"Your teeth are so healthy and strong!" my dentists have told me. That may be true, but here's what I've discovered: Apparently, the only things that have the hardness, strength, power, capacity, and -- if you believe that evil can reside in inanimate objects -- the desire to hurt my teeth, are my other teeth. Or a sesame seed.
Whatever the nature or origin of the fracture one of my so-called healthy teeth suffered a while back, it was temporarily patched and proudly displayed in my smile. I went from grin to chagrin, however, when I received a painful wake-up call at 1:30 in the morning.
"Must be something stuck between my teeth," I groggily thought, envisioning the tiny bit of stray food that had firmly lodged itself in some unreachable crevice. As the pain became more throbbing and persistent, I began to imagine other possibilities: Was a squirrel trying to burrow into my head? Had I crashed into a brick wall while sleep-driving? Had I, unknowingly, joined the circus and been shot, head first, out of a canon and into a brick wall, on top of which an innocent squirrel had been twitching its nose and which (the whole squirrel, not just its nose) was now stuck inside my brain and trying to paw and claw and gnaw its way out?
I grabbed the floss. No squirrels, whole or in parts, stuck to the string. Nor did any food particles emerge, at least none that I could perceive through my grogginess. And, mercifully, the pounding pain dissipated within a couple of hours. Or I had passed out from too much grog. Either way, I got some sleep, got up on time, and got through the day -- pain free and believing that I had resolved the problem.
I retired at 11:00 that night and woke up, with a start and at my wit's end, at one a.m. My head was a Fourth of July fireworks display, a house on fire, an earthquake in progress. Floss didn't cut it, sleep didn't come, and as soon as I could crawl downstairs, I called my dentist's office, begging to re-instate the scheduled appointment that I had canceled the day before.
At work, I passed the day answering phones, translating letters and fliers, running from office to schools and back, interpreting at meetings, running a fever, hurting like the dickens (Charles?), and counting the minutes until I could arrive early at my dentist's office. By 3:40, I was stonily stationed in the waiting room, trying not to moan, wail, or yank out my aching tooth with my bare hands.
I will not bore or haunt you with the gory details, but you already know about my fear of needles. So, you might be able to imagine my desperate state of out-of-my mind that would drive me to beg for 152 injections of anesthesia. Actually, I couldn't really beg, because I couldn't really talk. What came out of my mouth was some kind of muffled noise that sounded like a screeching squirrel being tossed about and very slowly torn apart by a playful cat. I also death-gripped the dentist's arm in a vain attempt to make him understand that if I couldn't have more pain relief, as he scraped, twisted, drilled, and dynamited the inflamed nerve that wound, it seemed to me, from the top of my right ear to the tips of my tippy-toes (perhaps it was really a tape worm gone astray; I have been eating more than usual...), I would kill him. And I didn't really get 152 injections, but I'm sure that the dental assistant was forced to immediately replenish the supply of Novocaine or whatever the heck that namby pamby stuff that doesn't work at all is.
When the root canal was over, I looked like I had barely survived a canon firing, earthquake, and house fire. My mouth was resting, rather uncomfortably, on a diagonal to the rest of my face. I could produce a pretty convincing, pirate-like "Aargh," but whatever else I tried to say was pretty much unintelligible. The whole right side of my face was swollen. And I must confess that, although the swelling smoothed out my wrinkles, this was not an attractive look.
My dentist, calm as ever and clearly oblivious to the threat I had posed against his continued existence, assured me that I would start to feel better quickly; however, I decided to forgo dancing -- and even dinner out with my number-one-and-only son. The only thing I did manage to do was to fill a prescription for antibiotics and open my mouth enough to slide in the required first dosage, along with as much over-the-counter pain killer a person of my size or lack thereof can swallow without overdosing. After wishing my son a good night or, as I put it, "Aargh!" I went to sleep.
I awoke 12 hours later, feeling a heck of a lot better. The downside (and there almost always is at least one) is that I'm not exactly pain free. Relief came at quite a cost: my wallet is a lot lighter and my wrinkles are back.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
A Balanced Diet and Other Bad Health Decisions (Richmond, VA)
I was recently reminded about the "balanced diet" I used to follow many years ago, when I lived, loved, and labored in Manhattan. Twice a day, I would consume a double scoop of some kind of chocolate ice cream -- balanced on a cone. I lost my appetite for other foods and I lost a lot of weight. Eventually, I lost my taste for ice cream, as well as all feeling in my lips and throat. I got pretty ill.
You will be pleased to know that my taste for ice cream has been restored and the ice cream diet has long been shelved. In fact, you can often spy a gallon (or what's left of it) of Edy's Slow Churned Chocolate-Something Ice Cream on my freezer shelf -- or on my hips.
During that same period of my life (or as I like to call it, The Ice Cream Age), I was drinking about 9 cups of coffee a day. One morning, as I made my way through a pedestrian tunnel, I thought the subway train was in the passage with me. When I stopped shaking (from fear? too much caffeine? both?), I resolved to cut down to one to two cups of Joe per day. Which I have continued to cut down to almost every day in the blankety blank years since.
Now older but, apparently, not much wiser, I find my hands reacting painfully to cold temperatures.(Raynaud's Syndrome? Lost Glove Disease? Hypochondria?). If I am, indeed, suffering from Raynaud's, one of the "simple" treatments is to completely cut out caffeine. In my finite wisdom, I have decided that I will just have to endure the occasional "my-fingers-are-going-to-fall-off feeling," not because I always need something to complain about (because I don't -- not always, anyway) and not because I am contrary by nature (although some would argue with me about that), but rather because I do not wake up until after I've downed a rather (translation: very) strong mug of java each morning.
What? You're suggesting that I become a walking zombie, stumbling through life in a foggy-headed ... fog? I don't think so! I need every wit about me, and will even take half of them, to get through the pressures of my existence.
I could try biofeedback, another remedy for Raynaud's, which might help me to control my stress, blood pressure and other bodily function levels. An intriguing possibility: anything with the word "feed" in it sounds like something I could sink my teeth into. Let me have a cup of coffee, a scoop of ice cream and the time to consider it. I'll get back to you....
You will be pleased to know that my taste for ice cream has been restored and the ice cream diet has long been shelved. In fact, you can often spy a gallon (or what's left of it) of Edy's Slow Churned Chocolate-Something Ice Cream on my freezer shelf -- or on my hips.
During that same period of my life (or as I like to call it, The Ice Cream Age), I was drinking about 9 cups of coffee a day. One morning, as I made my way through a pedestrian tunnel, I thought the subway train was in the passage with me. When I stopped shaking (from fear? too much caffeine? both?), I resolved to cut down to one to two cups of Joe per day. Which I have continued to cut down to almost every day in the blankety blank years since.
Now older but, apparently, not much wiser, I find my hands reacting painfully to cold temperatures.(Raynaud's Syndrome? Lost Glove Disease? Hypochondria?). If I am, indeed, suffering from Raynaud's, one of the "simple" treatments is to completely cut out caffeine. In my finite wisdom, I have decided that I will just have to endure the occasional "my-fingers-are-going-to-fall-off feeling," not because I always need something to complain about (because I don't -- not always, anyway) and not because I am contrary by nature (although some would argue with me about that), but rather because I do not wake up until after I've downed a rather (translation: very) strong mug of java each morning.
What? You're suggesting that I become a walking zombie, stumbling through life in a foggy-headed ... fog? I don't think so! I need every wit about me, and will even take half of them, to get through the pressures of my existence.
I could try biofeedback, another remedy for Raynaud's, which might help me to control my stress, blood pressure and other bodily function levels. An intriguing possibility: anything with the word "feed" in it sounds like something I could sink my teeth into. Let me have a cup of coffee, a scoop of ice cream and the time to consider it. I'll get back to you....
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Out of Time/Out of Order ( Puebla, Mexico)
(Note: No, I'm no longer in Puebla. Nor is it August, 2010. But I just found this previously unpublished entry, my last one from Mexico. It will make more sense if you insert it after my Oaxaca experiences and before my return to the USA.)
This is my second and A's first visit to Puebla. We are ensconced in a hotel two giant steps from the zocalo. The room is squeaky clean and comfortable but boasts not a single drawer and, except for the mattresses, pillows, blankets, and bedspreads, virtually everything appears to be constructed of concrete. The lone window looks out onto a not very picturesque air shaft. The shower in the immaculate bathroom produces a powerful stream of hot water, whenever we want it. Nice!
Our first meal is in a charming, touristy restaurant. I am served chicken in a tasty peanut sauce. A's Pueblan specialty, chile en nogada (a huge pepper stuffed with dried fruit and chopped meat and bathed in a creamy sauce), isn't as good as the version she remembers from last year in Tepotzlan, but it is three times more expensive. Actually, it's even more costly, because last time, somebody else paid the bill....
We roam around town. It's a Monday, so many museums are closed, and others are in the midst of renovations. We stop into every church in our path, and there are so many that I feel myself overdosing on gold gilding and portraits of the Virgin and crucifixes and glass boxes with reproductions of bloody Christs or saints, so I can stop now for the year, thank you very much.
I want to find the little bar where my son played chess when we were here four or five years ago. I am wondering if the owner's son ever became Mexico's chess champion as he claimed he would. He was damned good, so who was I to argue?
I am also searching for a dance studio I remember. This, we find. I inquire about lessons, and everyone looks at me as if I had requested a personal audience with the Pope. The receptionist confers with the owner and/or instructor-in-chief, who tells one of the men (a student? an instructor?) to take me for a dance-test drive. I explain that I didn't intend to dance at this very moment and am not prepared to do so, as I am wearing shoes that are not meant for that purpose. "That doesn't matter. Dance!" I am commanded by the instructor, who joins in twirling and hurling me around the floor. At one point, he folds me backwards into a C, as A. snaps a photo. I am winded and my legs ache by the time they are done with me. I am happy, too, as the instructor tells me that I am pretty good and should return.
We pass by the cathedral. There are throngs outside, so we ask why. The long-dead but well preserved body of the patron saint of young people is on display inside, the guy's portrait for sale on the street. We are unwilling to join the crowd waiting so patiently in the rain.
The next morning we find a quaint little restaurant to breakfast in near the market. Another day of sightseeing ensues. Again we seem to be finding all the places that are temporarily closed.
In the late afternoon we dart in and out of cafes and bars, looking for something to do. In one place there is a private screening room. You bring your own film -- one you've made or one you have on hand -- and invite guests to view it with you. We have neither. We end up somewhere else, watching an incredible film; "The Wave," starring Emily Watson, is about pure goodness. It sounds boring, perhaps, but it is both gorgeous and harrowing. I won't give it away, because you really should see it. We saw it with scenes out of order, due to a defective CD or something, so we saw the end before the scene leading up to it. It was great anyway. See it! You won't be sorry, even if it leaves you feeling depressed and, possibly, puzzled at why the guy would even think to insist that his wife do what he wanted her to do. And that's all I've got to say about it...
While waiting for the okay to move upstairs to the screening room, we meet a Dutch woman, recently arrived from Mexico City, where she'd attended an international conference on women. After the showing, we find an attractive but empty-but-for- the-staff bar-restaurant in which to spend time chatting.
While A. and Dutch woman order beers, I opt for lemonade. The waiter takes our order, and a younger one delivers our drinks. We women talk and sip. I am still nursing my lemony ice cubes when the young waiter comes up to our table and grasps my glass. I grab his arm and tell him that I'm not yet done. He looks at me and murmurs, "No disrespect meant, but you have beautiful eyes." (See why I love Mexico?????) The waiter returns several times, reaching his hand out tentatively toward my drink, while I shake my head and pretend to swat his hand away. We are all laughing.
We've run out of time in Puebla. While taking our last walk around town before leaving, we trip across the little bar I'd been searching for; it won't open until after we catch our bus. I never get a chance to take a dance lesson. Maybe next year....
This is my second and A's first visit to Puebla. We are ensconced in a hotel two giant steps from the zocalo. The room is squeaky clean and comfortable but boasts not a single drawer and, except for the mattresses, pillows, blankets, and bedspreads, virtually everything appears to be constructed of concrete. The lone window looks out onto a not very picturesque air shaft. The shower in the immaculate bathroom produces a powerful stream of hot water, whenever we want it. Nice!
Our first meal is in a charming, touristy restaurant. I am served chicken in a tasty peanut sauce. A's Pueblan specialty, chile en nogada (a huge pepper stuffed with dried fruit and chopped meat and bathed in a creamy sauce), isn't as good as the version she remembers from last year in Tepotzlan, but it is three times more expensive. Actually, it's even more costly, because last time, somebody else paid the bill....
We roam around town. It's a Monday, so many museums are closed, and others are in the midst of renovations. We stop into every church in our path, and there are so many that I feel myself overdosing on gold gilding and portraits of the Virgin and crucifixes and glass boxes with reproductions of bloody Christs or saints, so I can stop now for the year, thank you very much.
I want to find the little bar where my son played chess when we were here four or five years ago. I am wondering if the owner's son ever became Mexico's chess champion as he claimed he would. He was damned good, so who was I to argue?
I am also searching for a dance studio I remember. This, we find. I inquire about lessons, and everyone looks at me as if I had requested a personal audience with the Pope. The receptionist confers with the owner and/or instructor-in-chief, who tells one of the men (a student? an instructor?) to take me for a dance-test drive. I explain that I didn't intend to dance at this very moment and am not prepared to do so, as I am wearing shoes that are not meant for that purpose. "That doesn't matter. Dance!" I am commanded by the instructor, who joins in twirling and hurling me around the floor. At one point, he folds me backwards into a C, as A. snaps a photo. I am winded and my legs ache by the time they are done with me. I am happy, too, as the instructor tells me that I am pretty good and should return.
We pass by the cathedral. There are throngs outside, so we ask why. The long-dead but well preserved body of the patron saint of young people is on display inside, the guy's portrait for sale on the street. We are unwilling to join the crowd waiting so patiently in the rain.
The next morning we find a quaint little restaurant to breakfast in near the market. Another day of sightseeing ensues. Again we seem to be finding all the places that are temporarily closed.
In the late afternoon we dart in and out of cafes and bars, looking for something to do. In one place there is a private screening room. You bring your own film -- one you've made or one you have on hand -- and invite guests to view it with you. We have neither. We end up somewhere else, watching an incredible film; "The Wave," starring Emily Watson, is about pure goodness. It sounds boring, perhaps, but it is both gorgeous and harrowing. I won't give it away, because you really should see it. We saw it with scenes out of order, due to a defective CD or something, so we saw the end before the scene leading up to it. It was great anyway. See it! You won't be sorry, even if it leaves you feeling depressed and, possibly, puzzled at why the guy would even think to insist that his wife do what he wanted her to do. And that's all I've got to say about it...
While waiting for the okay to move upstairs to the screening room, we meet a Dutch woman, recently arrived from Mexico City, where she'd attended an international conference on women. After the showing, we find an attractive but empty-but-for- the-staff bar-restaurant in which to spend time chatting.
While A. and Dutch woman order beers, I opt for lemonade. The waiter takes our order, and a younger one delivers our drinks. We women talk and sip. I am still nursing my lemony ice cubes when the young waiter comes up to our table and grasps my glass. I grab his arm and tell him that I'm not yet done. He looks at me and murmurs, "No disrespect meant, but you have beautiful eyes." (See why I love Mexico?????) The waiter returns several times, reaching his hand out tentatively toward my drink, while I shake my head and pretend to swat his hand away. We are all laughing.
We've run out of time in Puebla. While taking our last walk around town before leaving, we trip across the little bar I'd been searching for; it won't open until after we catch our bus. I never get a chance to take a dance lesson. Maybe next year....
Holiday Traditions (Richmond, VA)
Traditions are so important. They link our ancestors to ourselves and to our offspring, forming a continuum between the past and the future, in the present. (Examples: naming children after dead relatives or giving your son a number or Roman numeral after his names, as in Reginald Percival Beancurd the Third or Pope John XI.) They help us to celebrate life cycle events in meaningful ways. (Think of weddings, with gift registries at the couples' favorite stores!) They help create wonderful memories, although I can't recall any at the moment, and they support numerous commercial enterprises that would otherwise go bust and add to the multitudes of unemployed workers. Thus we feel almost virtuous when we buy Hallmark cards and Whitman's chocolates for Valentine's Day.
As residents of our respective countries, we share numerous traditions with our countrymen and women and even with city folk. Examples include tacky lights Christmas tours and overspending in December, whether or not we celebrate any holiday, and St. Patrick's Day over-consumption of green beer and green bagels for us United States of Americans.
In addition, each family develops its own traditions and rituals that make holidays and events special and make it almost impossible for two people with different parents to live together and maintain relationships without guilt and heartache.
I, myself, remain firm in my commitment to carrying on the tradition of Christmas, New York Jewish style. Therefore, this year, my son and I ate Dim Sum at my favorite local Chinese restaurant, along with thousands of other Jews, most of whom looked Chinese, but these days, you can't tell what anybody is by looking at them, so they were probably all adopted. Then we went on to the movies, where all the other Jewish people in town found themselves on this very special day. And, of course, you know that there are African-American Jews, many of whom showed up to see "Black Swan." We are all fans of Natalie Portman -- one of our own -- although she is neither black nor Chinese.
In a few days, my family will celebrate ChristmaHanaKwanzaa to honor the different cultures, races, religions, and ethnicities of our family members, although nothing we do actually has anything much to do with the typical holiday religious rituals. We do exchange gifts, however. And overeat Christmas cookies and potato pancakes (a.k.a. latkes). We also sing some carols. And show tunes.
For New Years, my family tradition has morphed into something completely our own. My son will be out partying with friends. I will prepare hot chocolate and a huge bowl of popcorn, which I will enjoy as my husband gives me that "why are you eating all that unhealthful stuff?" look. We'll probably watch a movie together and hit the hay well before the clock strikes twelve.
Sound pathetic? Actually, a good night's sleep sounds to me like a great way to start 2011.
Wishing you all a wonderful year!
As residents of our respective countries, we share numerous traditions with our countrymen and women and even with city folk. Examples include tacky lights Christmas tours and overspending in December, whether or not we celebrate any holiday, and St. Patrick's Day over-consumption of green beer and green bagels for us United States of Americans.
In addition, each family develops its own traditions and rituals that make holidays and events special and make it almost impossible for two people with different parents to live together and maintain relationships without guilt and heartache.
I, myself, remain firm in my commitment to carrying on the tradition of Christmas, New York Jewish style. Therefore, this year, my son and I ate Dim Sum at my favorite local Chinese restaurant, along with thousands of other Jews, most of whom looked Chinese, but these days, you can't tell what anybody is by looking at them, so they were probably all adopted. Then we went on to the movies, where all the other Jewish people in town found themselves on this very special day. And, of course, you know that there are African-American Jews, many of whom showed up to see "Black Swan." We are all fans of Natalie Portman -- one of our own -- although she is neither black nor Chinese.
In a few days, my family will celebrate ChristmaHanaKwanzaa to honor the different cultures, races, religions, and ethnicities of our family members, although nothing we do actually has anything much to do with the typical holiday religious rituals. We do exchange gifts, however. And overeat Christmas cookies and potato pancakes (a.k.a. latkes). We also sing some carols. And show tunes.
For New Years, my family tradition has morphed into something completely our own. My son will be out partying with friends. I will prepare hot chocolate and a huge bowl of popcorn, which I will enjoy as my husband gives me that "why are you eating all that unhealthful stuff?" look. We'll probably watch a movie together and hit the hay well before the clock strikes twelve.
Sound pathetic? Actually, a good night's sleep sounds to me like a great way to start 2011.
Wishing you all a wonderful year!
Cleaning Up and Out (Richmond, VA)
I've set three goals for this holiday season. They're not dramatic, merely an attempt to establish some order amidst the chaos of my daily life.
Goal # 1: Order my bedroom: file the piles of paper, stack the books, find homes for the off-season and outgrown clothes, shelve the shoes, hang pictures, and so on.
Progress to date: Piles are winnowed down. Papers are in a box, awaiting filing. Clothing is hung or boxed for donations; other stuff has been rehoused in the appropriate rooms. Lookin' good.....
Goal # 2: Tackle the tons of papers, magazines, newspapers, and books, and all that random stuff that has turned my office into the equivalent of a booby-trapped maze and could mark me as a hoarder, were I to die tomorrow. I'll need to donate books, discard teaching materials from classes I haven't taught in years and never will again, trash clippings that clutter the cabinets. I'll never do those exercises, follow those diets, purchase the beauty products, cultivate that English country garden, or craft those cute projects, will I?
Progress to date: I can walk through the room without tripping.
Goal #3: Clean the two rooms.
Progress to date: I can't find the cleaning stuff.
Goal # 1: Order my bedroom: file the piles of paper, stack the books, find homes for the off-season and outgrown clothes, shelve the shoes, hang pictures, and so on.
Progress to date: Piles are winnowed down. Papers are in a box, awaiting filing. Clothing is hung or boxed for donations; other stuff has been rehoused in the appropriate rooms. Lookin' good.....
Goal # 2: Tackle the tons of papers, magazines, newspapers, and books, and all that random stuff that has turned my office into the equivalent of a booby-trapped maze and could mark me as a hoarder, were I to die tomorrow. I'll need to donate books, discard teaching materials from classes I haven't taught in years and never will again, trash clippings that clutter the cabinets. I'll never do those exercises, follow those diets, purchase the beauty products, cultivate that English country garden, or craft those cute projects, will I?
Progress to date: I can walk through the room without tripping.
Goal #3: Clean the two rooms.
Progress to date: I can't find the cleaning stuff.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Battle of the Bulge (Richmond, VA)
Winter has set in. I heap on layers of clothing: underthings, camisole, tights, long-sleeved tops, and long-legged pants. Time to haul out the thick, heavy socks and bulky sweaters, the high-top boots, the long, fake-furry coat, trailing scarves, and lined gloves.
Winter has set in. Don't forget the comforters! Time to switch on the space heaters.
I've switched on my appetite. For hot chocolate with candy cane swizzlers. For toasty breads and cheesy melts. For carbs and fats and sugars. I crave pancakes and French toast, omelets oozing feta, pasta doused with olive oil and blanketed in parmesan. Comfort foods.
Winter has set in. Schools and businesses shut down for two days, due to snow.
I shut down, too. Seldom rise from the kitchen table, save to scrounge for edibles crunchy, salty, or sweet. I make a giant pot of popcorn and scarf it down. Run through a sleeve of rice crackers and a third of a jar of peanut butter. I go nuts with pecans, cashews, walnuts, and almonds. Forget exercising! The only things working out have to do with my digestive system.
Winter has set in. Don't forget the comforters! Time to switch on the space heaters.
What if I'm trapped in the house or the car for weeks without heat or food? Just in case of such an unlikely emergency, I heap on an extra, protective layer of fat.
Winter has set in. I am consumed by dreams of Mexico, where, with no fridge or pantry to raid or tempt me, the pounds effortlessly melt away. I dance in the streets, walk for hours, bright colors and lively music kaleidoscoping around me. In my dreams...
In my reality, I consume everything in sight that isn't frozen solid, running away, or biting back.
Winter has set in. When I am not snuggled tightly in my bed, I'm snuggled tightly in my jeans.
Partially due to my genes, partially due to my state of mind, I will pack on the pounds.
But this winter, for the first time, I refuse to fight the Battle of the Bulge. I'm hoisting a white flag, surrendering to my appetites. I will make an effort to zumba and dance, at home and, when I can get there, out, but I don't want or need the stress of forcing myself to do what comes unnaturally -- cutting down or cutting out. Stress only makes me eat more.
I know that, eventually, spring and summer will set in. And they'll be worth the weight.
Winter has set in. Don't forget the comforters! Time to switch on the space heaters.
I've switched on my appetite. For hot chocolate with candy cane swizzlers. For toasty breads and cheesy melts. For carbs and fats and sugars. I crave pancakes and French toast, omelets oozing feta, pasta doused with olive oil and blanketed in parmesan. Comfort foods.
Winter has set in. Schools and businesses shut down for two days, due to snow.
I shut down, too. Seldom rise from the kitchen table, save to scrounge for edibles crunchy, salty, or sweet. I make a giant pot of popcorn and scarf it down. Run through a sleeve of rice crackers and a third of a jar of peanut butter. I go nuts with pecans, cashews, walnuts, and almonds. Forget exercising! The only things working out have to do with my digestive system.
Winter has set in. Don't forget the comforters! Time to switch on the space heaters.
What if I'm trapped in the house or the car for weeks without heat or food? Just in case of such an unlikely emergency, I heap on an extra, protective layer of fat.
Winter has set in. I am consumed by dreams of Mexico, where, with no fridge or pantry to raid or tempt me, the pounds effortlessly melt away. I dance in the streets, walk for hours, bright colors and lively music kaleidoscoping around me. In my dreams...
In my reality, I consume everything in sight that isn't frozen solid, running away, or biting back.
Winter has set in. When I am not snuggled tightly in my bed, I'm snuggled tightly in my jeans.
Partially due to my genes, partially due to my state of mind, I will pack on the pounds.
But this winter, for the first time, I refuse to fight the Battle of the Bulge. I'm hoisting a white flag, surrendering to my appetites. I will make an effort to zumba and dance, at home and, when I can get there, out, but I don't want or need the stress of forcing myself to do what comes unnaturally -- cutting down or cutting out. Stress only makes me eat more.
I know that, eventually, spring and summer will set in. And they'll be worth the weight.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Stop the Insanity
Along with my faithful friend, A., her sister,F., and several hundred thousand or four million others (not all of whom are A's sisters), I attended the Stewart - Colbert rally in DC. Just about everybody I know who lives in the US was there. It's incredible that I didn't run into any of them, which makes me believe that they're just saying that they were there but that they weren't really.
It took longer to ascend the stairs from the metro stop than it did to travel by car from somewhere on the outskirts of Annapolis, MD, to another metro stop that didn't have a never-ending, snaking line of ticket buyers, to the metro stop near the Mall.
As we arrived slightly after the 12 noon starting time, we ended up standing 3/4 of the way back on the Mall or somewhere near the North Pole. I could glimpse the action on a giant screen when I held my head at a 90 degree angle, stood on tiptoe, climbed on someone's shoulders, and had binoculars cemented into my forehead. We were so far away from the stage that we could hear only every third or eighth word, which probably meant that the speed of sound had slowed to a near-whisper. We ended up walking alongside the Mall, which took us about an hour.
So, no I didn't get to jump rope with a Muslim. But I did see a sign that said, "I love my Muslim, foreign-born President!" and another that asked, "Does this sign make my ass look big?" There were thousands of other signs, many quite amusing, but I was tired of standing, then walking slowly, then trying to (nicely) push my way through the crowds.
Whatever number the media, the naysayers, and the boo-hooers claim attended this rally, they are off by a godzillion. Even as we reached the metro station, more sign-toting young- and oldsters were pouring out of the subway cars.
I'm glad I went. Glad I lived to tell the tale. I'll have to see a replay of the rally, though. I was there but pretty much missed it all.
It took longer to ascend the stairs from the metro stop than it did to travel by car from somewhere on the outskirts of Annapolis, MD, to another metro stop that didn't have a never-ending, snaking line of ticket buyers, to the metro stop near the Mall.
As we arrived slightly after the 12 noon starting time, we ended up standing 3/4 of the way back on the Mall or somewhere near the North Pole. I could glimpse the action on a giant screen when I held my head at a 90 degree angle, stood on tiptoe, climbed on someone's shoulders, and had binoculars cemented into my forehead. We were so far away from the stage that we could hear only every third or eighth word, which probably meant that the speed of sound had slowed to a near-whisper. We ended up walking alongside the Mall, which took us about an hour.
So, no I didn't get to jump rope with a Muslim. But I did see a sign that said, "I love my Muslim, foreign-born President!" and another that asked, "Does this sign make my ass look big?" There were thousands of other signs, many quite amusing, but I was tired of standing, then walking slowly, then trying to (nicely) push my way through the crowds.
Whatever number the media, the naysayers, and the boo-hooers claim attended this rally, they are off by a godzillion. Even as we reached the metro station, more sign-toting young- and oldsters were pouring out of the subway cars.
I'm glad I went. Glad I lived to tell the tale. I'll have to see a replay of the rally, though. I was there but pretty much missed it all.
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