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.

Are You What You Eat?

I am into day seventeen of my twenty-four day cleanse. Well, that's not entirely true. It's been seventeen days since the cleanse package arrived, but I'm not exactly "into" day seventeen. For seventeen days, I have woken up to a stack of boxes containing mysteriously named supplements that, when taken in some scientifically determined amount, sequence, and combination, promise to greatly enhance my sense of well-being. I admit I have been a bit haphazard about sticking to the protocol.

Not surprisingly, the improvements have been slow to reveal themselves. Okay, well that's not entirely true either. Unless you consider only gaining three pounds and feeling like crap only some of the time to be an improvement, there has been little in the way of noticeable enhancement. For the first few days, I was religious about the not as vile as I thought it would be fruity energy drink and the much more hideous than I could have imagined fiber concoction and the pills that are so big they must contain lots of good stuff although for the life of me I couldn't tell you what. By day five, though, I was slipping off the wagon. (The energy drink also claims to help with mental focus, but by day seven, when I completely forgot I was even attempting the cleanse, I was dubious.)

Today, as I have for most of the past seventeen, I woke up with every intention of doing it right. Again, not entirely true. I had every intention of starting my day off with a heavy dose of coffee and nonprescription pain killers. The cleanse will wait; there's no way I can even consider all that good living and quasi-deprivation until my head stops pounding and my joints loosen up.

I actually thought a twenty-four day challenge would be fun. I had forgotten that January in Chicago is challenging enough, and I suppose I had forgotten that there's a good reason I avoid diets and all sorts of self-improvement regimens like the plague. I am capable of obeying basic rules but woefully incompetent when it comes to following long lists of instructions. It's why I don't cook. Well, that's not entirely true. I just prefer food as a finished product.

There are indeed positives buried within this somewhat misguided cleanse episode, other than capping the weight gain at three pounds. I have learned a lot about myself, and I thrive on self discovery. For starters, the only thing I find more tedious than hearing about somebody else's cleanse is trying to do one myself. When I am hungry I want to sink my teeth into something delicious, not choke down a tasteless capsule that somehow manages to have an aftertaste. Or a drink that bears an uncanny resemblance to things you don't really want to think about when you're eating. At least I have given up diet soda. Having blown my wad on the cleanse, I am quenching my thirst with tap water and attempting to offset the cost of the cleanse by eliminating my daily trip through the McDonald's drive-thru for the perfect diet coke. I am not totally incapable of sacrifice.

And, at the end of the day, I still think a good day is one of accomplishment or good effort or pleasant conversation or a random good deed, and tends to involve little or no thought of dietary supplements. The Advil and coffee are taking effect, and day seventeen is off to a good start.

Je Suis Charlie. Je Suis juif. Je Suis Libre.

Les laisser continuer à manger du gâteau.

Whether it was Marie Antoinette or some other fabled princess who actually said it, she was on to something. Let them eat cake. And drink wine.  And fill their croissants with chocolate. And enjoy satire, or not. And be Jewish, or Christian, or Muslim, or not. Let the French, and the rest of us, continue to be free.

I have been reading about the end of the American Civil War, of the jubilant and irrepressible crowds pouring into the streets and cheering Lincoln outside the White House. My mom used to tell us about people dancing in the streets when World War II ended. I always thought the part about her father throwing open the windows and letting the freedom in to be a bit of embellishment, if only because I have never seen a Brooklyn window capable of being thrown open. Inched upward with great difficulty, maybe, but never thrown open. I will never know, but it’s a good story.

What I do know is that, back in the day, as with any good story, war had a beginning, a middle, and an end, not to mention pretty detailed character development. The battle lines were drawn. Literally. North and south. Blue and Gray. Allies and Axis. Good and Evil. To the victor went whatever spoils were left and to the loser eventually went some reparations and reconstruction and to everyone went some real hope for peace.  Sure, John Wilkes Booth was practicing his marksmanship only miles from the victory celebration and there will always be people who hate, but white flags and handshakes and treaties at least signified the beginning of a different chapter.

Not so much these days. Three murderers are dead, but I am anything but irrepressibly jubilant. My heart breaks for the moments of terror suffered by so many over the years, and in Paris this week. I grieve for the families of those who were slaughtered because of their drawings or their religion or simply because they were in the way. I grieve for the French and for all of us who value not only freedom but life itself. And I know full well that there are countless other murderers out there taking target practice with renewed fervor, and there is no imminent end to the madness. They will not give up, but neither will we.

Sure. Freedom is an ideal, and our methods and goals are always in need of tweaks. The road to freedom is littered with blood and immeasurable destruction. Sometimes we don't go far enough and sometimes the cost is too great, but the road remains open. In theory I would die for freedom, though I certainly prefer not to.

Mohammad or any prophet worth his or her salt would, I imagine, feel cheapened by the idea that executing folks wielding nothing more than a pencil could avenge some great wrongs, real or imagined. I am glad that three terrorists in France are dead and can no longer kill. And I wish with all my heart I could see the looks on their faces when they realize that if there are indeed 72 virgins waiting they are most assuredly waiting for somebody else, certainly in a different location. And you can't take it – i.e. your AK47 – with you, so blasting through the pearly gates is as unlikely as the falsely promised gang bang.

My greatest hope is that each of us continues to uphold our freedom and do the best we can with our lives, even though we will all inevitably fall short. It's what makes us human. We must continue to eat cake and croissants and drink wine and think our own thoughts without fear of those who just don’t get it.

Nous sommes Charlie. Nous continuerons d'être libre.

Close Your Eyes and Blow!

December 31st is hardly an appropriate day for starting something new, although my mental to-do list for tomorrow continues to grow. Today is a day for looking back and reflecting, certainly not for making headway on that book I keep meaning to write or for settling into that new healthy lifestyle.

It has been a slow year for my blog, which may or may not mean that the past year has been uneventful but most definitely means I did not have to scroll down very far to see what I was up to last year at this time. As it turns out, I was pretty much up to the same things at the end of last December that I am up to now: missing the kids who have already come and gone, enjoying the one who is still in town, worrying over a lethargic dog, experimenting with various odor and stain removers for carpet and upholstery. And, of course, looking ahead optimistically to a clean slate for the year to come. Plus ca change. 

An overabundance of senior moments makes it difficult for me to identify any particularly memorable moments from the last twelve months, but I am certain there had to be at least a few. I hate to think I spent 365 days doing nothing but wait for some annual comings and goings and mysterious canine ailments and stain removal and air freshening, but for the life of me I am struggling to come up with anything more interesting. I decided to flip on a morning news show, which I rarely do anymore because there never seems to be any news going on. As luck would have it, the year in pictures montage was about to begin.

Wow, what a year. "Polar vortex" actually sounds exciting when you don't have to hear about it and you cannot even recall where you left your shovel. ISIS, ebola, the Ukraine, the thaw with Cuba, football players abusing women, Bill Cosby abusing women, medal controversies at the Olympics, police shooting citizens, citizens shooting police, racial tensions, politicians barking across the aisle, airplanes dropping into the ocean -- it's difficult to believe the morning news shows had time for so many segments about hair and makeup. It's the "In Memoriam" piece that really knocks the wind out of me, though. So many people who seemed to live enviable lives are, suddenly, gone. If you had told me last year that there would be no more Robin Williams, no more Philip Seymour Hoffman, no more Joan Rivers, no more Lauren Bacall, no more Shirley Temple, no more Maya Angelou (who will balance out Beyonce at the next presidential inauguration?) I would not have believed you. If you had told me that countless other people I haven't really thought about for a long time but just assumed would live forever would be gone I would have been skeptical. If you had told me that Mickey Rooney had died this year I would have sworn that he had already died a long time ago. Maybe that was Mickey Mantle.

It gives one pause. I look forward each year to the final New York Times Magazine, filled with remembrances of not-so-famous people who did or said or endured extraordinary things. It is, in large part, a celebration of unsung heroes, and a reminder of how much of a mark mere mortals can leave in such a short period of time.

Today, as I look ahead, I reflect upon the unsung heroes and the unsung moments of my daily existence. Lots of things have happened between December of last year and now, even though I am still spending an inordinate amount of time worrying about my kids and cleaning up after my dog and planning to finish that book and start that healthy lifestyle.

I may not be able to articulate why, but my life this year has been pretty darn exciting. And if you don't believe me, just close your eyes and blow.

Seeing the Light

At a holiday party recently, I resisted taking a turn on Santa's lap for many reasons. For starters, I thought it a bit unseemly for a fifty-five year old woman to sit in the lap of an unsmiling grown man dressed up in a bright red suit, particularly since Mrs. Claus was standing right there next to him and she did not appear to be in a particularly good mood. Factor in the long line, the tantalizingly close do-it-yourself bloody Mary bar, and the little girl who had boldly announced her intention to taint a perfectly lovely chocolate fountain with her next helping of chicken nuggets and the jolly lap pretty much lost its allure.

Bah humbug. I totally get why Mrs. Claus was looking a bit sour. If I have to drag myself out for one more minute of forced merriment I could be forced to emerge from my funk and, well, I just don't feel like it. A well meaning acquaintance who also happens to be a highly trained professional in matters of the mood made the mistake of asking me the other day how I was doing. He didn't seem horrified when I unloaded my sorry tale of woe about nothing in particular, and he didn't even suggest I pop in for an official hour on the couch. He simply suggested I go on line and order myself a special light. It would cost a few hundred dollars, but if I stared at it for forty-five minutes every morning the results would be obvious and amazing within two weeks. In fact he asked that I call him with a report after he returns from his sunny beach vacation. I wondered why he would bother with a beach vacation when he could just get his own light and stay home and watch endless reruns of Criminal Minds and Blue Bloods but he's the expert so I just let it pass.

Seasonal Affective Disorder. S.A.D. It's all about the lack of sunlight and vitamin D3, and it's too cold to go out even if I were inclined to so the indoor miracle light seemed like a reasonable idea. I even paid for an expedited delivery so I can reap the full benefits during the months when the sun don't shine pretty much at all. Sugar plum fairies danced in my head; I thought about calling some friends; I even imagined walking the dog for more than a block. Goodbye S.A.D.

The package arrived as quickly as promised, and I could hardly wait to open it and let the happiness begin. Well, hardly, but I am more patient than I thought because I was perfectly content to wait and finish watching one of my favorite episodes of Criminal Minds as it built to a climax. So I tucked the box under my desk and made a mental note to open it as soon as I began to feel sad. Or S.A.D. Which did not happen until hours later, when I thought the light might interfere with some good sleep.

It has been a couple of days now, and I have caught up on several more episodes of Criminal Minds and Blue Bloods and have even had more than a few wild mood swings but I have still not gotten around to opening the box. I have come close, but every time I think about slicing through the tape I feel S.A.D. (and more than a little bit S.T.U.P.I.D.). I think about what it might feel like to sit in front of a big blank screen of imaginary sunlight for forty-five minutes every day and I know in my heart I would much rather be sitting in front of the television watching a screen filled with imaginary serial killers and other bad guys working their own special brand of magic. I also know in my heart that I wouldn't last more than five minutes before running to the pantry for some chocolate, which is on the list of things that exacerbate S.A.D., and that would just be counterproductive. I suppose if I switched over from my stash of Reese's to a bowl full of leafy greens the light might make better economic sense, but I'm a realist, and the thought of replacing hours of crime shows and lethal carbs with overpriced fake sunlight and tasteless leafy greens just makes me sadder and sadder.

Yes, it's sad and a little bit wasteful that I am now about to pay another shipping fee to return the unopened promise of happiness, but ultimately the refund of over two hundred dollars will ease the pain. And in a few months, Santa and the bitter Mrs. Claus will be back home on the North Pole and holiday parties and sunny beach vacations and chicken nugget infused chocolate fountains will be a distant memory, and maybe everybody will stop being so S.A.D. At the very least we'll tire of it and find countless other reasons to be in a bad mood.

As for me, I am planning to use my fake sunlight refund to make sure my cable bill is always paid on time and to purchase enough chocolate to keep me from coming down from my very real sugar high before the next vernal equinox.

Ode to Oy

At home in suburban Chicago on the Monday before Thanksgiving, I should have anticipated that the chilly morning raindrops would turn into snowflakes by noon. I should have also anticipated that the wintry precipitation would precipitate a mad rush to the local grocery store and a concurrent dip in the value of human life. A pervasive fear of melting (or possibly ruining a pricey new blow dry) turned parking into a contact sport. And the sudden threat of a potato salad famine resulted in a crowd at least three deep at the prepared foods counter. The joyous holiday season is upon us, and it's all about survival of the fittest. Let's face it, peace and love and the spirit of giving are nice ideas, but they just can't compete with good science.

With my nerves still frayed from a death defying attempt to pick up some staples on Monday, I woke to an early text from my mother on Tuesday. Again, I should have anticipated that my iphone's weather forecast for rain and above-freezing temperatures in New York on Wednesday would be so displeasing to the media that reporters everywhere (remember what I said about survival of the fittest?) would be chatting incessantly about yet another storm of the century and the prospect of thousands of American travelers not making it home for Thanksgiving. My mother was begging me to change my own flight and my daughter's flight from New Orleans so we could arrive before the apocalypse. I ignored her. Later in the day, I relented and called the airline. The nice man on the line politely put me on hold for a respectable number of minutes so he could get over his laugh attack and then came back on to tell me there were no seats available on earlier flights. I rechecked the weather forecast on my iphone; still no snowflakes. There was nothing I could do, so I went ahead with my manicure and hoped for the best.

Every year, holiday excitement is accompanied by a fair amount of holiday dread, and it seems to start earlier and earlier. This year, Walmart moved Black Friday up a week, and the pumpkins decorating the trees in the center of my town were replaced during the first week of November by strings of lights shaped into snowmen and reindeer and fake presents. All this jump on merriment simply adds to the stress -- the anxieties about travel and overcooking the turkey and the hours on end spent with family members you otherwise don't see. Or about the hours on end you won't get to spend with family members you otherwise don't see. Even in the most dysfunctional families, the only thing worse than family gatherings is no family gatherings, or family gatherings without one hundred per cent attendance.

We all go through this, every year. Lost rituals, changing dynamics, dashed expectations. Tis the season to be melancholy, yet we all look forward to it for some reason. Are we that complex, or are we just stupid. Maybe it all boils down to survival of the fittest. If we remembered, each year, what a pain in the ass the holidays are, we would stop celebrating, and then what? No more memories of freezing our butts off making sure the turkey in the deep fryer on the deck doesn't blow us all to kingdom come. No more memories of long waits on the tarmac, of pretending to eat one cousin's annual cranberry mousse despite an aversion to pink food, of gastric distress so severe your jeans don't zip again for months. No more good stories.

Then again, there's nothing wrong with a non-story. The camera crews wandered around Ohare on Wednesday morning looking bored. The arrival and departure screens were filled with rows of "on time." At LaGuardia, things were just as grim. I smiled alluringly at one cameraman, hoping he would train his lens on me instead of the decidedly uninteresting screens, but he remained optimistic that cancellations and delays would soon take over. Finally, as I waited for my daughter's flight at Newark, a reporter was bored enough to talk to me. This was my moment, and I was not about to let it pass. I told him all about my own family's version of this year's non-story. The panic. The phone calls and texts. The sleepless nights. All for nothing. My flight was not only on time but I also had an entire row to myself. The kids behind me didn't cry. Nobody near me threw up. My daughter's flight was only a few minutes late. Even the descent through the dark rain clouds felt no more death defying than a child's roller coaster ride. Yawn.

But I got my name in the paper! Okay, it was a local New Jersey rag, but my story made it in, the lead three paragraphs in an article that contained two other even less remarkable stories. And we are heading out, shortly, to celebrate our family's umpteenth Thanksgiving in Connecticut. Attendance will not be perfect -- it hasn't been for some time -- and I will miss the ones who aren't there. But I will joyfully eat way too much deep fried turkey and stuffing and sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes and brussels sprouts and macaroni and cheese and deep fried pickles and whatever other new item we add to the menu this year. And I will pretend to eat too much cranberry mousse.

And I will put my skinny jeans away for a few months, and, eventually, after the distress passes, I will look forward to next year.

Lone Sharks

By the light of my opened laptop I managed to shower, get dressed, and even put on a little makeup without mascaraing my lips or glossing my lashes. Between the time change and the power outage that had somehow managed to correct itself in all but one block of hotel rooms, darkness had descended unexpectedly early on day three of what otherwise seemed to be a perfect vacation.

I expect little snafus whenever I head to Mexico and have learned, after many visits, to turn a blind eye and just stop and smell the coffee -- even when the single espresso machine on the property is on the fritz. I have also learned to turn a deaf ear to friends' dire warnings of drug lords run amok and random shootings and mass beheadings. Not that I really pay attention, but the closest thing I've seen to violence at a touristy all inclusive on the beach is somebody slapping at a mosquito.  Anyway, it's Mexico; shit happens, and I just don't let any of it ruin my day.

Maybe I operate in darkness more often than I care to admit. Old habits die hard, and I see only what I expect to see, pretty much ignore the rest. It is only when I am out of my comfort zone that my senses become more acute and I notice my surroundings and find myself being surprised. Like when I am forty feet beneath the surface of the ocean and find myself swimming in the wake of a giant sea turtle, locking eyes with him as he glances back and waves a little flipper as if to say "follow me." Or when outsized versions of the impossibly flat fish with iridescent stripes that I barely notice in the aquarium in my dentist's waiting room criss cross in front of me as I cut through their undersea paradise with the grace of, well, a fish out of water.

Ask me, though, to tell you what colors those iridescent stripes were, or to describe the exact pattern on the turtle's shell, and I would be stumped. Ask me to describe the shark that glided toward me as I stared, paralyzed, from my perch about ten feet above, all my senses on high alert, and I would not be able to tell you much. He was gray and his triangular teeth appeared sharp; I could swear he was looking up at me, deciding whether he was in the mood for a snack. I saw nothing but garden variety shark. I wonder if he noticed anything other than chum. My senses may have been on high alert, but my powers of observation were abysmal.

On my first full day back home in American suburbia, where bad things don't happen, my senses once again kicked into high alert as somebody out of the ordinary drifted toward me. As much as I had dreaded my return to reality, I relished the comfort of my tried and true routine. Feed the dog. Get him into the car. Run into Starbucks to get my grande mild roast. Walk the dog in the eerie quiet of downtown suburbia as I sip my coffee. Same old. When the person dressed all in black, including a hood and a scarf wrapped around his face with only a narrow opening for his eyes, jogged by me I thought something was amiss. I stared directly into his eyes, even noticed that he was not wearing jogging shoes. I kept walking, even called my mom just to catch up.

When I came back around the block, I saw the person again -- or at least I thought I did. Same dark shoes and clothing, only this time the hood and scarf were off, and he stood still by a tree, staring at the array of rotting pumpkins at its base. I noticed that he was African American, certainly unusual at seven o'clock in the morning in lily white suburbia, but not out of the question. Again I stared, but he averted my gaze. I stared but all I can tell you is that he was dressed all in black and he was African American. I could not tell you the shape of his face or his height or his weight. Garden variety, like the shark. Gray, sharp triangular teeth. I wonder if he noticed anything other than suburban white chick.

I felt silly later that evening when I dialed the police hot line. They were still looking for the guy who had robbed a dry cleaner two blocks away from my Starbucks only moments before I walked my dog that morning, coffee in hand, senses on high alert only because something seemed out of the ordinary. I had read about it on line, seen the surveillance video picture of a man dressed all in black, his eyes barely visible. The police were looking for somebody with light skin. Could that be right? Was the man I saw dressed all in black but without a hood or a scarf the same man who had jogged by me. Was he the man who had stared with barely visible eyes into the surveillance camera?

How is it possible, that in the brightness of the post-time-change early sunrise, in the snafu-free streets of American suburbia where all the lights were on and I rarely had to shower or get dressed or apply makeup in the dark, with my senses on high alert because something was a bit out of the ordinary, that I could see so little. All I saw was a person who, contrary to on line news reports, was not light skinned, a person who may or may not have been the same person who jogged past me covered from head to toe, a person who may or may not have been the same person who robbed the dry cleaner.

Darkness descends, early and often.