nike fuel band

I recently read a New York Times article about the Nike Fuel Band.   I bought and returned the Fitbit last year but this item sounds more promising.   I research it online and even find a comparison between the two devises. The Fuel Band wins. I decide to get one, hoping it will provide the incentive I need to start exercising.

I go to the Nike store to see the bands in person and try them on. It takes me half an hour to decide on color. The black is too masculine; the white looks like it could get dirty quickly; and the transparent black (or black ice as it is called) is perfect, While I agonize over color, three guys come in and select a band, with little concern over its aesthetics.

The sales associate sets it up.  He says, “I’ll start you at the basic level.  This is just for normal everyday activity.  Going to work (I wish), coming home, running around doing everyday stuff.  You know, nothing major.”  Then he explains I can increase my goal level later.  I’m already thinking my goal is too low and I haven’t even left the store.

There’s a lot I like about this band:

• First, the obvious.  For it to work, you have to be wearing it, and this baby is easy to remember to put on.
• Once on, it’s easy to forget about,
• It syncs wirelessly to a free app on my iPhone.

I still have no idea how my energy level translates to miles or steps, but that is something I can figure out later.  Right now, I just want to meet my goal everyday, so I can move beyond the beginner’s level.

So I’ve been wearing this band for almost three weeks now, and I’ve met goal only twice: today (I walk about three miles to the Westside to meet Corinne for coffee), and this past Friday (when I went to the Matouk Outlet, Lizzie Bourdon’s House, Ikea, a museum, and dinner).

Conclusion:

I am existing on sub-basic activity.  At the very least, I’m counting on the Fuel Band to bring me into the realm of normal.  At least as far as exercise goes.

once upon a time I had a pair of sunglasses...

In 2008, I buy a pair of Chanel sunglasses. They fit my face perfectly.  I feel glamorous in them.  They hide many flaws.  I am happy.

A year later I lose them.  I try on many others to replace them but none fit as well.  I go to Bloomingdales and re-buy the exact same pair.

Over the years these sunglasses withstand much abuse.  Twice, I have to have an arm (or more formerly, a temple) replaced, as twice one falls off — first the left and later the right.    But for $45 each time, my local eyeglass place is happy to send them out and get them fixed.

On Friday, after M and I leave Ikea, I notice my sunglasses are missing.  I check my pockets.  I check my tote.  I check everywhere.  They are gone.  Then I look down at my feet, and there, on the floor of M’s car, are my glasses. This time, it is more than an arm that is broken.

Now they are dead.  And because this model is no longer available, I won’t be able to replace them.   M suggests I try taking them back to Bloomingdales.  Even I think this would be an impossible return.  But then, I really have nothing to lose. 

I come home and request my February 2009 statement from American Express and a day later it is available for download.  I even find the original Chanel sunglass box.  I have everything I need.

On my way to Bloomingdales today I call my mother.  She laughs at the absurdity of my plan.  I don’t blame her; the idea does seem ridiculous. 

I get to Bloomingdales.  Knowing this is an executive-level problem, I begin by asking for the manager.  I explain that the sunglasses broke when I dropped them.   I show the manager the American Express statement from four years ago, and handover the original Chanel case.  She asks me to wait a minute.  She comes back (probably from laughing in the stock room) and says, “Why don’t you pick out another pair that you like?”

Wow!   I leave with a gorgeous new pair of Chanel sunglasses, happy that I listened to M.  Here's a photo, though mine have darker lenses.

a short visit home

My sister Jean and I (along with her husband Jim and son Jack) visit my parents.  I haven’t seen them since Thanksgiving.  My mom looks great.  My dad, not so much.  He’s just gotten home after a month in rehab from a fall he took at the beginning of the year.  He is very tired and can barely stay awake through our two-hour visit.   My 83-year old mother greets us with her usual smile and youthful gait.  She walks about three miles, five times a week.  She could be the poster child for why exercising is important. 

My mom has prepared a big breakfast: a french-toast soufflé, bagels (with cream cheese and lox), coffee cake and fruit.  We try and keep my dad involved in our conversation, but it is difficult.  He keeps drifting off.  Apparently he hasn’t slept well the past two nights. He seems uncomfortable, physically.  He is a man who was never sick.  And though he was injured a couple of times, he never complained.  My father was a strong man, so to see him weakened by age is sad. 

ikea, testino, and toro

On our way home from Fall River, M and I see a sign for Ikea.  Neither of us has ever been, so we stop in.  The place is huge, the designs great, and the quality more impressive than we would have thought.  We even grab a bite to eat in their modern, inexpensive cafeteria. We finish lunch and spend 45 minutes looking for the exit.   We must walk at least a mile before finding our way out.

We meet V at the Museum of Fine Arts to see the Mario Testino exhibit.  Neither V nor M will let me take a photo, though they happen to be in the frame when I snap one of the museum.

The exhibit is in two parts:  one of models and celebs and one of the royals.  We get the head phones, but are frustrated that the audio is actually video (too hard to look and listen at the same time) and the photos are not grouped in sync with it.  But still, Testino’s work is bold and mesmerizing.  He often pushes the limits of good taste.

We have dinner at a “multiple award-winning tapas restaurant” called Toro in the South End.  The place is tiny and they don’t take reservations. They open at 5:30; we arrive at 5:15. It is packed.  Fortunately, we get a table.  We order exotic-sounding things:

• Cow’s Milk Cheese from menorca
• Tuna Tartare with coconut milk, calamansi lime, mint, cilantro and grilled ficelle
• Dates filled with marcona almonds and cabrales blue cheese, wrapped in jamon serrano
• Anna's Empanadas* with chicken, potato and salsa roja and aiolo
• Grilled Carrots 
• Fried Potatoes with aioli and spicy tomato sauce  (excellent)
• Grilled Corn with aioli, lime, espalette pepper and aged cheese (amazing) 
• Grilled Garlic Shrimp with cascabel chiles 
• Glazed Beef Short Ribs with chilled farro, cucumbers, radish and hazelnuts

The grilled corn and dates are both amazing;  everything else, less so.  We have dessert at a great little bakery nearby called Flour.  The non-exotic, basic chocolate cupcake with vanilla frosting is excellent.  There is something to be said for the familiar.

a ghost, perhaps

We leave Matouk and proceed to our next stop, the home of Lizzie Borden.  Lizzie is the one who was tried and acquitted of the 1892 axe murders of her father and stepmother.  Her home in Fall River is now a bed and breakfast and museum.  I guess the city was looking for a new revenue source when all the cotton exports became victim to globalization and foreign competition.  Imagine today, for example, if they made Sharon Tate and Roman Polanski's home into a museum slash bed and breakfast and then re-staged the Manson killings there every August 9th?

We go to the museum store to get our tickets and learn we are between tours.  There we meet the sales woman who is also the tour guide.

The next tour starts in 45 minutes, and unfortunately we cannot wait.  "That's okay, we can just self tour," I say.  She tells us that is not allowed.  I think M is relieved.  But this woman is obviously quite knowledgeable, and gives us some history.   She is a firm believer in Lizzie's guilt, and also believes that ghosts still roam the house.  As proof, she takes out a photo to show us the "ob."  "The what?" M asks.  "The ob," she tells us again.  "Look, can't you see the outline of a face," she says, pointing to a photo a visitor has taken with a  flash.  "Oh, the orb," M says, strongly pronouncing the R.  The women then takes out another photo.  This one is of Lizzie's bedroom window, taken by another tourist and mailed to the museum.  In it, you can clearly see a female in a bonnet, looking out the window.  It actually looks like some kind of doll, visible from the waist up.  "See, that's Lizzie's stepmother."  We smile and agree, not believing a word.  

But I decide to take a picture of the same room anyway.

I blow it up.  I swear I can see the outline of a face.  Let me know if you can you see it too? 

We plan on coming back this summer.  August 4th, the date of the annual re-enactment.  I'll take another photo then and see if the ghost is still there.

matouk

I spend the night at M’s, and we are on the road early.  Usually we spend the day shopping around Boston, but not today.  No, instead we head south to Fall River, a once thriving center for textiles, now a sad and depressed city. 

Our first stop is the Matouk Outlet store.  Matouk makes fine linens.  Their sheets and towels are luxurious, expensive, and sold in upscale stores.  The outlet store itself mirrors the town, not the product.  It is an ugly structure that resembles an airline hangar. It is hard to imagine anything nice being inside.

But of course there is —  gorgeous sheets, towels, and blankets for as much as 50% off.  Everything is crammed into a space smaller than my small apartment.  Neither M nor I can resist, but we buy conservatively.  It is definitely worth the trip as the extra 20% off is only offered once a year, in February.