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.
