TSA

Overnight, I morphed from a potential shoe bomber to a patriotic American. Yesterday, flying mandated a preparatory exercise regimen of 10 minutes per day balancing on my right foot while tying the shoe laces on my left sneaker and then switching sides.(I only toppled twice.)It necessitated decanting my b-curly hair product into a 3 oz. plastic container,buying a microscopic bottle of conditioner costing twice as much as thee 32 oz. economy size and placing them together with my .09 oz toothpaste in a clear plastic baggie. I diligently followed the same regimen before my latest flight. Ready to strut my stuff, I ambled over to the TSA agent.She mumbled something and pointed to another line where I anticipated a cavity search. The TSA agent there said,"you're pre-screened." "What does that mean,"I inquired. ""You don't have to take off your shoes." "Do I have to to put my cosmetics and i pod in the tray?" "No. Just remove your jacket." No longer a terrorist, I was a loyal citizen. Cocky,smiling, I sauntered through the metal detector. Don't judge me by what I'm about to say. You know I abhor racial profiling. But when the swarthy man with the Arafat schmatte on his head and the bulge of an uzi under his djellabah was also directed to the loyal citizen line and boarded my flight, it did give me pause.

Making a Difference

I've always aspired to make a difference. I would have gone to Africa with Bill Gates to eradicate dracunculiasis, but (a) I'd have to take shots; (b) there are no private latrines and (c)ballet classes are reputed to be subpar, although they are alot cheaper than Broadway Dance. I've written checks to worthy causes, but I suspect that my yearly check to Citymeals on Wheels would have to be at least twice as generous to completely eliminate world hunger. I have been troubled by my failure to change the world. What would the New York Times obituary writer say when my time came? "A lawyer for a Verizon,a Fortune 100 company, she saved her client millions of dollars by winning lawsuits against people who were grievously injured when, failing to look where they were going, they tripped over wires." Would that get me into heaven? Into "The Lives They Lived?" Yesterday, I learned that I need no longer be plagued by inadequacy. I have changed one life in a very important way. I didn't preach or lecture. I taught by example. When shopping with "L" in BJ's, she said she was buying herring in cream sauce because hers had expired, I said,"I use mine well past the expiration date and I haven't died yet." Not wanting to appear a know it all, when she replaced her expired tunafish salad with a new container, I remained silent. But, being extremely intelligent and curious, she asked,"Do you think it's safe to eat a few days after the "best by" date. Why she asked me, I don't know, since I'm not a biologist. I do, however, routinely dispense medical opinions,despite my total lack of medical credentials,so her query was reasonable. I opined "Probably." "L" told me I changed her life. She goes to BJ's half as often. She's eating last year's tuna salad. Her expired herring is delicious. I cried. I'm proud to say, I don't just talk the talk. I currently have in my pantry a can of Oceanspray Cranberry sauce stamped "best if used by September 2005." Do I jettison it? Of course not. It's a self serving suggestion by the manufacturer so that I'll toss the can and buy more. I may have reservations about serving it to guests on Thanksgiving, which is why it's been in my pantry since 2003, but one day, when I'm no longer on weight watchers, I'll try it.[If I'm found dead on my floor, please advise the Medical Examiner to check my garbage] This morning, January 8, for breakfast I ate the Acme whitefish salad stamped "best by November 2, 2013." I opened the brand new container because yesterday I finally finished the container stamped "best by September 12, 2013." The Friendship cottage cheese I will eat for lunch has a "use by" date of December 31. Based upon experience, I will be eating it until January 20. I'm not bucking for sainthood, but I'm thrilled to say I can now go to my grave knowing I have made a difference in one person's life.

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.