The Measure of a Woman (Richmond, VA)

Despite my better and my worse judgment, I actually attempt to find a two-piece bathing suit to wear for my "before" photo in the Fitness Challenge I mentioned in my previous post. I go to one of my favorite thrift shops and check out the athletic wear and bathing suit section. Lots of workout pants and sleeveless tops. No bathing suits, because "it's not the season," according to the salesclerk. I guess we thrift store shoppers don't take too many cruises to the islands during the winter...

I take a couple of sports bras into the try-on room, but I have trouble getting them on. I smush myself into one, but I can't pull it back over my head or down over my hips. I fear that I'll have to call 911 and beg the rescuers to bring the Jaws of Life to cut me free. When I finally pretzel myself into a shape that nobody's body has ever been forced to achieve, I yank off the offending undergarment. My upper body, from shoulders to navel, smarts and reddens; it's as if I'd just ripped off a huge band aid.

I am resigned to wearing a bra that doesn't look like one (pink and white checks, decorative doodads on the straps) and some black athletic shorts that I inherited from my tiny, size none niece. I figure that the worse I look "before," the better I'll come out "after."

My last meal before I measure up and weigh in for my "fitness challenge": a gingerbread latte with whipped cream and a double chocolate chip cookie almost as big as my head. On to the hips and off to the gym....

Stacey tells me to weigh myself in the women's changing room. Wearing all my clothes and my shoes, I do so, knowing that when I return for my last weigh-in, I'll be minus all the extra shoe, cookie, and latte poundage. "I'm halfway to winning," I think.

I report the number to Stacy (not to you), who then whips out a measuring tape. She appears to have reversed my hip and waist measurements, but who am I to argue?

As I am ushered into the tanning bed-room to slip into the decidedly unflattering garb I'm about to be photographed in, I reflect on the waiver I've just signed. The gym can use my photos however they see fit -- or unfit.

I am planning to change my hairstyle, name, and address.

In a wink of a shutter, I am recorded for posterity, both posteriorly and anteriorly. I re-dress and exit into the waiting area.

"Have I won yet?" I ask Stacey who, I quickly realize, doesn't get my humor.

"The Challenge just started!" she says.

She doesn't know how right she is....

Fitness Challenged (Richmond, VA)

My gym is hosting a contest for people to get "into their best possible shape." Winners are to be chosen in multiple classes, based on age (by decade -- except after 60, when it's just 60+) and gender. I figure that this might be just the nudge I need to lose about 10-15 pounds. I plunk down my $35.00 (U.S.) entry fee before asking all the right questions, such as: What do I have to wear in the "before" picture? Will the before picture actually be displayed in public? Can I wear a mask?

The requirement that I wear a two-piece bathing suit probably increases my chance of winning in my age category, because the gym members of my age fall into two categories: those who are incredibly fit, shaped, and honed and those who really need to lose a lot of weight and increase their muscle tone, strength, and endurance. The women who fall into the first group have nothing to gain or lose by getting involved in this competition and the women who fit into the second group generally refuse to wear two-piece bathing suits.

I, myself, have not worn a bathing suit of one or more pieces for over ten years, although I've carried one with me in my travels, just in case an opportunity to jump out of a door or window directly into a swimming pool or ocean without anyone seeing me should ever present itself.

I tell Ed, the hapless manager of the gym, that I don't have a two-piece and that I am not going to purchase a new wardrobe for my "before" picture, because when I reach my "after" shot, my new clothes will no longer fit.

I don't own anything that exposes my midriff. "Can I tuck a t-shirt into my bra?" I ask the frowning Ed.

"I don't know," he says. "You can probably wear a pair of shorts, though."

"Shorts?" I stare at him incredulously. "I haven't worn shorts in twenty years!"

"You could cut down a pair of workout pants," he suggests with a look of helpless hopefulness.

"This is starting to sound expensive," I say. "Why should I have to ruin a pair of perfectly good pants for one one-shot shot?"

Ed, turning red, changes the subject. "Do you have a personal trainer?" he queries.

Of course, Ed knows that I do not have a personal trainer. One look at me would convince any gym manager worth his salt to fire someone who'd spent two years personally training a person who still maintains as many spare tires and duplicate chins as I do. Had I had a personal trainer for all this time, I would boast a bod that Madonna would die for -- or at least upper arms that don't wave in the breeze.

"No, I don't have a trainer," I reply sweetly. "Are you offering me one at no charge?"

"No," Ed says, looking somewhat alarmed. "A trainer will measure and weigh you.... Would you like Stacey or Tracey?" (Note: Names have been rhymed to protect the innocent.)

I can't quite decide which name I prefer so, in the interest of time and his other managerial duties, Ed directs me to look at the photos of the trainers that are displayed on the wall.
I am still finding it hard to decide whether a perky 20-year-old blonde or a perky 20-year-old brunette will be able to skillfully (translation: tactfully and without snickering) measure and weigh me.

I return to Ed and tell him that he should hire women of a certain age to train, measure, and weigh their cohorts, so we would feel more comfortable. My talented and delightful zumba instructor, who is a few years agier than I and a lot more certain, smiles in agreement, but decides not to place her job in jeopardy by offering any verbal support.

Ed, visibly frustrated, awaits my decision. I go for the brunette, figuring we can bond over our shared hair color and gender.

I am now entered and am scheduled for measurements and weighing-in this Saturday. I'm already geared up; in preparation, I'm going to eat everything and anything I want to before the "before." What have I got to lose?

Getting Hot in 2010 (Richmond, VA)

I sleep in thermal underwear, heavy socks, and a thick robe two sizes too big, under a mountain of blankets and quilts. I keep two space heaters blazing, yet my hands are so cold (do I have to wear mittens to bed???) that I can't even hold up a magazine or book to read before I conk out. It takes a good 20 minutes every morning to talk myself into braving my way into the bathroom.

I must traverse a glacial room to reach the bathroom, which at least has a heater of its own. Depending on where I situate it, it blasts me in the face or on the feet. It tests every fiber of my being to disrobe, but I jump into the tepid shower water, wash up and wash down, jump out into the steamy but still frigid room, grab my robe, make a dash for the bedroom and, for one blessed moment, feel warm. The feeling fades quickly, as I shiver my way into my clothes.

It's just a bit less chilly downstairs. No heat emerges from the vent in the kitchen; that room is only bearable when the door to the guestroom is left open -- and that is impossible if you are opening the kitchen door. The only hot spots in the living room are the vents. Unfortunately, I can't fit into them.

Why is my house so damned cold?

Because my husband believes that minus 12 degrees Fahrenheit is the normal temperature for the interior of a home in the southern United States in winter?

Because that same man thinks that we can save billions of dollars per year by "keeping the heat down a bit" and convincing ourselves that the icicles forming on our eyelids are all in my imagination?

Because he thinks that if someone is cold she can dress in 13 layers of clothing and that it will not be a problem if she looks like the Michelin tire guy or a 2-year-old in a snow suit or too much sausage meat overloading its casing and, therefore, cannot move and that THAT IS PERFECTLY FINE?

Or could it be that the squirrels, raccoons, bears, vampires or whatevers the hell are keeping me awake at night by dragging bodies across the ceiling and that live in the space between the roof and said bedroom ceiling that no human being could possibly squish his/her body into to get rid of whatever they are, are gnawing through the heat ducts and/or dragging the heating system into the neighboring house?

Or are the vents, thermostats, heat pumps and other mechanical systems in this house waging a vendetta against the humans who inhabit what the others think is their domain?

Or all of the above????

I don't know, but I can't take much more of this. If things don't heat up fast at my house, things WILL heat up fast at my house!

Cold vs. Warmth (Boston, MA)

I am so glad that my liner-less trench coat, which served me as a winter coat for the 25-plus years I've lived in Richmond and as a raincoat during my previous years in California and in New York City, finally gave up the ghost, along with its cuffs, pockets, hems, and all seams, before I left for my winter trek; its demise forced me to purchase replacement rain-wear (a sweet and simple aubergine-colored number) and a true winter coat (basic black, reversible, hooded, warm and snuggly). The coat seems to weigh almost as much as I do but doesn't make me look like I've got another person tucked in there with me. The toastiness of my new outerwear, combined with layers of under and mid-level and everywhere wear, do not, however, protect me completely from the elements.

This is not the coldest I've ever been (that was a New Year's day in Richmond, VA -- believe it or not -- when the words coming out of my mouth froze in midair and when my nostrils iced shut), but my face stings and my fingers ache and I think that if I remain outside for 10 more minutes I will require a two-hour roasting in a 350-degree oven to thaw out.

My sister-in-law Susan, niece Adele, and I are trudging through the frigid landscape towards the home of one of Susan's former English as a Second Language students. Ana is from Mexico, and Susan thinks she'll enjoy meeting me, telling me about her family, reminiscing about her homeland, and feeding us all lunch.

We are warmly greeted by Ana, but not by the snarling, barking, totally viscious dog -- the size and appearance of a small rat on stilts -- that strains against its leash in the pantry. When freed, it nips at my ankles. Recognizing that, with one size-5.5 foot I could easily put an end to its furious attack on my tarsis or my whatsis, the rat-dog desists, returns to the pantry, and releases a miniature turd onto the linoleum.

Susan has brought gifts for Ana and her children. I recognize some presents that I gave her from years past -- a cute t-shirt that obviously didn't fit Adele, a massage set (gloves with pressure points indicated; various doo-hickies to run over neck and/or back knots; oils, etc.); I'm glad that they were regifted -- I believe in recycling.

While Ana's children, a bright kindergartner and an active toddler, and Adele float between the kitchen (where we adults are sitting) and the five-year- old's pretty, pink, and frilly bedroom, we women have a grand time, chatting (platicando and talkeando) in Spanish, English, and Spanglish.

Ana ordered a rotisserie chicken from a nearby Latino restaurant over an hour ago; she calls again to give them street-by-street directions to the door. We snack on oreos while we wait.

When the cumin-scented bird arrives, we accompany it -- down the gullet -- with French fries, yellow rice (that Ana has prepared), and Inca Cola (a bright yellow, sickly sweet soft drink that is beloved by all who crave eventual diabetes or immediate sugar shock). Ana also serves us shredded chicken, lettuce, and a mild green salsa, which we encase in wheat tortillas that she's sauteed in oil.

When Ana's husband arrives home, tired and ready to take the family to a doctor's appointment, we say our hellos and goodbyes. Susan explains later that if we had stayed any longer, he would have gone out of his way to drive us home. We head back to the subway station, buoyed by the warmth of the family we have just left and the food that is fueling us. It's still flipping frigid out here.

First Westport in a Storm (CT)

Highlights of my visit to Westport:

Not enough time with my (only and favorite and adorable) brother and his adorable family, including their two adorable dogs. We spend the time talking, window shopping, and laughing (and eating and going to movies. See below).


Laughter: A storefront labeled LCR, which nobody recognizes, I identify as "Lotsa Crappy Rejects, a consignment shop." We watch a TV show about people looking for first or second homes abroad. Ellen (brilliant sister-in-law) describes the usual episodes as depicting British couples oohing and aahing over caves in Andalucia. "We can work with that," they enthuse. "That" might refer to using a river as a bathroom or having ceilings so low that they make walking upright impossible. We agree that chickens should be engineered to be nothing but skin and bones (because the best part is the crispy skin, so why not make it the only part?). You shouldn't be shocked; I am descended from parents who used to order pastrami on rye with extra fat (the pastrami, not the rye).


Food: Japanese -- Hibachi lobster and sushi (at two different meals). Italian -- Veal chop (!) with wild mushrooms and half a slice of pizza (at two different meals). Chinese -- Giant shrimp with baby bok choy; spicy chicken and shrimp with mango; diced chicken in lettuce wrap. At home -- deep-fried chicken (which left us smelling like we worked at a Popeye's franchise for days afterwards); bialys (a round, airy but chewy roll with a sunken center filled with poppy seeds and/or onions)and cheese and perfect eggs-over-easy, courtesy of the delightful Sasha, who excels at egg preparation and dancing but not at both simultaneously, I don't think. Popcorn (tubs and tubs) at the movies.

Movies: Avatar (fantastic in 3-D), Up in the Air (with the swooney George Clooney, and the film was excellent, too), and the Meryl Streep-Alec Baldwin It's Complicated.(It's forgettable.)

I manage to keep the rows in front of us at the movies free and clear of tall people who might block my or anyone else's view. I ask the first woman who had the misfortune of seating herself directly in front of me if she would please slouch. She turns and says that she is short, but I correct her misconception. She moves. The couple that follows her leaves after I innocently remark, to no one in particular but aloud, that I sure hope that the tall people about to sit down are not intending to stay. I stare the next couple down and ask if they are planning to wear hats to make sure they would completely block the screen. They move. Their replacements are appropriately slouchy, so I don't need to say or do a thing, although by that time my family is pretending that they don't know me, and my beautiful 20-something niece Thea is reliving the nightmarish worst moments of having a relative embarrass a teen. But there is a definite method to my madness, as we can see the screen perfectly.

The visit is too short and our meetings too infrequent. We have got to get together more often!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Plane to See (Westport, CT)

As if I hadn't had enough of the snow in Richmond, where it doesn't even belong, I've gone into the heart of snow country in the middle (or the beginning) of winter. I'm in New England, amidst lawns and fields and fences covered in the white stuff that won't melt until June or July because it's so flippin' cold. I am, quite obviously, completely out of my mind. But I had no choice.

I don't get to see my family often, so I have to take the opportunity to do so even when Nature conspires against my nature. I have two weeks off during ChrismaHanaKwanzaa, so I took off a coupla days ago for points north. Let me tell you about the trip....

I get to the airport two hours early, as required. Already have my boarding pass but stop by the USAir counter, anyway, just to make sure all is in order. It's 7:15 a.m.

The clerk asks if I want to change my ticket to the flight that's already boarding. I say no. But then she tells me that my flight, scheduled for departure at 9:27, is already delayed. So I jump on the chance to go while the going is good.

"You'll have to hurry," she warns me.

"What if I don't make it?" I ask.

"No problem. We'll put you back on the original flight."

So I head for the security check point. I pass through without a glitch but with some pleasant banter with the screeners.

As I jog, rolling my roll-on toward the gate, I hear the final boarding call for my flight.

I break into a trot, but that's when my carry-on bag #2 (the suitcase masquerading as my purse) decides to slide around and off the handle of carry-on bag #1 (the rolling suitcase proud to admit its true identity). I attempt to rearrange #2, and #1 slips out of my grip and crashes to the ground.

By the time I've gotten myself and my gear into gear and arrive, sweaty and panty, at the gate, there's no one at the gate. Suddenly, a uniformed attendant appears and asks if I'm on this flight. I nod and she shoves two yellow tickets at me, instructs me to attach them onto my bags, and says that my carry-ons won't fit on the flight.

Frantically, I try to wind the elastics around my carry-on and carry-all-the-rest, all the time contemplating being fitted into the last empty space in the plane (a.k.a. flying sardine can). And I am anticipating that the obese man, who is destined to sit next to me and who should have purchased a double row to accomodate his heft, will be overflowing into my lap and beyond, trapping me like the victim of a volcanic eruption, under flowing mounds of ashy, flabby flesh and fleshy flab, but at least I won't be cold. (Yes, I realize that volcanos spew lava, but work with me here, okay?)

I jerk, upright and uptight, as the gate attendant hisses (yes, HISSES): "Run!"

I charge down the tunnel and reach the door that opens into the airplane, with its smiling stewards performing their preflight rituals. Except that it is quite plain that there is no plane.

There is a staircase (a.k.a. a metal ladder or stadder), however, which I bump my bump-on luggage down. I'm on the ground now, searching for my flight.

About 200 paces in front of me rests a solitary plane. As the sweat on my palms turns to ice, I wheel towards the metal bird that will deliver me to my destination. Its wings sparkle so brightly in the cold winter sunlight! And I am so intent on flying away, so focussed on this particular eye-soar, that I don't see the slicks of frozen water and/or oil (a.k.a. ice) that cause my legs to fly out from under me. I land, stunned, on the knee that always takes the fall, the one that -- just that very morning -- I'd realized with a contented sigh, I hadn't even thought about for a while because it no longer hurt.

I gaze towards the plane, which I now realize has no stadder that I could have scaled, and wonder if they've already sold out my original flight and if I'll be spending my impending staycation in bed, alternating applications of frozen bags of peas with hot compresses on my throbbing knee.

By chance, as I heave myself upright, I look to my left. There is a flight attendant, eyeing me from the top of the stadder of the plane that is awaiting me. A luggage handler scurries over and asks if I'd like to be taken back to the terminal for medical attention, but I no thank him away.
I limp towards the plane, trying to preserve whatever dignity I never had.

The flight attendants all hover. "Are you okay?" they chorus.

"Oh, sure," I say, wincing in a dignified manner, as they remove bag #1 from my grip and take it to be stowed in the bowels of the airliner. "Where should I sit?"

"Anywhere in the back," an attendant answers attentively.

The plane is practically empty. I sit in my own row, actually my own three rows, the other four passengers equidistantly spaced. The obese man who was fated to sit next to me has obviously been stowed in baggage, along with the other things that wouldn't fit into the compartments above our heads, below our seats, or within the cabin.I seatbelt myself in and prepare for takeoff.

Twenty minutes later we are informed that our departure will be delayed indefinitely so that the wings can be de-iced. I consider requesting a doggie bag to place on my knee.

The Answer is Snow (Richmond, VA)

One of the reasons I moved south is so I could escape the cold. By the time I'd escaped from college winters in the Snowbelt, I'd already had enough of frigid temperatures, slipping on ice, falling on snow, and watching the streets turn from a brilliant white blanket to brackish, blackish mush.

Here I sit in my kitchen, looking out on a landscape that only Nanook of the North would find inviting. It's the second day that I've been forced to remain at home without any excuse to save me from cleaning my room, doing the laundry, catching up on stuff I've let slide since returning to work at summer's end.

I am not a happy camper. I could be zumbaing. I could be out and about, chatting with friends and strangers, sipping hot tea in a toasty cafe, instead of freezing my tuchis off in my frigid abode. The heat isn't working at all in several rooms; the upstairs bathroom, the study that separates it from my bedroom, and the kitchen are all extensions of the ice box. The temperature won't rise above 61 degrees F in the rest of the house.

I'm wearing so many layers that I can't turn my head. My nose is red and my hands and feet are so cold that I would stick them all under my armpits, if the layers of clothing would permit any bending of joints or reaching of extremities. My only consolation is that they say that people in cold climates live longer. This probably means that I've got an extra 2.5 seconds, if I don't freeze to death first.

As I waddle to the window, I must confess that the tundra-ish appearance of my backyard lends a dash of glamor to the usually barren landscape. Snow drifts hide the piles of brick, the compost heap, the remnant of a garden that never flourished because vegetables need sunlight, and there is none behind our house and under the shade of the neighboring yard's tree.

It's quiet and beautiful and still. Yet I continue to feel that snow is best when it's far away. If you want to visit it or watch it in a movie, be my guest. In the meantime, if you want to be my guest, bring sweaters, mittens, and blankets.