Making a Commitment to Exercise

June 3, 2012

I have started to walk in earnest with my good friend Ellen. We decided to go right after school. Get right home, change, and meet down by the river.  NO DETOURS! There are, after all, a million REAL REASONS to skip exercising:

I have to go to the post office/bank/supermarket/library/other outside venue of your choice.            I have to make the bed/unload the dishwasher/fold the laundry/other household chore of your choice. 

I’m hungry; I have to eat.

I’m tired; I have to nap.

I have to move my bowels

I have to—other bodily function of your choice.

I am convinced that all women who exercised regularly have round-the-clock maid service, a cook, a personal assistant, and an ironclad colon. 

Then there are the weather reltated excuses. That's right--blame God. 

It's raining.

It's snowing.

It's too hot.

It's too cold.

It's humid.

It's dry.

It's too sunny.

It's too early. It's still dark.

It's too late. It's already dark.

But now, no more excuses, no more unforeseen circumstances. I AM GOING TO WALK EVERYDAY. With Ellen.

Ellen a great friend and a good listener. She is one of my few New York friends. I have two sets of friends, New York friends and school friends. I enjoy the warmth and personality of my school friends.  They love to laugh.  They curse like stand-up comics, watch TV all night and never read anything more than the local paper. They talk about things like how the teacher’s union isn’t doing enough or how their children are dating dead-beat guys or over controlling women. They are often found in the malls of New Jersey and they all carry Coach bags.

The New York crowd speak well, are up on all the latest exhibits in the museums and galleries and they read the New York times cover to cover,  EVEN  THE BIG ONE ON SUNDAY.  They talk about things like the fiscal crisis, what’s new at Lincoln Center and are always recommending the latest book they’ve read or a book they are dying to read after reading the review in The Times. I have never seen them laugh, but I’m sure they have at some point. When I say something funny, the most I get is a tight smile and an acknowledgement that that remark was, indeed, funny. They all have tasteful bags, and usually there is no company or designer marking on them.

I find myself somewhere in the middle of these two groups.  I laugh out loud, but my bags seldom have someone else's name on them.

Ellen, along with myself, is one of the few friends of either set that is married. In fact, quite conveniently, her husband is friends with mine. The men actually met first at the gym and we met later at a book club. Such a small island, Manhattan. Even though she is a New York friend and capable of so much more, we talked about our arms for most of our walk.

“I’m looking for a dress for my niece’s wedding,” said Ellen. “I’m having a hard time finding something with sleeves.”

“Well,” I replied, “You could buy a sleeveless dress and add a shrug.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know, I always feel like when you wear a shrug everyone knows why you are wearing it—to hide your arms.”

(This sleeve business is maddening. I don’t know anyone in real life, that is not either a 14 year old girl or a famous TV personality, that looks great in sleeveless. Let’s face it. You have to have THE ARMS. Those beautiful, well sculpted arms—tight and smooth—no sign of moles, vaccination scars or flab. Just beautiful, toned arms, arms that say, “I am in shape, I work out, I care about myself.” Unlike my arms which say, “I like to eat and I don’t like to exercise.”)

“When is the wedding?”

“November.”

“No problem then. It will be cold and they’ll be plenty of sleeves around.”

“Yeah, I hadn’t thought of that. I’ll look again in September.”

I didn’t have the heart to break it to her that when I was looking for a dress last New Years eve, I couldn’t find any sleeves then, either. And some dresses were missing even more than sleeves. Some had no sleeves and no back. Some had no sleeves and a slit so high it made me wonder if the seamstress who sewed the damn thing went on break and when she came back, forgot where she left off. But by far, the most amusing dress actually had NO FRONT!  The V-neck went all the way down to the navel. I thought I was looking at it backwards. One false move to the right or the left, and some lucky guy would be getting an eyeful. I pictured myself in this frontless frock, sitting at the table with New Year’s cake lodged in my bellybutton. And this dress had the nerve to come in SIZES! As if a size 16 could actually pull this off without offending everyone in the room. I mean, a frontless dress like that should only come in sizes zero, two, four and six. And that’s it. Anything else would be a criminal offense.

I must confess, out of desperation, I did try a black sleeveless dress on. It was made of silk crepe and had a draped front, also good for catching crumbs. It went all the way to the floor and had a bit of a train, or more like a sweep at the back, which I hadn’t noticed on the hanger. I looked like an aging silent movie star trying to make a comeback, ala Norma Desmond. All I needed was some penciled in eyebrows and a long cigarette holder.

I tried to appeal to the salesgirl giving out numbers in the dressing room.

“What do you think of this dress? I mean, no sleeves in January. My arms look so white.”

“Well, with the black dress it makes a nice contrast. Black and white is really in this year.”

I ignore this sorry attempt to make my fat, white arms into a trend.

“But I’m freezing.”

Suddenly, a revelation: “You could wear a sweater!”

Clearly, after clawing her way up from the stockroom to the dressing room, this gal had reached her full potential in retail.

So as we walked on, I pictured Ellen in a sleeveless black dress with a black Talbot’s cardigan sweater over it.  This should not happen to a New York Friend.

“I’ll help you look again in September,” I offered as I picked up the pace. “Let’s swing our arms more.”

“Yeah,” she said, “let’s swing our arms more!”

The walk felt good in the end and Ellen and I vowed to walk again tomorrow night—barring any unforeseen circumstances.

Menopause Diaries

This morning, a gynecologist-slash-menopause doctor on the Today show said it’s good to document menopause phase of your life with a diary—“Chart any changes, emotional or physical, to help you better understand yourself and keep it all in perspective.” And you must BE HONEST she said. A diary can act as a confidant, she said. “Pour out all your fears, complaints and maladies in the diary and spare your husband!” Matt Lauer laughed at this in a Hey, I know what you mean, women can be such pain in the asses, sort of way.

            I’d like to start with the crying. I have been crying for no explicable reason these days.  I thought this crying was just over-exaggerated manifestation of my usual neurosis, but after being enlightened by the Today Show, I understand I am not alone. Apparently, lots of 52 plus year old women are wading through the same swamp of unidentifiable despair, but somehow, that does not make ME feel any better.   No one is going through menopause, as I AM GOING THROUGH IT. I am special.           

            (When I used to cry, in my twenties, over men, it did not comfort me that there were possibly thousands, no, millions of women out there who did not have a boyfriend. I only cared that I did not have one. My mother used to sit next to me on my tissue-laden bed and say, “Lots of girls are single at 27 years old. You are so BEA-U-TI-FUL, think of the poor ugly ones. They may NEVER find anyone. I assure you, you will find someone, and then the real crying will start! (Ha, ha) Now dry your eyes and drive me to the supermarket.”)

  Last night, again, I burst out crying for no reason. This should definitely be documented. Oh, sure, I MADE UP a reason so Husband would not think I was loosing my mind, but there was NO REAL REASON. 

So as not to be hauled off to an expensive, New York therapist, here are some stock reasons I use as an excuse for my crying bouts:

1.  My mother is getting older, 75, and it’s sad to see her this way. (She has a boyfriend with whom she spends every weekend and is never home what with all the clubs and the dances and the luncheons. This is the weakest of reasons.)

2.  Anything job related. (The 8^th graders this year are so awful. They have no respect and they don’t do their homework. (surprise, surprise) OR—I am overwhelmed with paperwork and can’t even find time to teach effective lessons. OR—The male teachers I work with do not pull their weight. And on and on and on. This school related reason is often real.)

3. My favorite: I FEEL UGLY. (This one actually does makes me feel better, because Husband will sit next to me on the bed and put his arm around me and tell me that I’m all wrong and that I am BEA-U-TI-FUL and if I dry my eyes he will take me to Home Depot and allow me to wile away an hour or so oogling window treatments and lighting fixtures he has no intention of ever buying while he discusses the joys and disappointments of spackle with an “associate”.

4. I miss our three boys. (One, Jon, away at college, twelve blocks away at NYU. One, Alex, just graduated NYU and in his own apartment near Washington Square, eight blocks away, and one, Nick, passed away at 21 from Leukemia a year and a half ago—very legitimate reason to cry-- but usually not the reason. (I tend to save up crying over Nick for certain, compartmentalized times, usually in his room or when I see a picture. Even then, it’s not the real boo-hoo type crying one would expect or even want to see from a mother under these circumstances. It’s just a whole lot of head talk, like, think of something else, think of something else, shit, shit, shit, think of something else.  I am not totally proud of this and sometimes I wonder why I don’t cry harder and more often, instead of just sitting on the edge of his bed, glazed over, and forcing myself to look around and remember things that hurt, like tubes and pill bottles and the way he would shuffle into his room from the bathroom like a 90 year old man, skinny and pale. It’s like that accident cliché where you can’t stand to look, but you can’t look away. )

Shit, shit, shit! I’m going to cry. Let me change the subject. I’m getting very good at that.

The first time this crying thing happened, I was in Miami, about few years ago. Husband and I took a little vacation with the 3 boys. The first morning we woke up, husband goes out for his usual triathlon of exercise and I planned to take a shower.

Funny, the things you discover about yourself when you are away on vacation and out of your normal element. I had no idea I was so persnickety about my showers, but apparently I am. At home, I have a showerhead that can be removed and held in-hand to wash all those HARD TO REACH PLACES. Places where the sun doesn’t usually shine, unless you bend over to pick up your sunglasses on a nude beach, which let’s face it, doesn’t happen all that often. I like things immaculately clean in those shady places because all the TV advertisements have made me acutely aware of how important it is to start the day “fresh”, therefore, “more confident.”

            So I got in the shower, down there in Miami, and I started the water. AND THEN I looked up and saw it. A stationary showerhead!! STATIONARY. And there was no water pressure to speak of.  The water was coming out in a dribble—like the drinking fountains in Central Park.

            I tried to play along. I lifted one leg and angled my pelvis skyward.  Dribble, dribble. Nothing got wet except my knees.

            Feelings of frustration and upsetment quickly started to well up in my chest and my throat and suddenly and without warning, I BURST OUT CRYING. Just like that. Burst right out in hysterics. Then, even more suddenly, and with even less warning, I burst into a hysterical laughter—IN THE SHOWER. I was laughing and crying hysterically in the shower in the middle of Miami Beach because the water could not, would not, reach my private parts.

            The boys were now pressed to the others side of the bathroom door.

            “Mom! Mom! Are you okay in there? Mom! What’s the matter?”

            “Nothing. Sob, sob. “Nothing.” Ha-ha. “Don’t worry. It’s—sob, my hormones.” Big, long sob, followed by burst of hysterical laughter. Yes, laughter. That's when I became alarmed.

            And that, dear reader, was the beginning. The start of the peri-menopausal nightmare I currently find myself in today—a constant state of indecision, hysteria, anxiety, and an overwhelming sense of being overwhelmingly overwhelmed all the time. I went from being a fairly together, emotionally stable wife, mother, and 8^th grade teacher to the indecisive, psychotic, and let’s face it, annoying wreck that I am today.

So here's my question. Am I alone here?