Reflections

In my bathroom mirror on a bad day, I'm 45. On a good day, I'd be carded. In my full length Ikea bedroom mirror, I'm Christie Brinkley in her prime, only with darker hair. I know those mirrors are accurate because at Ann Taylor Loft, I look exactly the same as I do in my own mirrors. Young, tall, lithe. I consequently buy all my clothes there. So how does one explain my appearance in the mirrors at Lord and Taylor? That store, has placed 3 way mirrors in all its dressing rooms that fatten, shorten, age and wrinkle. There, I'm a 4'9" plump crone. It's a wonder they're able to sell anything but gloves. Good mirrors reflect reality. My mirrors are good mirrors. Ann Taylor Loft's mirrors are good mirrors. Lord and Taylor's mirrors---very very bad. Some people might opine that well made mirrors should always reflect the same reality. They're morons. Why should a mirror be any more objective than a person. My friends are all within 10 years of my age, an age which gets me into the movies at a discount. They all look fabulous. None looks older than 45. Strangers my age, on the other hand, look ready for assisted living. "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of us all?" If my mirror said "Snow White," Harry and David's would be getting an expedited order for poison apples. And a happy new year to all.

Perspective

Having ridden on the subway for the last five decades without having a gold chain ripped from my neck, an engagement ring taken from my finger at knife point or a wallet surrepticiously lifted from my pocketbook, I believed myself invulnerable to crime. Not crime everywhere. Just in New York City. When I travel, I take the requisite precautions. My cash and credit cards are in a moneybelt that I tuck inside my jeans. When I pay for something, I stick my right hand down the front of my pants and unzip the money belt with my left hand. After the cashiers stop laughing and hand me my change, I again unzip the belt with my left hand and replace the change with my right. These maneuvers will not get me summa cum laude at Miss Porter's, but I've never had anything stolen. On Friday, I received a comeuppance for my cockiness. On the D train, going toward Borough Park, I was engrossed in reading "The Goldfinch" on my I- Phone. The "Goldfinch" is an 800 page tome weighing 4.6 pounds. Not only does reading it on the I-phone spare me a hernia, but, since an I-phone page holds only the print of a paragraph, I have to use my right pointer to swipe to a new paragraph every 2 seconds. Consequently, I've developed a muscle in my pointer which I'm sure I'll be able to parley into something lucrative, although at the moment the only use I have come up is scratching myself, which I was able to do adequately before I employed technology. As the train pulled into the 9th Street Station, a teenager snatched the phone from my hand and ran off the train. I was stunned. Immediately, I was surrounded by soothsayers. The woman opposite me, said, " I knew he was up to no good. There are a million empty seats and he was standing right next to you." The woman two seats away from her said," I can't believe it. I thought he was going to do something. It's just terrible." While I admired them for their clairvoyance and was grateful for their commiseration and empathy, since they both were certain he was about to rob me, I would have appreciated their using their prescience to alert me. I have been known to get unhinged over trivial matters. When Verizon charged me a $5 late fee on my last bill, I went ballistic and threatened to switch to T-Mobile unless they rescinded the charge, even though T-Mobile doesn't work in my apartment, my office, or anywhere in the southern portion of the State. At CVS,when my 2 liter Pepsi on sale for 69 cents rang up $1.99, I threatened the manager with a Consumer's Affairs complaint. Thus, I would have bet the price of an I- phone, that I'd be pretty riled up over this. But I'm glad I'm not a betting woman, because I wasn't in the least bit upset. I reasoned that in the grand scheme of things, the theft of a cell phone is trivial and easily dealt with by shelling out a small fortune to Verizon. Why be upset over this when I have a complex problem to deal with: Do I record Downton Abbey and watch Homeland and Masters of Sex, watching The Good Wife later in the week? Do I watch Downton Abbey and watch everything else on Demand? Do I unplug my tv entirely, giving myself time to read the New Yorkers I haven't from 1982 to date? It may have taken me a lifetime, but I'm so glad I have perspective.

The New Me Part I

I have never been described as "buff." But having been given a free membership at New York Sports Club(NYSC,) I decided to forego by life of indolence and sloth and pump iron. I scanned the schedule and decided to to ease into my new exercise regimen with a "silversneakers" total body conditioning class. "Silversneakers" is the euphemistically named exercise program for those on medicare. It's not for the fleet of foot. Rather, it's for the infirm and not firm. Perfect. I looked around the room and determined that I was the youngest by a a decade and a half. Despite it being my first exercise class since basketball gym in college, I was clearly the star. I excelled at the side to side stepping for 2 minutes to a rousing, "Those Were The Days, My Friend," but where I really shone was in wiggling my fingers, which the teacher explained was "good for arthritis." As I don't have arthritis, I was the best wiggler and very proud of myself. I found myself comparing this class to my prior gym class experiences. This class was eerily reminiscent of my college class called "recreational games." Three semesters of gym were required at my school. The first semester I took tennis. I couldn't serve and rarely returned the ball, but I was never absent and received a gentlewoman's "C." The second semester I signed up for basketball. This was not voluntary. My name began with "A," and the "A's" were last to register. Basketball was the most unpopular gym for any Jewish girl in Brooklyn, because the tallest among us was 5'3". I needed gym, and basketball gym was the only open class. Less than 5', I was an unlikely guard, and having poor eye hand coordination, I couldn't dribble at all. I was apparently better than the some of the other girls, because I eked out a "B." It was a "B" similar to the one I received in calculus. In calculus, I understood zilch, thought I was in the wrong room when I looked at the final exam, but was apparently somewhat less dense than some of my classmates. "Recreational Games," my third semester of gym was the one with any potential utility. Even at age 17, I intuited that it wasn't useful then, but it could come in handy later. We played, "sit volleyball," a unique game in which the teams sat on opposite sides of the net and were not permitted to stand up to hit the ball. This rule made for not much action, since unless the ball came directly to you, you couldn't hit it. At the time, we were all able bodied, more or less, but even then, I understood, that 60 years hence we might be confined to wheelchairs and this might be a delightful game in the nursing home. We also indulged in shuffleboard, which I knew could come in handy on my future cruises on the the QEII. Teaching us horseshoes was also prescient because at least some of us were sure to end up on a cattleranch. Although I enjoyed being the nymphette of the silversneakers class, I moved up and on to "Shred." I should have known from the name and my classmates that this would not be an class for a wuss. My classmates had bare midriffs and flat stomachs. I'm sure they also had great quads, biceps, triceps and lats, except I have no idea what those are, although I'm sure I don't have them. Suffice it to say, I had a vigorous workout during which I spent almost every moment praying there was a CPR machine on the premises and the remaining moments fervently vowing that in the unlikely event I survived, I would give thanks by adopting a village in Nigeria. Tomorrow, after the Yoruba chieftain concludes my crash course in Igbo, I intend to return to NYSC to challenge myself with "ufx burn." I have no idea what it entails, but I know it can't be worse than Vinyasa yoga. I left that class after 5 minutes of excruciating pain, wanting to deport the downward dog to a "kill" shelter.

Precious Moment IV

On the ranking of thankless jobs, religious proselytizer on the New York City subway has to be in the top 3. Has anyone ever been converted from an atheist to a believer between 14th Street and 59th Street? From a Buddhist to a Jehovah's Witness between Bloomingdales and 86th Street? Given what must be their demoralizing failure rate, I would like to be the saint,who, imprisoned underground with no means of escape, could listen to their unrelenting, stentorian rants with a beatific smile, understanding that in their deluded brains they think they are helping us sinners. Instead, rage rises in me and only the fear of being stabbed by one of these loons, keeps my from shouting out, " SHUT THE FUCK UP ." I'm afraid that the harangues of holy rollers on the 8th Avenue line, have the unintended consequence of bringing out my worse nature. Startled out of my New Yorker by a blaring voice with a Nigerian accent, my first thought is not "He's doing God's work." Rather, it's, "Go back to Nigeria, " which I'm so mortified to even think, that I immediately change it to "Go sell knock-off Fendi's in Times Square and leave me the fuck alone." Given my distaste for the obnoxious, intrusive converter I'm used to, I was delighted to observe one who employed a altogether different and more congenial tack. This D train missionary was a white male ,jean clad, clean shaven, with long hair, armed with a bible and a cross, cut out of newsprint. He sat down next to a Chassidic man in a long black coat and black hat who was engrossed in reading the Talmud. He quietly said to the Chassid, " I see you're a religious man and you must know that all men are sinners. I'm sure you're a good man, but you're a sinner too and if you accept Jesus Christ in your heart, he will save you." The Chassid did not look up, keeping his head in Rashi. The missionary took out his newsprint cross to show to the Chassid, who still did not shift his gaze from his tome. The missionary surrendered,saying, " It was nice to talk to you. It was nice meeting you." The Chassid finally looked up, acknowledged the proselytizer and said "It was nice to meet you too." Agreed that the D train missionary is not the most astute at selecting targets for conversion. But unlike the other wackos who try to foist their beliefs on others, he made me smile and although I didn't see the smile beneath the beard, I think the Chassid was also smiling.

Pondering Design

Each door of the two bathrooms of my favorite Thai restaurant is marked with a different south east asian glyph. Presumably one glyph denotes males and one females. I have no idea which is which, but I always use the bathroom to the right. It seems not to matter because the bathroom is so dimly lit that it's impossible to tell whether the previous users peed on the seat, let alone whether they did so standing up or sitting down. The sink is a trough and the water flow from its spigot is, I believe, motion generated. I say, "I believe," because, despite my optimism and credible rendition of the macarena and watusi, I've always had to resort to Purell. There is a mirror over the trough, but rather than reflecting my image, it reveals a hologram of Teppanom angel whom I've never met, don't give a rat's ass about and doesn't need her lipstick adjusted. As I finish my pad thai, I wonder if the bathroom designer had a cosmic plan or was stoned on ganja. I am able to argue out of both sides of my mouth by shifting the noodles from right to left. Cosmic Plan: Unintelligible glyphs facilitate random meetings between sexes. Love blossoms. Dim lighting has dual benefit--it encourages hot sex between blossoming lovers and compels users to clean toilet seat before each use. Foster love and save on labor costs. No water in sink. No drips on floor. No one slips. Liability insurance unnecessary. Hologram of Thai angel. Reminder to patrons they're not at the Second Avenue Deli. Stoned on ganja: Unintelligible glyphs. Awesome, man. Dim lighting. Like more awesome. No water in sink. Like even more awesomer. Hologram of Thai angel. Like awesome off the charts. You're right. I should confine my dining to the Second Avenue Deli. There, I know I'm in the women's bathroom because I can see the woman who peed on the seat putting on her lipstick at the mirror.

Not So Precious Moment

I'm devastatated. My intended, that is to say, my betrothed, that is to say, the person I had hoped to spend the rest of my days with, colors his hair. Robert, my Robert Redford, 77 years old with that beautiful visage of a walnut, or if you, as I do, prefer, a prune, hits the bottle. I could rationalize. I could say, "I never caught him in the act," "blonds don't gray until their 100s," "At least it's not plugs." But I'm not that kind of woman. I calls it as I sees it. So Robert and I, we're kaput. My profound depression is mitigated by the fact that he was my second choice. Paul was my first love. Need you ask? Paul Newman, of course. Paul had everything. Beautiful blue eyes. A gorgeous body. A Bar Mitzvah. But when I was eight years old, he betrayed me, running off with that trollop, Joanne. I was certain he'd tire of her after 50 years and come running to me. I was partially right. He was so tired of her that he lay down and died after their 50th year together. But for his death and lack of running shoes we'd be stirring puttanesca sauce and shaking balsamic vinaigrette in Westport. Not one to wallow in misery, or waste my time fantasizing, I'm texting George. George who? Clooney of course. You just have to get back on the horse.

Precious Moment III

"There are four phases of sex : excitement, plateau, orgasm and resolution." Masters and Johnson. Yesterday I observed a woman go through all of the above phases without ever touching herself or another human being. She panted. She groaned with ecstasy. Her face flushed with pleasure. Her hair glistened with sweat. She finished, exhausted. I was a participant in an experiment in which I hoped, by imitating her every move, I would feel what she felt. To the beat of blaring music that was unidentifiable but hinted of melodies that were by turn Hindi, Latin, Jamaican or Chassidic, she moved to the right, rotating her shoulders backwards and jiggling her breasts. I moved to the right. She rhythmically moved to the left, thrusting her pelvis to the front, to the back, to the left side, to the right side. I moved to the left. She bent over, thrusting her buttocks out, forcing her right buttock ceilingward, then her left buttock ceilingward. I bent over. She arched her back and neck in the limbo position, her pelvis perpendicular to the floor while her palms gestured to some invisible lover, "come get me." I performed the palm gesture perfectly. She did the basic salsa sidestep, tossing her long hair back, caressing it as she swayed her hips from side to side. I tossed my highlighted hair back to remove it from under my contact lense. Was the experiment a success? Well, I definitely panted due to the exertion of trying to rotate my shoulders while jiggling my breasts. I was able to accomplish neither, but I did groan during the shoulder rotation as it reactivated my left shoulder impingement. My face was flushed, but it was less pleasure and more high blood pressure. My hair glistened with sweat as did every part of me including my molars. I finished, exhausted, but less a post coital exhaustion and much more a "read me my last rites, I'm about to die" exhaustion. In science, success does not come without pain. In order to invent the smallpox vaccine,Edward Jenner had to inject himself with cowpox. As a result of her work on radiation, Marie Curie, died of radiation induced cancer. Although it may required a shoulder sling and I may die trying, I will return to Zumba class. I want to have what she's having and I don't mean a tuna sandwich.

Precious Moments II

Have you ever looked at a close friend and thought, "She looks different. I don't know how exactly, but definitely different." You , always tactful, say, "You look great. Did you do something to your hair.?" Or, "Your make-up is different. I love it." You may suspect your friend had a bit of work done, but you can't ask. Asking would be breaching an age old social contract that reads: an individual who has had plastic surgery may freely disclose it to whomever she chooses, but you may NEVER inquire of anyone whether they have succumbed to the knife. You may speculate with other friends as to whether or not there's been an eye lift and, if so, whether it was a good one or a bad one,but asking is taboo. As young as sixteen, we knew the rules. When Merel and Andrea returned from summer vacation with pig snouts, we giggled, but never asked. When undershirt Libby disappeared from class and returned 3 weeks later with perfect C cups, we remained mum (and envious.) In case you're wondering, the above is a lead in to a "precious moment." My close friend, T., whom I've know for 25 years, met me for lunch. She ordered the tilapia with black bean sauce that she had been raving about for days. The server put it in front of her and she ignored it. Instead, she stared at me as if seeing me for the first time. For a second she said nothing. Never letting her gaze depart from my face, she said, "Did you have a nose job?" I wasn't sure whether to be more flabbergasted by the question or by the fact that her tilapia was getting cold. I have nothing against plastic surgery for others. Those who have it it(Mary Tyler Moore and Joan Rivers aside) look better and younger. I, on the other hand, am peculiarly averse to pain. And to endure pain to look like a younger version of me, seems particularly pointless. If plastic surgery could make me look like Scarlet Johansson, I'd willingly become a morphine addict. Back to my nose. I wasn't sure if she was asking me if I'd ever had a nose job or had recently had a nose job. I didn't ask. Either way the answer was "no." What I did say was "Why do you ask?" I knew there were several possible answers to this question and I was angling for the one that said, "Because you have such a cute little nose." The one I got, however, was, "Because your upper lip goes up and your nostrils are long. I never noticed before." Tact and social contracts serve a purpose.

Precious Moments I

If you woke me in the middle of the night and asked me how old I was, I would blurt out, "thirty." "Thirty" would also be my answer if you asked me the maximum price I would would pay for a dress. Both answers would make the needle rise on a polygraph. When I was thirty, Paul Newman was not known for salad dressing. And thirty dollars for a dress? Do I look like a Rockefeller? If you're reading this because you thought I would divulge my age, read 100 Years of Solitude. I assume it's about a centenarian, but since I couldn't get passed page 6, I don't really know. I'm writing this because, having reached an age that certain governmental agencies deem venerable, I have decided to both cherish and share with you several precious moments of each day. Due to my busy schedule as a retiree, I cannot promise to share with you daily. After my morning coffee,which, as you may recall takes me two hours to drink, I have medical appointments and zumba classes to attend. That said, I hope that my act of sharing these moments will cause you to appreciate your life in a new and wonderful way. Precious Moment The following is actually a stream of precious moments culminating in a Niagara. Each deserves its own detailed description, but I have a mani-pedi appointment, so I'll condense. Maurice, the exterminator came at 10:35 this morning. This was his third visit and we're bonding. He's a very pleasant fellow, especially when you consider his job involves searching for mouse droppings. On his first visit, the day after my birthday, he found no droppings. But I insisted he put down glue traps, since my guests, depending upon their state of inebriation, saw either one mouse traversing the living room twice ,or two mice, each traversing the living room once. I myself saw something out of the corner of my eye, but thought it was a floater. A week later, there were no mice in the traps, but the night before my book club met at my house, I saw one dart into my coat closet. As we were discussing The Finkler Question, I went to serve the Dorito Chips which I had stored in the coat closet and I saw that the mouse had eaten through the bottom of the bag. (Did I serve the chips from the top of the bag? I leave that to you to decide.) Maurice returned the following Monday, and, when I told him about the purloined chips, he got serious, pulling out his secret weapon: Skippy. He baited the two traps under the piano, one behind the couch, one in the kitchen and two in the closet with Skippy(smooth.) He promised I'd find a mouse in its death throws or screaming for jelly in 28 to 48 hours. Thinking he might be considering job security, I made him swear on a stack of Haggadahs(who has bibles?) that I wouldn't get roaches from the peanut butter. The peanut butter did not lure the mouse. Perhaps it had a peanut allergy. Perhaps it was looking for medium salsa to accompany the chips. In any event, I asked Maurice to remove the traps. While attempting to remove the trap behind the couch, Maurice took a header over the end table and broke my vintage lazy Susan. While he was destroying my house, I tried to expedite matters by removing the glue traps from the closet. The wheel of the shopping cart I use yearly rolled into a glue trap. Not realizing that a glue trap was filled with glue, I stuck my newly manicured hand in it to extricate the wheel. I then called Maurice to extricate my hand and cart wheel from the trip. He did, but glue covered my right hand up to the wrist. Maurice told me to use alcohol to get it off. I had no alcohol other than Trader Joe's Sauvignon Blanc which I would have guzzled had it not been 10:40am, so I tried soap and steel wool. That was definitely not a good idea, because the tiny wires of the steel wool adhered to the glue. I begged him for advice. He suggested a brush, so I tried an old tooth brush with dish washing liquid. With much back and forth effort, the steel wool particles came off, but, in retrospect, neither Maurice nor I had been thinking clearly. The wheel of the cart, you see, was still dripping glue and after having de-glued myself, I now had to de-glue the wheel, which meant I re-glued myself. Maurice would have stayed to help me, but the bedbugs on the 16th floor consituted a greater emergency. Years ago, I would not have considered these "precious moments." I would have thought, "Shit, I live in an expensive coop in the West Village and I have a fuckin' mouse?" But as I think of the mouse sighting and its aftermath, I feel incredibly happy. No harm was done to me other than the small financial cost of a bag of Dorito Chips and a manicure(although it was a gel manicure which gets pretty pricey). And no harm came to the mouse, who is now probably chomping on chips and drinking tequila in my neighbot's apartment. And Maurice will always have employment.