collateral benefits

I have a strong interest in exercise, but a weak interest in its execution.

I look at my friend Janice. She skis, runs, competes in iron man events, and is always doing some awe-inspiring exercise as part of a regular routine.

Jill is always on her way to the pool.

My sister Jean is a yoga-expert.

M is either on her bike or at the pool.

Robyn has a gym in her building and uses it often.

Shari is always at Exhale.

Another friend has a trainer.

Meredith and Gail pile up miles walking their dogs.

Susan is training for a 100-mile trek in Europe this spring.

My mom is out walking her three miles almost everyday.

And I frequently used to say, "Let's get together and walk in the Park."

My intention was sincere back then, though specific plans were rarely made.

And, for the past three years, I have wanted to lose three to five pounds. Not a lot, but enough to make a difference.

Now I am exercising regularly.  All without trying.

I roll and unroll big, wheel-like steel circular things to get to merchandise. My arms are getting stronger.

I use weights all day long, three days a week, in the form of clothes-carrying.

I walk over 12,000 steps (six miles) three times a week.

I climb and descend big steel ladders. 







And, I have lost those important and noticeable four pounds (from 131 to 127). 

My jeans fit better. My clothes look better. I wear some skirts I wouldn't have worn last year. I am emotionally stronger keeping my weight below 130. 

But he best part? It doesn't feel like exercise. It just is.  Thank you Saks.

dinner at Wolfgang's

My mom wanted to be here for my birthday. But for a variety of reasons on my end, we decide that this week is better.

Trying to manage the schedule of eight busy people is not easy. But Valerie is able to find a date where everyone is free. And tonight, we all meet at Wolfgang's for dinner.

I work all day but get my make-up refreshed with Alberto at Armani. It's been a crazy day, but he finds a way to make my last eight hours look like I've been at an all-day spa — one of the benefits of working at Saks.

I show up a few minutes late, despite the restaurant being a short walk away. Everyone is already there: my mom and Alexander, Val and Abbey, Adam, Jason and Amanda. We have a nice round table, and while the restaurant is busy, the noise level is low. 

I get a group photo even though I know some of the people at the table would prefer a picture-less night. 

. 

I don't eat much during the day, and then totally overdo it at dinner, starting with a Cosmopolitan.

The food is excellent. I split the house salad and an order of tuna tartare with Alexander. That would have been — actually should have been — enough for dinner. But next comes a perfectly cooked medium rare strip steak (charred on the outside), with shared sides of broccoli, creamed spinach, and potatoes. The desserts are excellent, as is the candle in my key lime pie and a quietly sung Happy Birthday To You.

But the best is the fluid conversation and many laughs. I have a spirited family, and most of our get togethers involve at least one passionate conversation with diverse points of view.  This is not a dull group. Opinions are strong. No one is afraid of saying what they think. And smart humor is always present. 

It's a great birthday celebration.

my mom comes to visit

My young mom arrives around one. There are some benefits to marrying at 19 and having your first-born by 21. You get to spend more years together. 

Within minutes of entering my apartment, my mom characteristically asks, "So, what's our plan for today?"  She doesn't sit still for long. We are having dinner downtown and then seeing a screening of I Saw The Light, a new biopic about Hank Williams.  I figure we'll take a Via around 5:00, but my mom can't wait. "C'mon. Let's leave now. I want to walk around." And so we do.

Within four minutes (literally) of placing the request, our personal driver arrives, in the form of  Via ($4.49 for the two of us downtown). My mom loves Greek food and I remember a small, inexpensive, but excellent little place on Stanton Street called Souvlaki. 

We are seated by 5; the restaurant is empty except for the two of us. 






We are both starving, having skipped lunch. so we order big.   Three different dips with warm pita slices, a gigantic Greek salad, and two sandwiches. We eat about half of everything, and ask our waitress if she can hold our leftovers until after the film. "Of course," she tells us.

We go to the screening, and two hours later we are back at Souvlaki to pick up our food. Quite a difference between 6pm and 9:30 pm...

triple celebration

My good friend Shari celebrated her birthday in late February. A dinner was planned three weeks ago. But bad colds were in abundance then, and too many coughing, sneezing people led to a rescheduling.

In the meantime, I get a year older, and Brooke is about to (though she is still the youngest among us).

So the dinner originally planned for February 29 gets switched to tonight, and instead of celebrating one birthday, we are now celebrating three.  The destination remains unchanged: Zuma, a zen-like restaurant specializing in modern Japanese cuisine.

I take Via there for $2.25. Most of the others do the same.  We get a great table, and everyone agrees (some reluctantly) to a group photo.



The food is amazing, abundant, and gorgeously presented. We haven't gotten together as a group in a while, and it feels good. The energy is high. Many laughs, lots of stuff to catch up on, and even an admission by one of the Republicans among us that she would vote for Hillary over Trump. 

Two drinks in, Zelia and I go to the restroom upstairs. It's like entering the twilight zone. I take a picture to make sure that the long, barely lit hallway leading to the restroom is real.



It is. And the bathroom is as luxurious as the dining rooms.



We make it back to the table, in time for dessert. 

I get home and feel so grateful to have these strong, smart, fun women in my life. 

big birthday night

There is no way my son is going to forget my birthday as I have been reminding him about it for a month.  As in, "I don't need you to spend any money on me, but I do expect you to do something." And lest he not be able to figure out what that means, I provide a couple of examples.

"You can make me a nice card."

"You can cook us both dinner and clean up."

"And don't ask for my advice.  I want this all to be from you."

So today I wake up and there's no card.  Around noon Alexander says, "I'm working on your card. You'll have it later."

Then around five, "Okay, it's done. I'd like to give it to you now. But I haven't colored in the drawings yet."  I tell him I want the card when it's complete. "But I don't have any colored pencils," Alexander complains. I remind him of a big wooden box of luxurious colored pencils he got when he was young. They are mostly unused.

It's worth the wait.

Alexander's card is heartfelt and hilarious, with drawings that make me laugh out loud.  Among other things he writes in his card, he says, "It really has been a ton of fun living with you over the past nine months...I am very happy that my decision to put off employment ... has paid off."

Around seven, Alexander begins thinking about what to make for dinner. I tell him I don't want to know what he's cooking, though he still needs to ask me if we have certain products in the house.

"Do we have honey?"

"Do we have parsley?"

"Do we have pecans?"

"Do we have Dijon mustard?"

"Do we have lemon wedges?  By the way what does a lemon wedge even look like?"

I have no idea what Alexander is creating —only that pecans are too expensive so he substitutes with peanuts. 

Around nine, dinner is served.



Love the lemon wedge substitute.

Aside from the bones (one I nearly choke on; in fact, I think it's still stuck in my throat), the dinner is excellent.

And being with my son, who always makes me laugh, is the best gift of all.

big birthday day

A month and a half ago my brother-in-law Abbey turned the same age I am today.  In typical Abbey fashion, when I called to wish him a happy birthday, he replied, "I feel the same as I did yesterday."

A couple of weeks later, Jim, my other brother-in-law, had his birthday for the same age. He celebrated by skiing with his family in Vail. To him, it was also no big deal.

I wish I could say the same. For me, this is a tough birthday. 

I guess I just don't feel, nor think I think, like the age tells me I should. I mean, for a millisecond, I was even contemplating a cropped moto jacket. And I'm still out searching for that perfect job. And three days a week I'm climbing ladders and running around next to mostly 20-somethings. And, I'm the mother of one, and no where close (I hope) to becoming a grandmother.

I love Facebook for many things, but particularly for birthday wishes. I get lots of them, most from people I am rarely in touch with — friends from high school, people from past jobs, old boyfriends, business colleagues, blog friends I've never met, current friends, distant friends, and even an actor whom I met after an off-broadway play, who just last night got a rave review from Ben Brantley for his new play.

My sister offers to take me to lunch, but I am working on a presentation that needs to be completed by tomorrow so regretfully decline.  I will be celebrating with friends and family over the coming weeks, which will be nice. My mom wanted to come in, but we decided that for a variety of scheduling reasons this isn't the best week. 

But Alexander is home, and it's with him I will celebrate. But not until the end of the day.

The day is pleasantly uneventful. Lots of phone calls. Beautiful cards. Emails. Sentiments by good friends and family that honestly make me cry. A free brow wax at Benefit. A non-free wax elsewhere. A bunch of local errands. And some prep for a meeting tomorrow.

I open my cards, as well as a box from M. She had told me weeks ago, "I saw the perfect gift for you in a store window, pulled over and bought it."  It's a gorgeous cashmere and silk scarf.  Colorful, with just enough black to make it perfect for a million different outfits. 

But unfurled, it's this; the NYC subway map.





Such a personal and special gift for this New York City girl — something I will continue to call myself, even on a very big birthday.

nail vacation

January 12. I go to see a podiatrist. 

Although he specializes in feet, I assume his knowledge extends to toes and therefore nails.  And so I ask him about some unusual whiteness on my fingernails. Specifically, the whites at the bottom of my nails — the portion just above the skin — show an uneven edge. The doctor looks at my nails and offers a solution: You need to take a break from wearing nail polish.

He gave me the same advice a year ago and I couldn't bring myself to follow it.  No clean looking ballet-slippered fingers? No dramatic smokin' hot nails? No toe improvement at all? And no break from life, sitting in a big vibrating chair reading a book, while someone massages my feet?

But hey, it's winter, and my toes aren't exposed. So going without polish on my feet is really not much of a sacrifice. But my fingernails? I am afraid I'll feel under-dressed. Still, I want my nails to be healthy again and so I decide to try it.

It's now been nine weeks without polish, and surprise, surprise — I'm not even missing it. In fact, quite the opposite. I find it liberating.

I don't have to sneak in 45 minutes a week for a manicure. Double that for a manicure/pedicure. I'm saving money. My nails don't chip. I can (and do) cut, file and shine my own nails easily. And they always look acceptable.

I've cut my nails down as short as possible. Barely any whites at all.  My nails feel clean all the time. Healthy. And at work, they never get in the way, or look dull and sloppy.

When summer comes I may change my mind, but for now, I'm enjoying the freedom of going color-free.  Oh, if I were only brave enough to try that on my hair!

an accidental discovery

I fall in love with a deep navy moto jacket by Maje. It's gorgeous. Plus, I have a big birthday coming up, and with my discount, it'll be more than 50% off.  

But with that big birthday comes the question, am I too old for a moto jacket?

I try it on. I ask my style-savvy associates for an opinion. They are honest. In the past, they have said, "That's not special enough." "That looks matronly."  "Eh! You can do better." "Don't love it." So I trust them.  The consensus is, "Fantastic jacket. Looks great on you."

But then I ask my good friend M. "Lyn, try standing next to a 20-something wearing the same jacket and then see if you still think you look good in it."

I decide to Google, "Am I too old to wear a biker jacket?" Mostly I find that everyone must have this kind of jacket. It's a wardrobe essential. And that body-type and attitude, not age, should be the determining factors on appropriateness. 

In my search, I come across a late 50's hip-looking-grey-haired-beautiful female blogger. I begin to read some of her posts and come across a recommendation for a product called Beauty Blender.

I later find a beauty site that says of this product:

Every now and then, there is a beauty tool that comes around that changes

 the landscape of the industry. 

I go to Sephora and for $20 buy it.  Today I try it, and wow. It really does make a difference. I'm not new to the concept of blending. But I'm lazy and don't like the idea of a lot of dirty looking beige sponges hanging around my bathroom.

But this is easy to use. Washable.  And makes it look like the little makeup I use has been professionally applied.

Won't be getting the moto jacket. In the meantime, love my little Beauty Blender.

going no where

Slept most of yesterday, but feeling better today. Not great, but better.

I am meeting Susan and Jill downtown to see Mike Birbiglia's new show, Thank G-d for Jokes.  I watched him recently on Jimmy Fallon and loved his smart, insightful sense of humor. Plus, I could use a night of laughs.

I have more energy, but not enough to wash my hair. Not that it's dirty, it isn't. It just looks horrible.

I think of my dad on bad hair days. He was very particular about the way he liked my hair.  Off my face! 

So if my dad could see me tonight — hair pulled back into a low pony, long straggly pieces hanging in front — he'd have responded in one of two ways. When I was young and living at home, he'd have been direct,  "You're not leaving the house looking like that." But once I was out of the house and living on my own, his question was more tempered.  "Can I ask you a question," he'd rhetorically begin. "Do you really think your hair looks good like that?" And even when I knew my hair looked absolutely horrid, I'd answer with an emphatic,"Yes." 

Tonight, thinking about it, I may have surprised my dad and said, "No, I don't. I think my hair looks terrible. I look terrible. But it's supposed to rain. My hair is clean. I don't want to wash and take the time and effort to blow it out, knowing it'll look bad by the time I get home.  So please don't ask me any more questions about my hair!"

Thoughts of my dad come at odd moments. But they don't make me sad; they make me smile. I can picture him somewhere in his new home, getting along with everyone, fixing anything that needs to be fixed, and commenting every now and then on someone's hair style.

Around 6:15, we end up cancelling and re-scheduling. Susan too is sick. Jill is disappointed. And I'm relieved. Alexander won't notice what my hair looks like — good or bad — when we have dinner at home.