The Odd Broad

Summersalts

If you look up the word flexible in the dictionary, you will find the following:

Flexible

Function: adjective

1 : capable of being flexed : pliant

2 : yielding to influence : tractable

3 : characterized by a ready capability to adapt to new, different, or changing requirements <a flexible foreign policy> <a flexible schedule>

I can't touch my toes without bending my knees.  I never could.  In my younger days this may have filled me with mild angst, but I've forgotten all about it as of late.  In fact, I haven't thought of it in years...

The summer before college I got a phone call from my future roommate, Amy.  Since we were both in the musical theater program, somewhere in our conversation the topic of dancing arose.  "Are you a good dancer?"  she asked.  "No, not really," I answered, going on to add "I can't even do a cartwheel or touch my toes!"

Amy later told me at that moment she pictured her future roomie to be...extremely obese.  Why else wouldn't I be able to touch my toes?  She was surprised when she finally did meet me, all 103 scrawny pounds of me.  (I was wiry at seventeen.  Just not very flexible.)

It's not that I didn't try, for I did.  I stretched rigorously, desperately willing my limbs to be, well, limber.  I longed to be malleable, lithe!  One summer afternoon my cousin Hannah tried in vain to teach me how to cartwheel.  I was fifteen at the time so that would make Hannah about five.  I can still see the exasperation on her adorable baby face as she'd turn another perfectly executed cartwheel: "no, no, NO!  Do it like this!"

That summer I'd been cast in a dinner theater production of Carousel, as the part of Louise.  Now, if you happen to be a theater nerd then you're already aware that Louise is a non-singing role.  She dances.  She performs a dream sequence ballet, for cripe's sake!  Oh dear.

The director announced to the cast that she'd chosen an actress rather than a dancer, and Carl, one of the choreographers, was none too pleased.  On top of being a short, surly little man, his stout, surly dancer sister had been overlooked for the part.  But such is life and I've always felt comfortable being the underdog.  Nobody really thought I could do it, which proved to be strangely empowering.  I'm backwards like that.

Things really came to a boiling point one rehearsal when I was asked to perform...a cartwheel.  Sweet Jesus, no!  Anything but that! 

This was serious.  As it was, they'd already toned down the dancing for me quite a bit.  I swallowed and took a deep breath before shamefully admitting, "Actually, I can't do cartwheels."

Whatever emotions they were inwardly feeling, on the outside the two choreographers took the cartwheel information in stride.  I immediately pictured Carl telling his spandex clad sister.  She could certainly perform a cartwheel!  In the end we compromised: I would try and learn to cartwheel and in the meantime a summersalt would have to suffice.

Which brings us to Hannah and I, together on my front lawn.  For a kid who'd just turned five, she was a real taskmaster.  Over and over I attempted to cartwheel, all to no avail.  In the end, scarcely able to conceal her disgust, Hannah gave up on me. 

A summersalt it would have to be.  I worked that frigging summersalt, though.  For reals.

These days I don't define myself by my lack of ability to cartwheel or touch my toes.  It baffles me how these things once held any power over me.  But the other night I got to thinking...I'm twenty-nine, and if I can't touch my toes at twenty-nine, when will I be able to?  It's now or never, baby!

Here's what I've decided: I will touch my fingers to my toes.  (Without bending at the knee.)  As God as my witness, I will never be inflexible again! 

I've had a nasty headache for the past two days which prompted me to take Excedrin, Allegra, Sudafed, and copious applications of Head On.  (No, not all at the same time.)  To say that I'm feeling loopy would be an extreme understatement.  While I was washing my hands in the work bathroom, inspiration hit me:  I would try to touch my toes.  Right that very instant, there in the bathroom.  Every time I went for a pee, in fact!  Yes, that was it!  Surely, little by little I would get there!

There was nobody around.  I took a deep breath, bent over, and tried like hell to reach my Kenneth Coles.  I didn't actually do it, but miracles don't always happen instantly, do they?  With each pee I would be closer to my goal.  With each release of bodily fluid, I myself would become more fluid.  It was all so...profound.

I'm doing it in the elevator, too.

This is the effect allergy meds have upon me.  You should see me when I'm drunk.

xoxo

Soy un perdedor...

I don't mind spending time alone.  For the most part I enjoy my own company.  Except, of course, for the times when I don't.

I have friends who dine out alone, attend movies alone, and even travel to foreign countries alone.  These people, in my estimation, are professionals.  I am a mere novice, a fledgling, if you will.  I've read the books and understand the benefits of being able to spend time alone, it's just, after an afternoon of solitary confinement I long for another person to converse with.  Preferably someone other than myself.

For Valentine's day, a co-worker mentioned she was taking herself to Red Lobster and to see Phantom for the fourth time.  In the interest of being completely candid, I'm not going to lie: this information made me feel a little sad.  I wasn't particularly proud of myself for feeling this way.  Another acquaintance was going alone to the opera that evening, but for some reason her situation didn't make me feel as sad.  (It's hard to feel pity for someone who's wearing a lush mink coat on a Thursday afternoon.)  Plus, she told me, she knew people who were going and could meet up with them for a smoke at intermission and not feel like such a "loser." 

Come to think of it, I'd seen a play alone once before.  Hubby's friend had been staying with us for nearly two weeks and we lived in a studio apartment at the time.  I'd needed an escape and had gone to see Enchanted April on Broadway.  You know, you should really do that again, I told myself.  I noted this along with the Red Lobster, mink coat at the opera information and then promptly forgot about it.  That is, until two Saturdays ago.

You see, a friend from work is in an Off Broadway musical and offered to get me two complimentary tickets during the previews.  Now, Hubby had shown interest in going and several people from work had suggested we go as a group.  In addition to this, an ex-coworker whom I'm still friendly with had already enthusiastically agreed to go with me. 

This was all neither here nor there, because instead I went off on my own and mentioned to my friend Vanessa that if she liked we could go together for free.  Did Saturday work for her?  It did.  It was a date!  My friend arranged for me to receive his two free tickets for Saturday's show.  I felt a little naughty for blowing off my co-workers, but I got over it.

Fast forward to Saturday afternoon, when Vanessa informed me that she could not attend after all, since her family was in town and had decided to stay an extra night.  Her tone was curiously casual, cheerful even.  (It was really a pity I was going to have to kill her.)

Shit!  What to do now?  I had to pick up the tickets at seven, which meant I should probably be ready to leave by six.  I could find someone in less than four hours, couldn't I?  Hubby wasn't an option, since he was working.  Incidentally, anyone who ever said being married guarantees you a date on a Saturday night was lying.  It doesn't.  Thinking on my toes, I immediately contacted my friend Jamie, who wanted to go but couldn't.  My friend Karen was working a double.  On a hopeful whim I asked Claudia, who just happened to be visiting the city this weekend, but she wouldn't be in until late that evening. 

Though I tried to suppress it, desperation was beginning to take up residence in my panicky little heart.  I had coworkers who definitely wanted to go, but I didn't have their phone numbers.  And Gina, the person I'd made original plans to see the show with, was in Rome that week with her boyfriend.  My sister told me she'd like very much to go with me, but she lives in Boston.  This was comforting but not very helpful.   

Would I really have to go to this thing alone? 

I began to flail.  I made several more feeble, half hearted attempts before coming to the realization that I would not only be wasting the comp ticket, but I would indeed be attending...alone.  I'm not sure which bothered me more.  At least I wouldn't be eating at Red Lobster.  Speaking of Red Lobster...oh dear Lord, things had really come full circle!  Who was feeling sorry for who now?

It was around this time that I started to play the "if only" game.  As in, if only I'd held off and waited, there would have been a myriad of people to go with!  Hundreds, thousands maybe!  (Or perhaps just one.)  If only I still lived in Boston, then there would be people to take.  I began to reflect upon those newer friends who'd tried time after time to reach out to me, all in vain.  If only I'd been more receptive, if only I'd gone out of my comfort zone and said yes, perhaps I'd be able to call one of them right now. 

The irony is, this is exactly the kind of situation I would never willingly get myself into, not in a million years!  In fact, I rarely initiate plans with people for this very reason.  I'm also slow to accept offers, to avoid having to bail at the last minute.  Actually, I'd just had to bail less than a week ago on Karen's birthday, because I'd been very sick...

Karma.  It's what's for dinner.

My situation was bleak.  I called my mother, who listened with a sympathetic ear.  She commiserated with me and assured me repeatedly that I was not a loser.  I was merely in an awkward, uncontrollable position.  We had a few laughs and I felt better. 

Five minutes after I hung up, the phone rang again.  It was Ma.  "I can't get that Beatles song out of my head.  You know: I'm a Loser..."  Hardy har har.  Thanks Mommy.

I put on my black pants, fresh from the cleaners.  They'd gotten the gum out of the bum for me, which was nice.  By some cruel twist of fate I was having an excellent hair day.  The doctor had even allowed me to wear contact lenses for the first time in ages.  As I stood in front of the bathroom mirror I looked down at Kittie, who was curled up on the lid of the toilet seat.  "Hey Kittie, wanna see a musical tonight?"  Even my cat didn't want to go.

I was famished.  Should I take myself out for dinner?  Surely I could order myself a glass of wine, relax and feel welcomed by the universe?  Instead I opted to get myself a slice of pizza on the way to the subway.  "Do you want me to heat this up?"  The girl behind the counter asked, momentarily putting down her cell phone.  "Nah, it's ok."  (Cold pizza for you, loser!  an evil internal voice cackled.  I told it to fuck off.)  I ate on the subway, surrounded by hand holding couples, my bitterness quadrupling with every minute.

How did I get myself into this pathetic situation?  They say true character is revealed in moments such as this.  In my defense, I did try and make the best of it, but since I didn't exactly choose to be in this predicament I allowed myself some elbow room.  After all, I'd been to see a play alone before, but at the time it had been my choice.  This particular solitary activity had been thrust upon me.  If I'd had my way, at that very moment I'd be curled up on the couch with Kittie watching What Not To Wear.

Hey, hadn't I just said I should see a play alone?  I had.  Irony.  It's a real bitch.

The play was marvelous.  My friend was amazing!  Hubby got out of work fifteen minutes after the curtain fell and we met up at home and ordered Italian.  Days later, I attempted to relay this tale to my friend and explain why the ticket had gone to waste.  I tried to highlight the hilarity of the situation, but my story mostly came out fragmented, causing me appear partially incoherent, friendless and sad.  Yes!

My lesson learned?  Be careful what you ask for because there's a good chance you'll get it.  Also, never be too quick to feel "sorry" for someone.  You may very well end up in their exact same position, nibbling cold pizza, inviting your cat to the theater on a Saturday night.  XOXO

For my Mr.

Today the Hubby and I celebrate ten years of being together.  I'm feeling very sentimental about the whole event. 

This day is not to be confused with the anniversary of our wedding.  That occasion touches down in October and so far we've only had two of them.  But this annual, original milestone was something I couldn't part with. 

As the years progress, my affection for Hubby only increases.  I suppose my pre-Hubby self might have suspected love to be the other way around, one sorry downhill fizzle.  With Hubby it proved to be quite the opposite.  My love for Hubbers is like an ipod that can't lose its charge, a neverending box of Godiva, an ever refilling magnum of Veuve Clicquot.  I love him so much it sometimes alarms me.  (Indeed, when we chose The Beach Boys' God Only Knows as our first wedding dance, the sentiment was more or less literal on my end.) 

But semi-creepy, Beach Boy inspired thoughts aside, mostly I just bask in the steady glow of his love, content to feel nothing other than blessed.  I adore my blue eyed, thoughtful, beautiful Scorpio.  His love is respectful, all encompassing, and the best thing I've come across on this earth.

Too mushy?  I know.  I'm in that kind of mood.

xoxo

No more reruns!

My sister has urged me to address the situation regarding the recently resolved writers strike.  Specifically, its harsh affect upon us, the loyal viewing public. 

Did the strike affect you at all?  Did it perhaps cause you to watch television you never dreamed you'd be watching, over and over (and over) again?

Having reached her plateau of Law and Order reruns for the week, one particularly desperate afternoon Sissy turned to Rock of Love.  There she found herself simultaneously disturbed and intrigued by what she saw.  (Namely, Brett Michaels sporting what appeared to be a bad weave.)  Even worse is that she sat through the very same episode the next day, simply so her husband could also witness the unfortunate horror.  Reality repeats?  I'm afraid so, my friend. 

And I've done it, too.  As much as I'm surprised to admit it, I'm no stranger to Celebrity Rehab with Dr. Drew.  I'm hooked.  I can't get enough. 

I've found myself watching the same Food Network cake competition several times over, or sitting through painful episodes of My Fair Brady, Maybe Baby?  (Incidentally, Peter- you've become more cringeworthy than cousin Oliver ever was.)

I still remember when the first Real World came out.  I was fourteen.  Did you watch that first season, in New York City?  The one with Julie, Heather, Andre, Norman, Kevin, Becky and Eric?  That was quality television.  The concept was new and different, whereas these days it's oh so scripted and stale.  Do I really need to watch Bruce Jenner getting a mani/pedi on Keeping up with the Kardashians?  Do I honestly need to witness Scott Baio pour his heart out to a bewildered nun on Scott Baio is 46 and Pregnant?  (Apparently I did.)    

If you or someone you love has succumbed to reality television, it's not too late.  Heed the warning signs: a glaze over the eyes, mouth slightly ajar, the inability to respond when poked or prodded, having the inclination to begin conversations with questions like can you believe Daniel Baldwin texted pictures of his wanker to Mary Carey? 

I am only too happy to see the writers return.  Hip, hip, hooray!

What to eat?

Is anybody else forgoing meat on Fridays in honor of Lent?  I am, and this year I'm craving more than the usual grilled cheese sandwiches and boring pizza.  I long for exciting, tasty meatless dishes.

Being a good Catholic girl, this past Friday I made pasta alla puttanesca, which in Italian can roughly be translated as pasta the way a whore would prepare it.  Yay whores!

I absolutely adore this dish and recently tried to research its name.  Legend has it that prostitutes favored this dish because:

a) the zesty, pungent smell lured in gentleman callers.

b) it was a quick dish to prepare and scarf down in between romps.

c) the gals had only one day a week at the market and this recipe calls for ingredients they often already had in the brothel. 

Phew!  All this talk about whoring has worked up my appetite.  Let's get cooking.

   

1 handful chopped cherry tomatoes

1 can crushed tomatoes

3 cloves garlic, chopped

2 Shallots, chopped

1/4 cup olives, pitted (I use Kalamata)

2 tablespoons capers

2 tablespoons flat leaf parsley, finely chopped

Fresh basil and arugula, julienned (1/4 to 1/2 cup each)

1 teaspoon dried oregano, a healthy pinch of crushed red pepper flakes, a grind of black pepper

1 teaspoon anchovy paste (I sometimes omit this ingredient since Hubby doesn't like it.  Plus, the capers and olives already add lots of zest.)

Parmesan cheese (for garnish)

Pasta (My favorite is orrechiette: it's little and ear shaped.)

While the pasta is cooking, prepare the sauce.  In a deep pan, pour in one tablespoon olive oil.  Toss in garlic and shallots to caramelize.  Add the capers, olives, parsley, chopped tomatoes (not the can), red pepper flakes, dried oregano, and a grind of black pepper.  Cook for two to three minutes, then add the can of tomatoes.  Simmer for about five minutes, then stir in the basil and arugula.  Add the cooked pasta and toss.  Garnish with freshly grated parmesan. 

And that's it!  Could it be any more simple?

 

I just finished eating my bowl as I wrote this.  It was zesty and delicious.  Who said meatless Fridays during Lent have to be boring?  (I don't think it was a whore.)

XOXO

Say what?

The greeting card racket is spiraling out of control.  Today on my lunch break I slipped into a paper store to pick out a meaningful valentine for Hubby.  As I squeezed my way towards the card section, I finally found one that spoke to me.  I got in line.

"That'll be $10.78, please!"

"What was that?"

"$10.78."

"Really?"  I had to ask, since I had chosen a sweet but ordinary, simple card.  It couldn't jazz dance or do my taxes, for example.

"Yes, it's $9.95...do you want to pick out another one?"

Reader, in another year, when I was perhaps less self possessed, I may have actually bought the ten dollar greeting card.  Today I walked away.  I guess that's one of the perks of being in my latest twenties. 

In the end, I made Hubby a card.  Turns out he did the same for me.  xoxo 

Since Hubby has always cooked special meals for me, this Valentine's Day I decided to shake things up a bit.  I would prepare a Valentine's meal!  La tour cheese, gruyere puffs, chimichurri flank steak with asparagus, and chocolate souffle.

Thank God for heat and eat.  Thanks, Fresh Direct!!  (Well, after a hard day's work, it's the thought that counts, is it not?)

xoxo

In support of Valentine's Day (4 days early)

Have you seen the commercial for Kay Jeweler's where the guy, Zack, gives his girlfriend a pair of diamond earrings in a pink ballerina jewelry box?  And the woman gushes, "Oh, I had one just like this when I was a little girl!"  And Zack says, "it is yours, I got it from your Mom.  There's more, open it."  And she says, "Oh, Zack" before uttering the inscrutable statement, "I think I know exactly how she feels..."

Every kiss begins with Kay...

So, diamonds make her feel like a miniature ballerina?  This is all well and good, but the first few times I watched this commercial a key piece of evidence was missing.  There was no mention that Zack got the jewelry box from her mother.  The only part shown was Zack giving the earrings in a child's pink ballerina jewelry box.  I don't know about you, but the notion of a man giving an adult woman a child's jewelry box struck me as creepy.  Perhaps others thought so as well, which could be why the longer version of this commercial is now airing.  (Ooooh!  I see, he got it from her mother!  Now it all makes sense!  I hope my valentine does that, too!)

Equally annoying to me are those, "He went to Jared!!!" ads.  Do they have these commercials in your neck of the woods?  The man buys a piece of jewelry and whispers start shooting through the room: "He went to Jared, He went to Jared!"  Then the gift recipient looks into the man's eyes, tears up a bit, and declares, "You went to Jared."

It makes me want to vomit, among other things.  I'm not even going to get started on those E-Harmony or Match.com commercials.  For all I know, these dating services may very well be effective, but I can't help but find their ads to be somewhat misleading and perhaps bordering on the irresponsible.  It's as if they're suggesting that finding "that special someone" can be scientifically, instantly guaranteed.  I notice these commercials even more frequently around Valentine's day.  (Did you see the one where the couple travels back in time, pregnant, getting pregnant, getting married, first kiss...barf!)

The irony is, I LOVE Valentine's Day!!  I love any excuse to sappily declare my adoration to the man I love.  I just find it irksome the way these corporations try to force their cookie cutter notions of love down our throats, turning this day into something un-lovely, commercial, and desperate.

I'm a hopeless romantic.  More than material things, my heart longs for cheesy love songs, poetry, bear hugs and kisses good night.  (I know what you're thinking, and if you like, I'll hold your hair back while you vomit.)  Luckily, I am married to a man who provides me with these things.  On February 21st, we will celebrate ten years of being together.  For me, this milestone is monumental: over a third of my life has been spent with this person.  It blows my neurotic little mind. 

You may note that the 21st is just seven days after Valentine's day.  Hubby wasn't my Valentine that year (one of his best friends attempted to be, but did not succeed.)  Suffice it to say Hubby and I became an item seven days later.  Violins, cupids, and forty ounces of Colt 45 were all present. 

And our love is ever ripening.  Little hints tell me we're growing older.  Whereas before, Hubby might have actually bought me the giant gorilla that sings "I'm just a love machine," now he just turns to me in CVS and muses, "Where would you put that thing?  Look at it, it's huge!"

I love him for this.  For I have to agree, there is no room in our apartment for a giant singing gorilla.  Nor would I want there to be.

My Valentine is demonstrative, affectionate and kind.  He's given me jewelry and taken me for lavish dinners, but what I remember most are the little things.  The special dinners he's cooked, the poems he's written, or the flowers he gave me when we had absolutely no money.  This man sets the coffee maker up every night.  He brings me my contact lens case when I'm lying in bed and feel too intoxicated tired to get up.  Indeed, he's even taken out my contacts for me on occasion.  Now that's love.  In a million little and not so little ways, he makes my heart smile. 

My wish is for everyone to have someone like this to love and be loved by.  But for those of you who find yourselves without a Valentine, I'd like to suggest, if I may, the following: be your own Valentine.  After all, you'll be putting up with yourself for eternity, so you may as well make friends.  Cook yourself a fancy meal, get your nails done, buy a good book.  Love yourself fiercely, unabashedly, and your Valentine is bound to follow.  Valentine's day is about love, but I strongly believe it's not exclusively for lovebirds.  Contrary to what society and corporate America would have us believe, this day is for everyone and nobody should feel excluded.  Everyone deserves roses and Godiva, dammit!  Treat yourself to something nice.

And when Zack and his pink princess ballerina appear on your TV screen and you feel the urge to flip them both the finger, just do it.  I did.  And I will continue to do so as long as that commercial airs.

Let's brake for Valentine's. 

    

Waiting

My eyes have been feeling funny lately.  The only way I can put it into words is to say I feel like they're wearing cable knit sweaters.  (Indeed, the nurse wrote this on my chart when I told her.  I guess she enjoyed my opthalmologic analogy.)

Later, the doctor peered at my chart, trying to decipher the nurse's handwriting.  "Feels like wearing a sweater?"  Oh dear.

I had left work at 12:45 on Wednesday for this last minute appointment, assuming I'd be in and out.  How foolish I was.  In truth, I was held captive for more than three hours.  Each time I thought I was about to be released, another drop was squeezed into my eye, another photo was taken, another test was performed.  I had been hijacked, it seemed.

I hadn't even realized they'd dilated my pupils until the print in Vanity Fair became too blurry to read. 

The other strange part about my visit were my fellow patients.  They weren't just elderly, you see, they were ancient.  There's a good chance I was the only person there under the age of ninety. 

I love to see happy old couples together.  I find it very romantic.  An older woman with a pretty face sat down next to me in the waiting area.  When someone came by and asked if she'd like to hang up her coat, she refused.  "My husband will hang it for me." 

Later, an even older woman approached the couple, asking about their last name.  This got them to talking.  "I'm ninety one!"  The newcomer exclaimed.  "You don't look it!" the couple replied.  "That's because I'm Hungarian!"  It turns out all three of them were Hungarian.

I didn't even try to pretend I wasn't eavesdropping.  I was fascinated.

I kept glancing at a woman, probably in her late seventies, wearing tall boots with stretchie pants tucked in and a wide belt.  It made me wonder how I'll dress at that age.  Will I be hip?  I hope I'm hip.

I listened as an elderly man talked loudly on a cell phone.  Something about his son being in the car and they needed...I never really found out what it was he needed since my name was finally called.

As I sat patiently in one of the myriad of rooms I would be taken to that afternoon, I overheard a woman speaking to the doctor.  "They took a toe last week!"  she said in a too cheery voice.  (I say too cheery because it turns out the toe that was taken was hers.)  I caught a glimpse of her as she walked down the hallway.  She was blind, using a cane.  "Just point me in the right direction!" she smiled.

Was I in the Twilight Zone? 

I saw elderly people who had younger people in tow, whom they called their "assistants."  I saw elderly people who were towing even older people.  I started to feel strange, woozy.  I suppose I hadn't really had time to finish my lunch that afternoon.  I became antsy, sitting there in that silent, too clean room, surrounded by framed paintings by a child named Alexandra.  (A bowl of fruit, the solar system, flowers, Alexandra's subjects really ran the gamut, it seemed.)

I started to reflect.  I mean, here I was, with nothing more than a contact lens infection.  Granted, I'd been waiting an exorbitant amount of time, my eyes were wearing sweaters and I had an ugly new haircut.  I'd also have to add to this unfortunate look by wearing my glasses for the next week.  But at least I had all of my toes. 

I didn't get back to work until after four.  I'd been missing in action for over three hours, I could barely see, and my pupils were frighteningly large.  My boss suggested I go home, but I decided to stick it out. 

It wasn't until that evening, in the comfort of my cozy living room, that I wondered if all of those tests, pictures and drops were covered by my insurance.  You see, in the foggy haze that was my three hour visit, it hadn't dawned on me to ask.  I also failed to ask if I was contagious.  Woopsie.

XOXO

Bizarre

There's a 24 hour Hookah Bar in my neighborhood that's had a Christmas tree and plastic Santa Claus up for about two months now.  At night Santa gets to stand outside.  (He likes the night life.)

The motivation behind this belated, ongoing yuletide display?  I have no idea.  Hubby and I have speculated, naturally, but all to no avail.

Yesterday I concluded that the owners were either misinformed or mental.  Then it hit me:

 

My Christmas wreath is still hanging.  Those who live in glass apartments...need lots of Windex.  Tee hee.

XOXO 

Flowing

I live in New York City and don't own a car, which therefore means I don't experience road rage.  What I do experience fairly often is something I like to call pedestrian rage.  Have you ever felt this?  Perhaps on a crowded sidewalk, riding an escalator, or shopping in a busy mall?

In New York, people are usually guilty of one of two things.  Either they're getting annoyed at someone for walking too slowly, or someone is getting annoyed at them for not walking fast enough.  There is no in between. 

Try as I might to be patient, I encounter some form of pedestrian rage on a daily basis.

The scenario is usually as follows: I'm walking towards the subway and hear the bell ding, heralding the impending closing of the doors.  Ding-Dong!  As I attempt to shimmy my way up or down the stairs, there is undoubtedly someone walking slowly, smack dab in the center of the staircase.  This person may be holding several bags, yapping on a cell phone, or simply not in a hurry.  (A Sunday walker.)  Whatever their motivation, they've made it impossible for me to pass them in a polite manner.  By the time I desperately blurt out, "excuse me, please!," it is already too late. 

What to do now?  Beat the person in question?  No, that wouldn't do.  I have virtually no upper arm strength.  Usually, I stew for a minute, feeling anger towards myself for running late, the other person for existing, and the world at large, merely because.

This is no way to begin one's morning.  But such is life as a straphanger.  No matter how hard I try to respect my fellow passengers, someone or something is no doubt sticking into my back, my arm, and my right ass cheek.  This, my friend, is pedestrian rage.  Some days it's hard to let it go.  Unlike road rage, there are no directionals, no brake or gas pedals, no windows to stick one's middle finger out of.  I have no horn to beep, save the tiny horn in my bitter little heart.

Is this really who I am?   

My favorite instructor in college was named Julie, and she taught a class called proprioceptive movement technique.  Julie was a beautiful, tall dancer with perfect posture and a joyful, ethereal demeanor.  Being a slightly gawky teenager, I would watch in awe as she glided gracefully through the room.  She was almost otherworldly, it seemed.  My college experience was definitely ruthless at times, but her classroom always made me feel warm and safe.  She encouraged us to weave the space with our bodies, and to feel the support of the ground beneath our feet.  She taught us to walk like the Navajo Indians, with beauty before us, behind us, and inside us.  She took us to do yoga by the Charles River.  (I saw a rat that day and screamed bloody murder, just as we were doing downward facing dog.)

During my Sophomore year I was having trouble singing.  I was tensing my neck and feeling completely disconnected from my body.  At the urging of my voice teacher, I went to Julie's house for private lessons in The Alexander Technique.  In hindsight, this changed my life.

In a nutshell, The Alexander Technique is a method developed over one hundred years ago that removes tension from one's body and allows for freedom of movement.  (We're not born slouching and tensing, we only develop these tendencies over time.)

Julie noticed things about me that I hadn't.  She was amused by the way I climbed up her wooden steps two at a time.  She told me she was delighted to see my body "waking up."  She even taught me to change the way I spoke about myself.  When she would ask me to describe how I was feeling, and I'd start to answer, "It feels like..." she'd stop me and ask me to instead phrase it in terms of "I feel like..."  After all, I wasn't an it.  I was a me. 

One Saturday morning she made an observation that I'll never forget.  "Your energy tends to be like this," she said, gently swaying her hands back and forth.  "When something external comes at you, you freeze and stop moving.  What I want for you is to be able to accept whatever comes your way, receive it, and instead of freezing, to keep moving with it.  Nothing should interrupt your flow."  She said all of this while demonstrating with her arms, flowing them from side to side in her fluid, graceful manner.  I nodded eagerly.  Was she talking about my body or my personality in general?

Either way, Julie's words spoke to me.  Whether I realized it at the time or not, she spoke to the essence of who I was and who I wanted to become.  Suddenly my world was positively oozing with possibility.  That semester I fell in love for the first time, with my future husband.

I was heartbroken and shocked a few years ago when I learned that Julie was no longer with us, having died from colon cancer just before her fiftieth birthday.  This remarkable woman was a mother, a wife, an accomplished dancer, teacher and minister.  It's a mystery to me why she was taken so prematurely. 

But I don't think of death when I think of Julie.  Among many things, I think about the person she made me want to become.  The person I already am, perhaps, but who gets lost or covered up by every day, silly distractions. 

It got me to thinking, could there be a way to perform a mental form of Alexander Technique?  A way to free my mind of restrictive thought?  After reading this interview on Buddhism in Oprah, I think perhaps there is.  In the interview, Pema Chödrön, a renowned Buddhist nun, suggests sitting with the negative feelings rather than pushing them away, and breathing.  In doing so we connect with our true selves and in turn can feel compassion towards our fellow humans.  Hmmm.

But what if the feelings I'm experiencing aren't really all that serious?  What if they can even be considered a little...embarrassingly petty?  I wondered if I should begin there, and then move on to bigger and more fanciful problems.  (Like the impulse haircut I got last Monday, perhaps.)

I decided to perform an experiment using pedestrian rage. 

Take the girl standing next to me on the subway the other day, for instance.  She was sporting a ginormous shoulder bag and had ample room to move over, but refused to, for reasons unknown.  To her, I internally whispered: wow, you're acting like a giant asshole right now.  I'd really like to slap you.  In fact, what I really desire is to swing my cute little purple handbag in your direction.  (I decided to really sit with the negativity, here, for the sake of my experiment.)

I took one, then two, deep breaths.  And do you know what?  I felt better!  Suddenly, it no longer mattered to me how this girl was behaving!  She did not interrupt my flow, not really.

I did the same thing yesterday when my landlord, Smeagol, called to ask where the rent was and apologetically told me his mother made him do it.  (In three years we've been absolutely religious about paying on the first of the month, and yesterday was February 2nd.)  Ordinarily this inquiry might set me to brooding, but I decided to simply breathe.  (OK, I allowed myself two or three nasty thoughts before the breathing and only then did I bring down their damned, stinking check.)  My point is, I wasn't going to let Smeagol ruin my afternoon, which I most definitely would have done before.

And my journey continues.  Living in New York gives me lots of people to practice on.

Chödrön says this method also works with graver, more serious issues.  Naturally the time spent sitting with the problem would be longer, the breathing deeper, but the same lesson applies.  We don't have to deny the negative, or feel guilty or resentful for feeling that way.  We just don't have to torture ourselves for being, after all, human. 

Time is precious and life can be fragile.  Life isn't tomorrow, or tonight, or next Thursday at 9:00 pm, life is right this second.  Giving in to irksome minutia can be deliciously tempting, but it's also downright exhausting.  As Julie might say, the goal is not to let the external interrupt our natural flow.  I'm trying.

The next time you feel like flipping some dingleberry the bird, why not try this instead and let me know what happens.  I'm very curious. 

Take two breaths and call me in the morning. 

XOXO