Yesterday I did a triathlon. I had always dreamed about entering a contest that would measure my prowess against that of others who had, like me, been sacrificing their social lives for muscularity. In high school,while my classmates practiced putting on eyeliner, I toned my abs. While they fretted over boys, I focused on my stroke. While they mooned over Toy Donahue, I mooned over the prize-$1000. I was an amateur in a world of pros,small in a world of bigs, but with my robust abs, perfect eye hand coordination, and eye on the money, I had a fighting chance at winning Nathan's annual frankfurter eating contest. I had only to pace myself on the sauerkraut. Unfortunately, notwithstanding my training, I was bested by Schmuel Minkleman, the four time winner. By golly, Schmuely was fast. In five minutes, he downed sixteen franks to my thirteen. I was runner-up and won a year of Nathan's french fries. The loss was crushing, the psychological devastation only slightly offset by the seventy-two pounds of sublime french fries I devoured that year.
Thanks to Schmuely's rout, an event discussed at length with my therapist, until this year I avoided competitive sport. I had, of course, heard the word "triathlon." It had an alien sound that was, nevertheless, alluring. I looked it up. Three sports rolled into one contest-swimming, cycling and running. I could do that. Okay, not those three sports. Who chose those anyway? I would choose my own three physically challenging sports that I had been training at for years, hold a contest and leave those pussy swimmers, runners and all around mishegoyim in the dust.
The first activity is changing the closets from winter to summer. Twenty four winter coats must be moved from the front closet rack to the back rack while simultaneously moving the summer jackets from the back rack to the front. That over,catching your breath and using only a step stool, the mukluks, boots and shoes of the winter collection must be gathered and paired from under the bed and placed in boxes on the top shelf of the closet while the espadrilles, sandals and peek toes are taken down and placed paired under the bed.
The second activity involves going to Ikea in Brooklyn by public transportation. You must take the number 2 or 4 train and wait at Boro Hall for the Ikea bus. It comes weekly. When you arrive, you are given an item to locate. A 12 inch lipped shelf, for example. You may not leave the store until you locate it. If you are able to find the item in fewer than five circumnavigations of the premises, you will definitely win this portion of the contest, and stand a good chance of winning the event in its entirety. It is this event that culls the field.
The last event involves endurance and the ability to withstand pain. Wearing any shoes but sneakers, you go to the Metropolitan Museum and view five exhibits without sitting down or stopping at a bathroom. (The gift shop does not count as an exhibit.) You must remember one fact or art object from each of the exhibits.
My triathlon is the comsummate democratic event. It requires no expensive equipment(a step stool, unlike a bike, costs under $15 ) and no gym membership, but is nevertheless grueling. It is helpful to do carb loading the evening before--Nathan's french fries work well--and you will definitely require the day following as a sick day. But if you work at it, you, like me, can be a triathlete.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
The Olympics
The Olympics were grueling. Long nights holding my breath while Shaun White somersaulted out of the half pipe, Lindsay Vonn flew past the gates and Kim Yu-na perfectly executed her triple axel-double toe loop. Early mornings reading a recap of the previous night's events in the New York Times sports section, a section whose sole purpose prior to the Olympics was protecting the floor from wet boots. No preparation could have spared me the toll these two weeks took on my body.
Worse than the physical trials of the Olympics were the emotional demands. Eating my oatmeal, I sobbed, reading about Joannie Rochette, the Canadian skater whose mother died two days before the competition. Drinking my decaf, I broke out in hives worrying about what would happen to Kim Yu-na if she lost. Would she abandon skating and become a computer programmer? Would South Korea assassinate Mao Asada, Kim's Japanese rival, if Mao won? I couldn't sleep fretting about Rachel Flatt's advance placement tests.
For two weeks, mesmerized by the athletes' death defying maneuvers, I nevertheless had two major questions:(1) What sadistic lunatic thought up these tricks? Did someone say,"It's not dangerous enough to go down a 5000 foot mountain at 90 mph on two pieces of wood. Let's have them do flips in the air while they're at it, so they can really kill themselves." Or, did someone propose, " Snowboarding is boring. Let's make it interesting by having them do somersaults 50 feet in the air, so that if they land badly they'll be permanently crippled." Or did someone suggest," Ice skating is for pussies. Let's add impossible jumps, so 99 out of 100 performances will result in a fractured limb."
And (2)Were these athletes spawned by asexual reproduction? What mother would permit, let alone encourage, her offspring to engage in an activity that could easily put him in a wheelchair for life? (It wasn't because of discrimination that there were no Jewish competitors.)
Last week,as the Olympics drew to a close, I performed my version of an Olympic maneuver--the double toe loop-single klutz--when I tripped on the bow of the extra long laces of my hiking boots, executing a perfect landing on the 77th Street station platform of the Lexington local. It was an unplanned invention of a new Olympic event that mere mortals can excel at--the throw me for a loop.
Worse than the physical trials of the Olympics were the emotional demands. Eating my oatmeal, I sobbed, reading about Joannie Rochette, the Canadian skater whose mother died two days before the competition. Drinking my decaf, I broke out in hives worrying about what would happen to Kim Yu-na if she lost. Would she abandon skating and become a computer programmer? Would South Korea assassinate Mao Asada, Kim's Japanese rival, if Mao won? I couldn't sleep fretting about Rachel Flatt's advance placement tests.
For two weeks, mesmerized by the athletes' death defying maneuvers, I nevertheless had two major questions:(1) What sadistic lunatic thought up these tricks? Did someone say,"It's not dangerous enough to go down a 5000 foot mountain at 90 mph on two pieces of wood. Let's have them do flips in the air while they're at it, so they can really kill themselves." Or, did someone propose, " Snowboarding is boring. Let's make it interesting by having them do somersaults 50 feet in the air, so that if they land badly they'll be permanently crippled." Or did someone suggest," Ice skating is for pussies. Let's add impossible jumps, so 99 out of 100 performances will result in a fractured limb."
And (2)Were these athletes spawned by asexual reproduction? What mother would permit, let alone encourage, her offspring to engage in an activity that could easily put him in a wheelchair for life? (It wasn't because of discrimination that there were no Jewish competitors.)
Last week,as the Olympics drew to a close, I performed my version of an Olympic maneuver--the double toe loop-single klutz--when I tripped on the bow of the extra long laces of my hiking boots, executing a perfect landing on the 77th Street station platform of the Lexington local. It was an unplanned invention of a new Olympic event that mere mortals can excel at--the throw me for a loop.
Friday, February 19, 2010
What to do in an emergency
Yesterday morning at 8 a.m. I was unceremoniously roused from a deep slumber by pounding on the door and the incessant ringing of my doorbell. I had been dreaming I was on the beach in Aruba. I had just emerged from the water wearing a bathing suit that made me look like Sally Fields in her Gidget days. George Clooney, Robert Redford and Paul Newman, amazingly vibrant for a dead man, were all hitting on me.
Smiling, I lay in bed for a few minutes, confusing the doorbell with the chime on the cooler of the Brighton Beach good humor man. Unable to make sense of the pounding, I belatedly realized someone was at my door. I threw on a tee shirt and elastic waist pants, screamed, "Just a minute," and sprinted to the door.
The sprint was actually more of a lope and between my bed and the door, I had ample time to panic. Was there a fire? A gas leak? An umbrella illegally left in the hall? Upon opening the door, I knew it was worse than I had imagined. At my door, was a SWAT team consisting of Frank, the handyman, and two porters, Kashaf and Valentin. Under ordinary circumstances, nothing short of a twenty dollar bill could entice any one of them to appear at my door. And now three of them, without any cash inducement on my part, were staring at me stone-faced. I trembled, certain that the Board President, who coveted my apartment, had exercised her considerable clout and offered them a princely sum to rough me up.
Frank spoke. "You have a cat, right?"
"Yes," I responded, wondering what transgression my 17 year old indoor cat could have committed. Had he stolen my neighbor's tuna fish while I was at work?
"Is that him?" Frank asked, pointing down the hall to an orange cat, who was unperturbedly licking his balls..
"No, my cat is black," I said.
"Do you know whose he is, then?" Frank inquired.
"Not a clue." I don't even know who my neighbors are, let alone what their cats look like.
Stumped, they called the building CEO, John, the super.
When my kitchen cabinets fell down, I asked Valentin to page John.
"Sorry, John's out of the building."
When my toilet was overflowing and flooding my bedroom, I asked Valentin to page John.
"Sorry, John's out of the building."
For a misplaced cat,however, which would require no labor on his part, he was both in the building and in front of my door.
"No," said John,"I have no idea whose cat it is."
The SWAT team scratched their collective head and regarded me silently, but beseechingly. I knew they wanted me to take in the orange cat so they could proceed to their first coffee break of the day, but I was resolute. Providing even temporary shelter to this cat would cause my 17 year old feline to drop dead or worse, use the living room carpet as a litter box. The crisis resolved when a kind neighbor from another floor magically materialized and offered to take in the red cat until its owner could be found.
This incident brought to mind the Smothers Brothers. They had a routine in which Tommy sang, "I fell into a vat of chocolate. I fell into a vat of chocolate."
Dick asked, "What did you do when you fell into the chocolate."
"I hollered, FIRE!" Tommy said.
"Why did you holler, 'FIRE?'"
Who would come to my rescue if I hollered, "CHOCOLATE."
Now, in the event my cabinets collapse, my toilet overflows or there is an imminent explosion, I know how to get the building staff to respond immediately. I'll holler, "CAT!"
Smiling, I lay in bed for a few minutes, confusing the doorbell with the chime on the cooler of the Brighton Beach good humor man. Unable to make sense of the pounding, I belatedly realized someone was at my door. I threw on a tee shirt and elastic waist pants, screamed, "Just a minute," and sprinted to the door.
The sprint was actually more of a lope and between my bed and the door, I had ample time to panic. Was there a fire? A gas leak? An umbrella illegally left in the hall? Upon opening the door, I knew it was worse than I had imagined. At my door, was a SWAT team consisting of Frank, the handyman, and two porters, Kashaf and Valentin. Under ordinary circumstances, nothing short of a twenty dollar bill could entice any one of them to appear at my door. And now three of them, without any cash inducement on my part, were staring at me stone-faced. I trembled, certain that the Board President, who coveted my apartment, had exercised her considerable clout and offered them a princely sum to rough me up.
Frank spoke. "You have a cat, right?"
"Yes," I responded, wondering what transgression my 17 year old indoor cat could have committed. Had he stolen my neighbor's tuna fish while I was at work?
"Is that him?" Frank asked, pointing down the hall to an orange cat, who was unperturbedly licking his balls..
"No, my cat is black," I said.
"Do you know whose he is, then?" Frank inquired.
"Not a clue." I don't even know who my neighbors are, let alone what their cats look like.
Stumped, they called the building CEO, John, the super.
When my kitchen cabinets fell down, I asked Valentin to page John.
"Sorry, John's out of the building."
When my toilet was overflowing and flooding my bedroom, I asked Valentin to page John.
"Sorry, John's out of the building."
For a misplaced cat,however, which would require no labor on his part, he was both in the building and in front of my door.
"No," said John,"I have no idea whose cat it is."
The SWAT team scratched their collective head and regarded me silently, but beseechingly. I knew they wanted me to take in the orange cat so they could proceed to their first coffee break of the day, but I was resolute. Providing even temporary shelter to this cat would cause my 17 year old feline to drop dead or worse, use the living room carpet as a litter box. The crisis resolved when a kind neighbor from another floor magically materialized and offered to take in the red cat until its owner could be found.
This incident brought to mind the Smothers Brothers. They had a routine in which Tommy sang, "I fell into a vat of chocolate. I fell into a vat of chocolate."
Dick asked, "What did you do when you fell into the chocolate."
"I hollered, FIRE!" Tommy said.
"Why did you holler, 'FIRE?'"
Who would come to my rescue if I hollered, "CHOCOLATE."
Now, in the event my cabinets collapse, my toilet overflows or there is an imminent explosion, I know how to get the building staff to respond immediately. I'll holler, "CAT!"
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Life's Never Easy
In my less enlightened days, I thought my already terrific life would attain perfection if I had boyfriend. I had the luxury of many boyfriendless years to develop his qualifications. However, with the wisdom that comes from life experience and alcohol, I realized that my youthful requisites were were not bona fide job requirements. I had desired someone handsome. What for? I don't need arm candy. A notch above repulsive would be acceptable. I had insisted that he share my religion. Why? I eat spare ribs with gusto. Now, for the right guy, I would don a Burqua. While my intellectual discussions invariably involve clearance racks, I had mandated that he be well educated. Now, if his grunts are recognizable as affirmative or negative, he need not be a philosopher. Wealth was a sine qua non. Now I know that a portfolio of more than ten million simply leads to buying retail.
After carefully examining my values, I drew up a list of the characteristics needed for a boyfriend. He must love to schlep items on command, adore and be talented at repairing electronic and mechanical devices, be besotted by changing light bulbs and hanging pictures and, most of all, be ready, willing and able to drive me anywhere I want to go, even at night. Basically, a live in super who drives.
Two weeks ago, I heard a new word that would forever changed my hopes and dreams. "AVATAR." I initially thought "avatar" was the basis of guacamole. Now, I know it's a blue counterpart of myself who, at my direction, will do everything I can't. I no longer want a boyfriend who, while completing my life, will also take up closet space. I want an avatar, who I'll call Toby. Toby will effortlessly lift my bed with one hand, while vacuuming the 17 year accumulation of cat fur beneath it with the other. She will rid my computer of worms, connect the 6 year old dvd player still in its box and replace the light bulb in my foyer ceiling fixture that's been out for two years. She will drive me to the Hamptons, to the Catskills and finally to Elizabeth, New Jersey. There, she will tie the 400 pound unassembled knotty pine entertainment unit I've purchased at Ikea to the top of the car, drive it to Jane Street, bring it upstairs without complaining of an impending hernia and assemble it patiently for 13 hours, emitting no screams of frustration.
Just as there exists a gap between wanting a boyfriend and getting one, there exists a chasm between desiring an avatar and finding one. I suspect that creating an avatar requires performing a complex computer operation. I limit myself to googling. There may be an i-phone application that would help me, but I don't have an i-phone. Were there such an app, I would buy an i-phone, but I would need someone technologically proficient to show me how to use it. Obviously, I need an avatar to create my avatar. Until I solve this conundrum, I'll resort to bribing the super and dialing 777-7777. I would appreciate any suggestions you may have.
After carefully examining my values, I drew up a list of the characteristics needed for a boyfriend. He must love to schlep items on command, adore and be talented at repairing electronic and mechanical devices, be besotted by changing light bulbs and hanging pictures and, most of all, be ready, willing and able to drive me anywhere I want to go, even at night. Basically, a live in super who drives.
Two weeks ago, I heard a new word that would forever changed my hopes and dreams. "AVATAR." I initially thought "avatar" was the basis of guacamole. Now, I know it's a blue counterpart of myself who, at my direction, will do everything I can't. I no longer want a boyfriend who, while completing my life, will also take up closet space. I want an avatar, who I'll call Toby. Toby will effortlessly lift my bed with one hand, while vacuuming the 17 year accumulation of cat fur beneath it with the other. She will rid my computer of worms, connect the 6 year old dvd player still in its box and replace the light bulb in my foyer ceiling fixture that's been out for two years. She will drive me to the Hamptons, to the Catskills and finally to Elizabeth, New Jersey. There, she will tie the 400 pound unassembled knotty pine entertainment unit I've purchased at Ikea to the top of the car, drive it to Jane Street, bring it upstairs without complaining of an impending hernia and assemble it patiently for 13 hours, emitting no screams of frustration.
Just as there exists a gap between wanting a boyfriend and getting one, there exists a chasm between desiring an avatar and finding one. I suspect that creating an avatar requires performing a complex computer operation. I limit myself to googling. There may be an i-phone application that would help me, but I don't have an i-phone. Were there such an app, I would buy an i-phone, but I would need someone technologically proficient to show me how to use it. Obviously, I need an avatar to create my avatar. Until I solve this conundrum, I'll resort to bribing the super and dialing 777-7777. I would appreciate any suggestions you may have.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Less is More
I am not one of those whiners who goes to a restaurant, orders pasta, looks at a sixteen inch bowl overflowing with linguine marinara and whimpers," why do they give you so much?" I'm delighted that the restaurant understands that having paid $26 for ingredients that cost them $1.87, I appreciate quantity. On those rare occasions, when, having eaten half a buffalo for lunch, I can't finish my entree, I'm glad to take it home, refrigerate it and toss it in the garbage two months later. Only under threat of torture will I return to an establishment that charges me $30 for three scallops artfully drizzled with truffle oil and festooned with parsley. I go to a museum for art. I go to a restaurant for food. An ancillary benefit of eating out is charming company and scintillating conversation,but, in all honesty, I could have a better conversational experience at the 104 bus stop on Broadway and 43rd Street where there's less ambient noise than at most NYC restaurants. I remember only once being in the whiners' camp. Having just roughed it on a five day white water rafting trip on the Rogue River in Oregon, my friend, Jeanne, and I treated ourselves to dinner at the fanciest restaurant in Medford, Oregon. I ordered roast chicken. The waiter placed a gorgeous, fragrant eight pound emu before me. My eyes widened. In New York, where restaurant chickens could be mistaken for hummingbirds, the Oregon chicken would have fulfilled a culinary fantasy. Here, it was a nightmare. Even I could not eat more than five pounds of chicken at a sitting and, as I was staying in a motel without a refrigerator, I would have to leave over a good three pounds. It was a very upsetting dinner, the upset mitigated only by the fact that the entire chicken, with soup, salad and dessert cost $6.99. But Oregon is the exception that proves the rule, "less is less."
The rule for restaurants should not be confused with the rule that governs movies and plays. There, the rule is "less is more." No one except the film maker's mother wants to sit through a movie longer than 90 minutes and not even the playwright's grandmother wants to endure 3 hours and 20 minutes of brilliant theatre. "La Danse," a critically acclaimed documentary about the Paris Opera Ballet is a perfect example of a film made by a director who ignored the rule. At 90 minutes this work would have been a pleasant cultural experience. After two hours and 40 minutes, it was as appealing as an attack of kidney stones and infinitely more painful. "August Osage County," a Pulitzer prize winning play was, by the third hour, as enjoyable as receiving a tattoo on your nipple. You will note that the critics deemed both of the above, "brilliant," thereby confirming my theory that critics never actually sit through the productions they review. I'm not saying they don't attend performances. That would be fraud. No,they sit in the audience for 90 minutes, revel in the chef d'oeuvre, absorb the zeitgeist of the audience and depart to write the glowing review, unaware that after their departure, 3/4 of the audience will lapse into a defensive coma. Brilliance is simply impossible to sustain for more than 90 minutes. Isaac Newton was a genius, but how long did it take the apple to drop to the ground? Three seconds? And Albert Einstein? E=mc? How long could that have taken? An hour, max?
I am not naive. I know my rules will be ignored. I'd prefer my $14 glass of chardonnay to be filled to the top, but that won't happen. 4 ounces is the standard "pour," so I have to order two glasses and spend $28 for the equivalent of one normal glass whose cost to the restaurant was $1. I would like to go to a play or movie and walk out smiling, saying, "That was terrific. I enjoyed every minute of it." Instead, I will walk out, holding my head in hand, saying, "This movie evoked the three hours of agony immediately following the extraction of my wisdom teeth." But I'm optimistic that if you send this post to 10 of your closest friends and they send it to ten of their closest friends,ad infinitum, and nobody breaks the chain, we'll all have unbelievable luck, full wineglasses and short movies.
The rule for restaurants should not be confused with the rule that governs movies and plays. There, the rule is "less is more." No one except the film maker's mother wants to sit through a movie longer than 90 minutes and not even the playwright's grandmother wants to endure 3 hours and 20 minutes of brilliant theatre. "La Danse," a critically acclaimed documentary about the Paris Opera Ballet is a perfect example of a film made by a director who ignored the rule. At 90 minutes this work would have been a pleasant cultural experience. After two hours and 40 minutes, it was as appealing as an attack of kidney stones and infinitely more painful. "August Osage County," a Pulitzer prize winning play was, by the third hour, as enjoyable as receiving a tattoo on your nipple. You will note that the critics deemed both of the above, "brilliant," thereby confirming my theory that critics never actually sit through the productions they review. I'm not saying they don't attend performances. That would be fraud. No,they sit in the audience for 90 minutes, revel in the chef d'oeuvre, absorb the zeitgeist of the audience and depart to write the glowing review, unaware that after their departure, 3/4 of the audience will lapse into a defensive coma. Brilliance is simply impossible to sustain for more than 90 minutes. Isaac Newton was a genius, but how long did it take the apple to drop to the ground? Three seconds? And Albert Einstein? E=mc? How long could that have taken? An hour, max?
I am not naive. I know my rules will be ignored. I'd prefer my $14 glass of chardonnay to be filled to the top, but that won't happen. 4 ounces is the standard "pour," so I have to order two glasses and spend $28 for the equivalent of one normal glass whose cost to the restaurant was $1. I would like to go to a play or movie and walk out smiling, saying, "That was terrific. I enjoyed every minute of it." Instead, I will walk out, holding my head in hand, saying, "This movie evoked the three hours of agony immediately following the extraction of my wisdom teeth." But I'm optimistic that if you send this post to 10 of your closest friends and they send it to ten of their closest friends,ad infinitum, and nobody breaks the chain, we'll all have unbelievable luck, full wineglasses and short movies.
Monday, January 11, 2010
The New Leather
January 1, many people vow to improve themselves in the coming year. These resolutions are virtually never kept, but are extremely important to the financial well being of health clubs. Having joined a health club on January 1, 2001 in order to strengthen my abdominals, I attended one Pilates class, pulled a trapezius muscle while planking and never returned. That class cost me $860, not counting the co-pays on my subsequent physical therapy. Accordingly, I no longer make new years resolutions.
However, January 1 marks a new beginning. These first weeks of January, I decided to devote myself to considering the kind of person I am. I hate to think of myself as superficial, materialistic and acquisitive. I prefer to believe I am deep , contemplative and could be happy living in a yurt. I performed my self analysis exclusively in Lord and Taylor,Filene's Basement and Fabulous Footwear, three venues most conducive to introspection.
In the Lord and Taylor shoe department, I asked the salesman, Trevor, for a pair of Steve Madden black boots in size 6. He input my request into his handheld computer and disappeared. While he was gone, I congratulated myself on my choice. It demonstrated a clear victory of the contemplative over the materialistic. Steve Madden-contemplative. Donna Karan-materialistic. After ten minutes he returned with light brown boots in size 8. "Trevor," I said placidly, raising my voice only slightly, " These are not black boots in size 6." Trevor agreed reluctantly, but asked if I might not like to try them on anyway. "They run small." I declined and he retreated to the stock room returning some time later with black boots in size 9. I screamed profuse thanks for his trouble,wished him a nice day and departed the store, basking in my self denial. If I had harbored any doubts of my unacquisitive nature, they had been laid to rest.
While I could lead a rich life without the Steve Madden black knee-high boots, even Karl Marx would concede that brown leather ankle boots are de rigeur. Fabulous Footwear's ear-splitting techno music would be conducive to reflection and as I had previously purchased my black leather Sporto ankle boots there eight years before, it was a perfect destination.
I went up and down the aisles. There were plastic high boots, plastic ankle boots, fake suede high boots, fake suede low boots. Although there was no exculpatory sign, it was apparent that no animals had died in the making of these boots. I asked a salesperson if they carried leather Sporto ankle boots. "Leather?" she said as if I had asked if the Pope was Catholic. "We don't carry leather. Plastic is the new leather."
Although disappointed that my entire shoe wardrobe was at worst "passe" and at best "retro," I was secretly pleased that I had left two stores without a purchase. I was practically Amish.
Today, in my continued quest for self awareness and boots, I went to Filene's Basement. I found black knee high Anne Klein boots in size 6 on sale for forty percent off. I brought them to the check out line, stopping briefly to paw through two seventy-five percent off racks on the way. While standing on the line, my head aching from my laborious self examination, I brought my ruminations to a self satisfied close. I concluded I am not a vapid, greedy materialist. I am a profound intellectual with boots appropriate for any yurt.
However, January 1 marks a new beginning. These first weeks of January, I decided to devote myself to considering the kind of person I am. I hate to think of myself as superficial, materialistic and acquisitive. I prefer to believe I am deep , contemplative and could be happy living in a yurt. I performed my self analysis exclusively in Lord and Taylor,Filene's Basement and Fabulous Footwear, three venues most conducive to introspection.
In the Lord and Taylor shoe department, I asked the salesman, Trevor, for a pair of Steve Madden black boots in size 6. He input my request into his handheld computer and disappeared. While he was gone, I congratulated myself on my choice. It demonstrated a clear victory of the contemplative over the materialistic. Steve Madden-contemplative. Donna Karan-materialistic. After ten minutes he returned with light brown boots in size 8. "Trevor," I said placidly, raising my voice only slightly, " These are not black boots in size 6." Trevor agreed reluctantly, but asked if I might not like to try them on anyway. "They run small." I declined and he retreated to the stock room returning some time later with black boots in size 9. I screamed profuse thanks for his trouble,wished him a nice day and departed the store, basking in my self denial. If I had harbored any doubts of my unacquisitive nature, they had been laid to rest.
While I could lead a rich life without the Steve Madden black knee-high boots, even Karl Marx would concede that brown leather ankle boots are de rigeur. Fabulous Footwear's ear-splitting techno music would be conducive to reflection and as I had previously purchased my black leather Sporto ankle boots there eight years before, it was a perfect destination.
I went up and down the aisles. There were plastic high boots, plastic ankle boots, fake suede high boots, fake suede low boots. Although there was no exculpatory sign, it was apparent that no animals had died in the making of these boots. I asked a salesperson if they carried leather Sporto ankle boots. "Leather?" she said as if I had asked if the Pope was Catholic. "We don't carry leather. Plastic is the new leather."
Although disappointed that my entire shoe wardrobe was at worst "passe" and at best "retro," I was secretly pleased that I had left two stores without a purchase. I was practically Amish.
Today, in my continued quest for self awareness and boots, I went to Filene's Basement. I found black knee high Anne Klein boots in size 6 on sale for forty percent off. I brought them to the check out line, stopping briefly to paw through two seventy-five percent off racks on the way. While standing on the line, my head aching from my laborious self examination, I brought my ruminations to a self satisfied close. I concluded I am not a vapid, greedy materialist. I am a profound intellectual with boots appropriate for any yurt.
Monday, January 4, 2010
The Miracle of Flight
I know people who are terrified of flying. They spend seven days puking over the railing of the Queen Mary to see Big Ben. "The buffets were phenomenal," they rave. They drive 30 hours straight on Highway 1 to Miami to escape the cold. They pee into a cup, eat at drive- thrus for fear someone will steal the luggage and sleep sitting up because hotels are pricey. Having seen nothing but billboards advertising the University of Phoenix, they advise you, "That's the way to really see the country." They fork over their life savings to ride the rails to San Francisco. After sleeping in the top bunk of a cubicle with a toilet in the center and watching corn grow for four days,they lie through their teeth, "It was so interesting."
I was never scared of flying, but I never particularly liked the experience either. I always disliked being forced to sit for six hours next to someone with ebola. I hated not being able to open a window. And I particularly detested being prevented from peeing at will by the seat belt sign, the comatose passenger in the aisle seat and the food trolleys. However, I love to travel and the quickest way of getting to my destination was by plane.
Now,I'm reconsidering my travel options. Before I go on a plane trip, I have nightmares for a week. They're never about the plane crashing or a terrorist attack. That would be crazy. Instead, I wake up in a sweat, terrified that I won't have enough room in my one quart clear plastic resealable bag for all my 3 ounce liquid containers. Should I take my special hypoallergenic shampoo or should I use the hotel shampoo and risk terminal eczema. Is toothpaste a liquid that has to go in the baggie or can I pack it with my toothbrush and tweezer? Is contact lens solution for medical use and, if so, can I take more than three ounces? What if the TSA makes me open the bag and I can't reseal it? Will they confiscate my $50 Laura Mercier makeup? If I'm luck enough to fall back to sleep, I'm startled awake by the terrifying thought that I booked the flight for 8 p.m. rather than 8 a.m. I'd made that mistake before, missed my flight, felt like a moron and had to pay an additional $250 for a flight which originally cost $125.
The night before my flight, I'm frantic. My flight's at 8 a.m. If I am supposed to be there two hours prior to take off, I have to get there at 6 a.m. That means I have to get a taxi at 5 a.m. If I want to economize and take Supershuttle, I have to leave at 3 a.m. Does it pay to go to bed? Maybe I should just repack my baggie.
I spring for a taxi and worry all the way to the airport that they'll make me check my bag. Since American Airlines lost my friend E..'s luggage when she was on her way to a Caribbean cruise and she had to wear her underwear as a bathing suit in San Juan, I never check my luggage. I have a problem even if they don't make me check my luggage. My carry on weighs 35 pounds and, despite my numerous aerobics classes, I am incapable of hoisting it into the overhead bin. I've been lucky in the past. I stand in the aisle, look at my bag, look up at the bin and look at the bag again. I do this until someone offers to place it in the bin for me. I learned this technique from my cat. When he wants me to open the closet door, he stares at it, looks at me, stares back at the door and magically, the door opens.
Once on board, baggage stowed by someone else, I finally relax. I have fewer complaints than I did in the past. The flight attendants used to be solicitous and gorgeous, making me feel like a nasty, mutant Tasmanian devil. Now the airlines have recruited nasty, mutant Tasmanian devils as flight attendants. I no longer feel inferior. The food used to be gelatinous, tasteless and fattening. Now it's non-existent. I can stick to my diet. If there's any food to be had, it's because I brought it myself. I can't complain about my own p,b and j sandwich.(Although once the bread was stale.) And now that there's no food service, I don't have to worry about the food trolleys in the aisle. I can pee at will.
So, I probably will continue to fly. But if the airlines implement a no pee zone for the last hour of a flight, I am so taking driving lessons.
Happy New Year to all.
I was never scared of flying, but I never particularly liked the experience either. I always disliked being forced to sit for six hours next to someone with ebola. I hated not being able to open a window. And I particularly detested being prevented from peeing at will by the seat belt sign, the comatose passenger in the aisle seat and the food trolleys. However, I love to travel and the quickest way of getting to my destination was by plane.
Now,I'm reconsidering my travel options. Before I go on a plane trip, I have nightmares for a week. They're never about the plane crashing or a terrorist attack. That would be crazy. Instead, I wake up in a sweat, terrified that I won't have enough room in my one quart clear plastic resealable bag for all my 3 ounce liquid containers. Should I take my special hypoallergenic shampoo or should I use the hotel shampoo and risk terminal eczema. Is toothpaste a liquid that has to go in the baggie or can I pack it with my toothbrush and tweezer? Is contact lens solution for medical use and, if so, can I take more than three ounces? What if the TSA makes me open the bag and I can't reseal it? Will they confiscate my $50 Laura Mercier makeup? If I'm luck enough to fall back to sleep, I'm startled awake by the terrifying thought that I booked the flight for 8 p.m. rather than 8 a.m. I'd made that mistake before, missed my flight, felt like a moron and had to pay an additional $250 for a flight which originally cost $125.
The night before my flight, I'm frantic. My flight's at 8 a.m. If I am supposed to be there two hours prior to take off, I have to get there at 6 a.m. That means I have to get a taxi at 5 a.m. If I want to economize and take Supershuttle, I have to leave at 3 a.m. Does it pay to go to bed? Maybe I should just repack my baggie.
I spring for a taxi and worry all the way to the airport that they'll make me check my bag. Since American Airlines lost my friend E..'s luggage when she was on her way to a Caribbean cruise and she had to wear her underwear as a bathing suit in San Juan, I never check my luggage. I have a problem even if they don't make me check my luggage. My carry on weighs 35 pounds and, despite my numerous aerobics classes, I am incapable of hoisting it into the overhead bin. I've been lucky in the past. I stand in the aisle, look at my bag, look up at the bin and look at the bag again. I do this until someone offers to place it in the bin for me. I learned this technique from my cat. When he wants me to open the closet door, he stares at it, looks at me, stares back at the door and magically, the door opens.
Once on board, baggage stowed by someone else, I finally relax. I have fewer complaints than I did in the past. The flight attendants used to be solicitous and gorgeous, making me feel like a nasty, mutant Tasmanian devil. Now the airlines have recruited nasty, mutant Tasmanian devils as flight attendants. I no longer feel inferior. The food used to be gelatinous, tasteless and fattening. Now it's non-existent. I can stick to my diet. If there's any food to be had, it's because I brought it myself. I can't complain about my own p,b and j sandwich.(Although once the bread was stale.) And now that there's no food service, I don't have to worry about the food trolleys in the aisle. I can pee at will.
So, I probably will continue to fly. But if the airlines implement a no pee zone for the last hour of a flight, I am so taking driving lessons.
Happy New Year to all.
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