhattan, I am still annoyed. The ravaged southern tip of the island has been rebuilt and reinvented. It gleams with new restaurants and stores and hotels and a twenty-first century tower that soars out of Ground Zero to remind us of our resilience and our freedom (even though we decided not to call it the Freedom Tower). There are probably lots of tourists on the revamped streets, taking pictures, memorializing their visit. I think, though, they are missing the true gems of New York, the ones the natives count on, the gems that you notice most when they are gone, like the twin towers. I still see them when I look across the river from Brooklyn, their shadows like missing teeth in the skyline.

I miss them. I miss the Saturday morning excursions in my father's Cadillac. I miss the smell of his cigar. I miss the swift ride up 1st Avenue; I don't appreciate when interlopers with cameras and minor dignitaries in black SUV's interfere with my view of the world as it should be. At least I still have mom, and Bloomingdale's.

Stepping on Track

I still do not really get “Fitbit,” but I received one (after some not so subtle begging) as a Mothers Day gift last year and it may have taken nine months but I finally figured out how to install the software on my computer and sync the little device that can now accompany me everywhere.

The point, I suppose, of the step counting/calorie burning/calorie counting little widget is to improve my overall health and sense of well-being, and that point is well taken. When I pick it up in the morning, it greets me with a cheerful “HEY GORGEOUS,” which definitely makes me feel good (until I remember I composed the greeting myself). The complimentary hello is followed immediately by a warm and fuzzy message — “SMOOCHES” — which was so deliciously unexpected the first time I saw it I felt as if I had just received a surprise delivery of long stem roses. The device even vibrates occasionally, but not long enough to really change my life.

Despite its lack of stamina and the obvious limitations of its electronic morning cheer, I am determined to give “Fitbit” a fair chance. True, my sense of well-being took a bit of a nosedive when I could not figure out why, when I was logging my daily episodes of exercise for the week, the app required me to tell it how many calories I had burned, but I kept the expletives to myself and simply moved on to the food consumption questions. Talk about demoralizing. The food list was quickly becoming much longer than the exercise list, and I did not think my psyche could tolerate any computer generated computations regarding my abysmal intake/output ratio. I’m no genius, but I can do that math.

Moving on again, I arrived at the section that would enable me to accurately count how many glasses of water I have per day. Again, I’m no genius, but I can count to ten, which gives me more than enough wiggle room. I ignored the section that offered me the opportunity to chart “other” activities (although I did wonder what those might be) and decided to check out the discussion board. I figured some interaction with other Fitbit users might give me some inspiration.

Not happy and becoming more disgusted every day. Naturally, that was the topic heading that jumped out at me. I had to read on. Well, clearly not every “Fitbit” user is as optimistic and upbeat as I try to be. To say the “not happy” author was not happy would be a gross understatement; she seemed downright homicidal. Her first beef: “Fitbit is inconsistent on rewarding the coveted (emphasis added by me) “Very Active Minutes” (VAM).” Apparently, this woman walks the same route at the same exact speed every single day, yet on some days “Fitbit” inexplicably withholds coveted VAM. A string of gripes regarding “Fitbit’s” gross unfairness and unabashed favoritism followed, and then it became more about the device’s stupidity, as in “as long as you remain still, the Fitbit believes you are asleep.” Query: Can a thumb sized device that cannot even pass for a decent vibrator actually have a belief system?

The tirade went on for a few more paragraphs, and I was thinking if the “Fitbit” was just a little bit smarter and took some time to think about the consequences of its decisions this woman might not be so enraged. But, as she said, in her parting shot, “it doesn't take a genius to know that step cadence is what determines intensity of your walk and run... not the bloomin internal clock!” Like I said, I’m not a genius, and clearly neither is the Fitbit, but somebody needs to take this woman seriously before she hurts somebody.

All I know is yesterday, after the Fitbit recorded a meager 2500 steps for my entire day, it sent me an email congratulating me on earning my first “Happy Hill Badge.” Maybe it’s incompetence, maybe it’s stupidity, and maybe it’s not fair; or maybe “Fitbit” is onto something — rewarding positive mental attitude.

I responded to “Not happy” with a friendly suggestion that she change her “Fitbit” greeting from “MORNIN’ LOSER” to “HEY GORGEOUS.” It might not change her life, but it could make her feel good, and isn’t that the point?

Bent Into Shape

You know you're in a good yoga class when many of the students happen to also be yoga instructors. Kind of the way it works when you go to an ethnic restaurant and are surrounded by patrons who have likely cooked the stuff in their own kitchens. It's the real deal.

It wasn't easy getting to yoga this morning, even though the class is a three minute drive from home. Heat defies the laws of gravity in my townhouse, keeping my bedroom unbearably warm, but weather apps don't lie and when my phone informed me it was minus nine degrees early this morning my motivation to unfold my stiff limbs and fire up my creaking joints and actually go outside was decidedly low. By the time nature convinced me to either move or face a nasty pile of laundry, I had missed my usual class. I settled in with some Advil and coffee and tart cherry juice and omega-3 supplements and hoped my joints would be sufficiently greased for me to face the ten thirty advanced session. My knees and elbows ached just thinking about it.

By ten fifteen the temperature had risen to minus four -- doubled, actually, if you look at the numbers in the most positive light -- and I pushed myself out the door. One of the nice things about upper level yoga classes is all the wacky and often mismatched attire. This group has attained a level of spirituality that transcends fashionable health club clothing; sure, the Lululemon insignia makes more than a sporadic appearance, but all brands are welcome and often clash in amicable coexistence on the same body. It's all about openness and flexibility.

The very pregnant instructor whose class I had missed was already on her mat, her massive belly somehow leaving her equilibrium miraculously intact. The tall, quirky blond whose classes have become my favorite set her mat down right behind mine. I run into her everywhere these days, so I suppose it makes sense I would run into her at yoga. We have recognized in each other a strong spiritual connection, based in part on our ridiculous winter headgear and in part on our shared affinity for butter on our bagels. And, as it turns out, chocolate donuts. No cream cheese, no granola. Our bond is rare and special. She greeted me in code: "Hey, butter."

The energy in the room was contagious, the kind of energy you get when you are surrounded by people who know their craft. The tacos just taste better when the people at the other tables are Mexican. The instructor is lithe and striking, with black hair and alabaster skin. She speaks with authority and intelligence, and glides around the room like a ballerina. Under normal circumstances, I would despise her, but her class is like a gift. She started us out slowly, aware of the physical and mental effort it took for most of us to get there. Twenty minutes into it, when she had us stretching and contorting ourselves into unlikely poses, I had forgotten about the bone chilling cold, forgotten about my frustrations with work, forgotten about how lonely this first winter in an empty nest can be sometimes. Oh, I would pay for that extra deep twist, that extra long lunge, that exaggerated back bend later, but for an hour and fifteen minutes I became lost in the connectedness of my mind and my body and the illusion that anything was possible.

Everyone, it seemed, had become similarly lost, so much so that the instructor began to make fun of us. Our silence, our seriousness, our deep concentration -- she couldn't take it anymore. She coaxed us into a crazy balancing pose, making it more and more impossible every few seconds. "It's just yoga!" she said. "Would someone just fall already, maybe crack up?" We all laughed. A few of us toppled, some with embarrassing thuds. We continued on, still all enjoying the solitude of our own mind body connection, but enjoying, too, the support and companionship of like minded folks who fought against their own instincts to get there. We fell down, we pulled ourselves up. Or maybe pulled each other up. A feeling of wellness spread throughout the room, spread, well, like butter.

Lots of us have sleepless nights, for reasons that may not make sense to anyone else but certainly make sense to us. February in the northern half of the northern hemisphere is anything but pleasant, and contrary to the old adage, at least in my case, misery does not love company. I prefer to be miserable alone, which may be good for my friends who don't have to listen to my whining but isn't so good for me on a regular basis.

I expected nothing more from yoga today than survival and a feeling of satisfaction that comes from doing something. After all, it's just yoga. I reassured myself on the way in that I had the rest of the day to wallow in my own miseries, away from the crowd.  But I pushed my envelope a little bit and stumbled a few times and got up just as many times and even gave myself a break from the action once or twice without feeling like a failure.

And I enjoyed some good alone time with my mind and body while I enjoyed the energy and companionship of other like minded people. People who wear mismatched gym clothes and funny hats and like butter on their bagels.

Alone. Together.

Hearts and Flowers and Whips and Chains

Love is in the air.

Hopefully Friday the thirteenth will pass without incident and be all but forgotten as we wake to a weekend filled with chocolate hearts and red roses and pink champagne. And, topping off the romantic frenzy of Valentine's Day, the long anticipated opening of Fifty Shades of Grey.  

My heart swells just thinking about it -- me, alone in the back corner of a dark theatre, munching on the chocolates I purchased for myself, a rose tucked behind my ear, sipping cheap champagne through a straw. Despite the frigid temperatures outside, I will be dressing light for my evening at the movies, prepared for a sweat far more incapacitating than your average hot flash.

I never read any of the Grey books, in part because I was told the writing was really bad, and in part because I have little imagination and the books have no pictures so, really, what's the point. Although, come to think of it, in my experience pictures can be a real buzz kill. Maybe computer dating sites would be much more satisfying without pictures, without, in fact, ever having to move beyond the anonymous banter on a screen.

The other day, when I laid out my basic "rest of my life" plan for a friend -- to see Fifty Shades of Grey and to never again sign on to a computer dating site -- she thought I was being unduly pessimistic. About the dating sites anyway. "Have you tried Farmers Only yet?" She had a point. "And, you know, there's actually a cougar site now." Intriguing, but I think I'm better off with the farmers. I am well past my cougar prime, and I think I'd be better off in the long run with a plain old farmer, even if he smells a bit like manure.

Just for fun, we tried to find the cougar site. We were redirected to a website called milfs-r-us or something like that, which did not seem to contain any pictures of menopausal milfs in their fifties (grand-milfs?), which I found a bit discriminatory. In fact, the first eye-catching promotion featured a picture of an unnaturally buxom thirty-something blond with the tagline "[Bleep] hot older women in POTWIN." Older than what, I'm not sure, but I was intrigued by POTWIN. Spelled out in all caps, I assumed it was an anagram for some unimaginable sexual position. We Googled POTWIN. As it turns out, it's a city in Kansas. A city in Kansas that boasts lots of interesting things to see and do, none of which involve "bleeping" sex starved moms. Although there is a pottery class, and who knows what they do while the clay hardens.

But back to thoughts of romance and a ticket to Fifty Shades. I have been told the book is un-put-downable, despite the dismal prose. I have also been told it's a love story. Okay. I am certainly no expert. I suppose there's a lid for every pot, a wrist for every handcuff. I wonder if the farmers like to rope their women. I wonder what really goes on behind the white picket fences of POTWIN.

Well, something is in the air this weekend, even if it's not really love. Maybe it's just the exhaust fumes from all the snow plows. I'll probably save the chocolate and champagne for bedtime, and just go with popcorn for the movie. Extra butter of course. It's Valentine's Day, and I'm going to make the most of it.

The Class of '76

Different but vaguely familiar. Or similar but vaguely different. It's all semantics really, but I can't decide which is the more apt description of the old friends with whom I reunited last weekend.

Social media has enabled us to stay in touch, at least since somebody made the effort to reconnect a few years ago. No matter how much we told each other how little we had changed over the years, we were all at least a little bit taken aback by the middle aged women who showed up to our brunch. Nevertheless, social media facilitated a seamless sequence of welcoming hugs. Though it had been more than thirty-five years for some of us, we all had at least some realistic expectations and were in little danger of being hauled off my New York's finest for inappropriately embracing some unsuspecting teenager.

There were six of us -- some going all the way back to elementary school together, but all of us intersecting, in varying degrees of closeness, in high school. After graduation, we all went our separate ways to decent schools, we all earned advanced degrees in something, we all got married and had children. Though we cannot believe how old we have become, we are still all a bit young for having graduated from high school in 1976. Back then, the New York City school system enriched its higher scoring students by skipping them right past eighth grade. The acceleration was not so much about enriched education as it was about getting us out of the dangerous junior highs as swiftly and safely as possible. We were not, by any means, all gifted. We were, for the most part, white kids from two-parent households, most of us with moms who would be waiting for us at home at three o'clock with milk and cookies. 

New York City long ago abandoned the program that protected its smarter kids by releasing them into the larger world before they were fully cooked. These days, metal detectors and armed security guards have eliminated the need for developmentally unsound acceleration. We veterans of the skipped eighth grade struggled a bit because of our youth back then, and though we were never particularly impressed by our quickened pace we all secretly enjoy the reaction other people have to our seeming intellectual prowess. For an occasional self esteem boost, we have all, I am sure, kept the realities of the New York City school system to ourselves. 

Our own children, for the most part, grew up in suburbia, insulated from kids who grow up without a mom in tennis clothes or a thoroughly vetted babysitter waiting for them at three o'clock with a plate of gluten-free cookies and a soy latte. Their schools had lock down procedures, mostly to keep outsiders out, and not to protect them from a large percentage of the student body. Administrators keep a close watch for the occasional troubled kid inside the building. 

No matter how ready they are, chronologically, to go out in the world, our children venture out now into a place far more dangerous than the hallways of the New York City public schools in the seventies. I came out relatively unscathed, physically at least, having only suffered an occasional poke in the butt cheek with a compass needle or the lingering trauma of a menacing glance. But I didn't worry all that much about terror on public transportation or skyscrapers collapsing or threats of total annihilation by angry bands of faceless people in faraway and unhappy places. 

Every generation has its challenges, I suppose, whether they are different but vaguely familiar or similar but vaguely different. The best we can hope for, sometimes, is to come out safely and relatively unscathed on the other side. It was great to see my old friends after so many years, great to see that they have all come out safely on the other side. There are ties that bind us from childhood, and hopefully those ties will keep us together both on social media and for an occasional brunch. 

I felt a little shaky leaving the safety of that table to venture out, once again, into my own world. It was comforting to reconnect with old friends, survivors of a shared past, and survivors, I hope, of a shared albeit uncertain future. 

Mission Impossible

My fingers were numb by the time I wandered into a Starbucks on Bleecker Street. Even though I grew up in New York and, far more recently roamed the streets of the West Village with my son when he was a student here, I always get turned around here. Down here, the neatly numbered and easily navigable (as long as you're not driving) grid of Manhattan becomes a maze of oddly named streets that make walking a straight path virtually impossible.

Venice without the charm or the odor. Or, I suppose more accurately, Venice with a different charm and a different odor. Siri -- God love her -- somehow got me to where I wanted to go, but I could swear I ended up after a half hour walk in the bitter cold right around the corner from where I started. I am too busy thawing out to check -- or care.

I am on a mission, and time is running out. My mother's birthday is two days away, and the best I have come up with is a few rolls of quarters for the coin operated laundry machines in her apartment building. The same machines that have been there for as long as I can remember; the only thing that's different is the number of slots cut into the coin slider. You know, the doohickey that goes cha-ching. Maybe I can get her a really posh designer change purse to hold all the coins.

It is a challenge to shop for my mother. She is, in many ways, very practical and a big fan of anything that is utilitarian. Laundry is necessary, and quarters are necessary for laundry. She actually gets really excited when she is handed one or two as change.  She is also, however, in many ways, a totally impractical devotee of designer labels, although she will claim until her toes fall off that her Chanel sneakers are comfortable and worth every penny. Talk about a conundrum.

Before I set off on my mission to shop for the perfect gift for the woman who has everything -- and if she doesn't have it, it is either not useful or without the proper cache -- I peered into one of her closets. It was only the tip of the iceberg, a small sample of the haute couture that had always been my mother's trademark, even when she shopped for groceries alongside stooped old ladies with folding shopping carts wheeled from home. (Mom wouldn't be caught dead with one of those; she had her groceries delivered.) Each piece had a designer label. They were all size sixes, from back in the days when a size six was actually a size six and not some arbitrary number attached to a garment just to make the buyer feel suddenly slim.

Against my better judgment, I agreed to try things on. Each outfit was more beautiful than the next. The zippers all went up eventually (after a bit of a struggle, made all the more dramatic by my mother's emphatic grunts). "That would look just perfect if you lost maybe a pound or two." A compliment in the guise of an insult, or an insult in the guise of a compliment? It's tough to say, but I am a woman after all, and no matter how you slice it, I do not quite see a compliment in there. By the time the fashion show was over, the gentle suggestion had evolved into three or four pounds, and I was fighting some vaguely familiar feelings of self-loathing.  Another quarter, another pound -- what's the difference, as long as everything else stays pretty much the same.

By the time she pointed out that the clothes (though a little tight, lest I forget) at least made me look my age (thank you very much) I was, well, feeling downright cozy and at home in the apartment in Brooklyn where I grew neurotic. I mean grew up.

Time to move on. At least from the warmth of Starbucks. Fortified with coffee and a chocolate croissant, clad comfortably (and imperfectly) in zipper-less leggings, my purse weighed down with a few rolls of quarters (just in case), I am off on my annual albeit futile mission to find the perfect gift.

Faceless in the Crowd

Somebody asked to see a picture of my father the other day. The only one I could find was a dog-eared and almost totally faded black and white. He was with his brother, his three cousins, and his uncle. The photo was a blur of bright white smiles and thick dark hair and odd skinny ties. Particular features were hard to decipher; only the bald uncle stood out from the crowd.

To the untrained eye, that is. To me, my father’s face jumped off the ancient page in sharp focus, even though I had not known him when he was that young. I had never struggled to pick my father’s face out in a crowd, no matter how dense. His presence always announced itself to me in sharp clarity, called out to me in a stage whisper meant only for me. Everything else evaporated from view, and I felt safe.

As I get older, I sense that I am becoming invisible, at least to the untrained eye. Nobody looks up when I walk into a room, at least not intentionally. If I hear a construction worker whistle, I am offended, not because the whistle itself causes me to feel demeaned and marginalized, but because the whistle is not meant for me. I think about possible self-improvements, ways to change things up a bit. As I have been told on the tennis court many times, if something isn’t working, do something different. Wise words, at least when it comes to tennis.

Wise, too, when it comes to living, but maybe my appearance is not what needs changing. To be sure, with gravity putting the finishing touches on the ongoing metamorphosis set in motion by widening crow’s feet and plummeting estrogen levels, I am up to my ears in sartorial change. Attempts at reversal can backfire. Attempts at a complete change of direction can be absurd. Just look at Bruce Jenner.

At least my kids can still recognize me. Come to think of it, no matter what kind of toll age takes between visits, I can almost detect that spark of recognition in their eyes, and maybe even a tiny sense of relief that I am still there.  For at least a moment, maybe, everything else evaporates. Their appearances, like mine, continue to change, and our relationships with each other continue to evolve. Some things change, and some things stay exactly the same. Predictability can be comforting.

When I arrive in New York City today, I will peer anxiously into the waiting crowd until I spot my mother. As I always could with my father, I can spot her a mile away. Within minutes, no doubt, I will be snapping at her, muttering petty frustrations under my breath. Still, I will feel that sense of relief when I see that she is still here, and I will be grateful that I can celebrate her eighty-fourth birthday with her.

The dog-eared old picture of my father before I knew him conjures up vivid images of the man I always knew. The sight of my tiny, aging mother waving me in at LaGuardia will conjure up vivid images of the gorgeous and larger than life woman she always will be. Everything else evaporates.