A confession

I have been strong and even-keeled about my 25th college reunion — ok, maybe the sheer number of blog entries suggests otherwise.

I have to confess that I have been working my triceps and biceps because CLEARLY I will feel less like a failure standing next to my classmates who are CEOs of Fortune 500 companies if my biceps and triceps are toned.

I mentioned this to a work colleague who said:

Or you can either (i) wear long sleeves or (ii) keep your arms glued to your sides.” 

Now, that was brilliant.  She should go instead of me.  (It took me a while to realize that she wasn’t suggesting I actually glue my arm to my sides, which I also thought was a brilliant idea.)

Letting the days go by, water flowing underground

Letting the days go by/water flowing underground
And you may ask yourself
How do I work this?
And you may ask yourself
Where is that large automobile?
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful house!
And you may tell yourself
This is not my beautiful wife!
Letting the days go by/water flowing underground

Ok, it is a little crazy to meditate on the words to a Talking Heads song Once in a Lifetime

I am just six days away from my 25th college reunion, and so I am in a slightly maudlin and definitely introspective mood.

I have 8 wonderful women friends from college and we have seen each other through 25 years of life’s highs and lows.  We have known each other for longer than we were alive when we met. 

We all know that each of us cherishes these friendships, but right now we are stressing about what to wear and whether we will be able to survive a few nights of dorm living.  Today, one of our number had a minor meltdown about only having fleece to wear as an evening cover-up (she is a suburban mom with three kids — what else is she supposed to have for casual eveningwear?).  She was planning to go to the local mall and feared that she would find nothing to wear to the reunion but come home with a new pair of khaki shorts and yet another fleece. 

Others of us are taking stock of the pounds gained and lost or of how our quarter century-old pounds are migrating toward our hips and tummies.  And in our own particular (and in my case, peculiar) ways, we are taking stock of the lives we have lived in advance of revisiting the place that gave birth to many of our dreams.  Life interfered with those dreams in wonderful, sad, humorous and sometimes mediocre ways.

As we are all giving into some vanities (I am working out my arms so that I look toned), and then:

One friend emailed, “I don’t want to brag but I can still wear the same earrings I wore in high school!”  

Thank G-d for friends who keep it real and help you keep your head on straight.

So, in response to Messrs. Talking Heads:

Yes, POB (partner of blogger) is my beautiful wife and we live in our home.  I got here by taming my demons and working hard and earning the love of POB.  And together we created a son (ok, with a little help) and a family. Yes, I am here and this is what I have done.  Unfortunately, the days go by too fast. And I still lose sleep at night over bills and the general state of the economy.

Now, that I have had that Frank Capra “It’s a Wonderful Life” moment, I am still going to work out every day until the reunion, and I spent a small fortune on skin moisturizers and wrinkle removal goop.   Capra would totally get this — even Jimmy Stewart’s character in that movie was perfectly coiffed while contemplating suicide.

the fancy-shmancy life

Our son’s school benefit was last night.  The school caters to kids who learn differently from the “average child”.  I have never met this “average child” and I don’t believe one exists and if such a child exists, well, then, he or she would be just so — how do I say — incredibly average.  I just believe that schools are so overloaded that they can only handle children who fall within the least challenging bandwidth of childhood behaviors and needs. But I digress.

My son’s kind of school requires a huge amount of money to keep it going — over and above the king’s ransom we pay each year for tuition.   Usually, it is a cocktail party with slightly fancy hors d’oeuvres and a silent auction.  This year, however, two children attend the school whose parents have mega-star status.  So, they invited their pals to help out with the fundraising.  As a result, we attended a gala with Jon Stewart doing a stand up routine and Bruce Springsteen giving a musical performance.  Then followed by a dinner in a museum catered by NoBu.  (The one thing you know about the dinner is that everything was tasty but you leave the table hungry and wondering when dinner is really being served.)

I have never been to a concert.  Ever.  I know, people look at me in disbelief.  I don’t like crowds and I don’t like loud music.  So, it seemed ok that my first experience would be Bruce Springsteen having reached the age of Medicare and Social Security benefits.  At one point, he yelled at us, “loosen up, you stiffs!!”  Ok, that was embarrassing that a man nearly 20 years my senior is jamming and strutting all over the stage and we weren’t moving or standing, but we were all sucked into our fancy clothes that literally leave no wiggle room and so no loosening up could have happened without a seamstress on stand-by.

I guess it was kind of cool to have these performers in a small venue.  I love Bruce Springsteen.  I also love volume control.

POB (partner of blogger) and I are usually in bed by 10pm on the weekends.  We rolled in at 1am (and we left while others were still partying).  Our son woke up at the usual time, and G-d bless POB, she got up.  (I, however, did not.)

I was so hungry when our son ran into our room to wake me at 9am and then I realized why: we had a NoBu InSiDi (NoBu Insect-Sized-Dinner).  Had I thought of it, I would have eaten the garnish on the tables last night.  And I would have gone from table to table munching on the centerpiece flower arrangements.  No wonder I was dreaming about mutton chops (ok, I really have never eaten that) and getting in touch with my more animalistic traits deep in my genetic code.  In the end, I settled for cereal with fiber and some essential nutrients.  Nothing like beating your chest and immediately devolving into a whimper.

25th Reunion

I have 5 weeks until my 25th college reunion.  I have 5 weeks to be slim, prosperous, toned and, maybe, un-gray.

Nothing like waiting until the last minute.  I was a crammer in college — I was still buying the books from the class syllabus three days before the final exam.  (And my GPA showed it.)

I am 46 and, with 5 weeks to go, here is my status:

Slim:  I am much slimmer now than I was in college, even though I have gained “more than a few” pounds in recent years.  I call it the Recession 8.  Better than the Freshman 15.  (I had come in with the pre-Freshman 30, so I don’t have college to blame.)  But, in truth, I look pretty slim.  So, in that box.

Prosperous:  Ok, things were better a few years ago, before people on Wall Street got stupid and greedy. But, while I don’t stack up to the crazy high-profile entrepreneurs in my class, I am really fortunate.  So, in that box.

Toned:  I want to be buff.  I don’t look bad, although there is a certain sag to the skin on my legs from my fat days.  And gravity does “weigh down” some erstwhile perky parts.  So no short shorts and no tank tops for me.  Anyway, after a certain age, a person looks ridiculous in that kind of outfit.  I lost this last week to having injured my hip and back (a little arthritis in the hip leads to compensating with other muscles that spasm which leads to crippling pain), and so I think buff is out of the question, but quietly toned is still possible.  So, X in this box (with an “*I don’t care anymore because I am not so shallow” followed by “**Does anyone outgrow that infantile sour grapes attitude? Surely not I”).

Un-gray: I am unconvinced on this.  Covering the gray requires upkeep even after the reunion. That is a huge commitment.  Still under advisement.  So put a ? in that box.

My son just walked in and kissed me.  He really wants to use the computer, but the kiss was also real.  That’s the things with kids — they take you as you are and they don’t put on the artifices that we adults do as naturally as we get dressed in the morning.  POB (partner of blogger) calls out to me and wants to know what we want to do for dinner tonight.  I remind her to call her dad about coming over for dinner tomorrow night with my dad and assorted relatives.

Now, I think, do I care if I am thin, prosperous, toned and un-gray?  Yes, but not because of reunion.  I am happy and I don’t envy anyone or want to be envied.  I simply want my family to be happy and healthy and safe.  I have that.  Add new box and put √ in it!!! (with an *”still would like to be slim, prosperous, toned and less gray”) .

[break for dinner out during which my son has a mother of all melt-downs and tests my resolve against spanking as a disciplinary tool.]

Ok, so my son was temporary invaded by an alien life form, and all because we cannot go to his choice of local restaurants (there were no tables available).  This is not my son (usually).   The following race through my mind: (i) aliens are clever, (ii) my parents grew up poor and would not abide such behavior in us, (iii) we knew not to exhibit such behavior and (iv) what have I done to create this monster?

Am I still happy and blessed?  Absolutely.  Am I pissed?  You betcha.  But keep the new box with the in it, and don’t forget the all-important asterisk.


Doctor, heal thyself

The urologist who put up a sign saying, “if you voted for Obama, go somewhere else,” got his information from the Internet and . . . wait for it . . . it was misinformation.  We did not “misunderestimate” him (my favorite moment of the otherwise bleak Bush years).  He was flat-out wrong.

The Internet is an amazing tool.  It also must be viewed in its context.  Opinions — informed, ill-informed and maliciously disinformative — are out there.  It is up to each person to glean the facts, evaluate the sources and come to one’s own conclusion.  Just because I can write an opinion that you might read doesn’t mean that I am right, that I have all of the facts or that, quite frankly, I am interested in the truth.

Everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion, but that doesn’t mean that each opinion deserves equal weight.  I spoke to a tea party goer about a year ago that heard on an unnamed “news” station (ok, FOX) that the health care bill would give social security benefits to illegal aliens.  Ok, let’s set aside the fact that we are not talking about E.T., The Extra-Terrestrial, or Martians, and that they are humans deserving at least the catch-all phrase of “illegal immigrants”.  I asked this woman if she ever dealt with the government.  She asked me to get to my point.  I responded that even if President Obama were seeking to give away the money in the Treasury (which he can’t because there is a 3 trillion dollar deficit), that the government needs a social security number to take any action with respect to a person’s benefits.  So if someone doesn’t have a SSN (let’s assume that an illegal immigrant hasn’t stolen one because why impugn someone who is seeking a better life here, while there are native born executives of Enron and Madoff enterprises who have committed heinous crimes and haven’t yet had their days of reckoning), then it is impossible to give that person social security benefits.  The commentator was either mistaken or intentionally misleading.

Ok, let’s be honest.  MSNBC is slanted the other way and sometimes uses inductive reasoning — basing a hypothesis on one fact — and gets the whole analysis wrong.  For me, sometimes, it is analogous to watching a show about law or maybe a doctor watching ER or Grey’s Anatomy.  It strains credulity and sometimes is farcical.

However, when I realized that I paid more in 2009 taxes than most, non-celebrity, tea party-ers pay in two decades, I realized that I put my money where my mouth is.  I believe in universal health care, medicare and a safety net for those like my grandparents who slept at night knowing that, if they lost their jobs in sweatshops, their children would not starve.  As a child of those children — the embodiment of the American dream — I pay my taxes for those like my grandparents and my parents, and not for the ungrateful masses who are the tea-party-ers.  Why?  Because this is America, the greatest nation on Earth.  But if you don’t want to buy in, that’s ok.  But there are consequences.  How about we mess with your medicare?  Would you be partying then? I hope you get along with your neighbors because if I join your group, there won’t be money to pave the roads outside your homes.  But because of my belief in America, and my indebtedness to my forebears, you get to be parasites sucking on the dream of America.  To tell you the truth, I cannot wait to heave the yolk of your entitlement of my already heavy burden.

How about that?  Let the generous, gentler and kinder America (thank you, Bush I) reclaim what is America.  I live America — I work hard, I pay my taxes, I pray that the government is good, right and just, I do not believe in torture and I give charity to those who need help to jump start their lives.  Yes, what Jesus would do.  And I am a Jewish, lesbian, Ivy League educated, Northeastern elitist.  And I embody the promise and opportunity of America more than most of the greedy, uncharitable, talking heads that pollute our airwaves.

Bring it on.

Snow Day

It isn’t even snowing in NY yet and the public schools are shutting down for TOMORROW.  My son doesn’t go to public school but his school is nevertheless following the Board of Education’s lead.  Ok, why anyone would follow the Bd of Ed’s lead is beyond me.  In fact, he is in private school precisely because the Bd of Ed has no business running schools.

Since parents who are urban dwellers don’t get snow days (the subway always works), tomorrow will be a problem for child care.  POB (partner of blogger) and I have to figure this out.  Actually, all I want to do is stay in my jammies and watch cartoons with our son and eat ice cream and laze around, until about 4pm and THEN hand him off to a sports coach to tire him out.  Of course, we do have the trampoline that is now a fixture in his room until our downstairs neighbor complains.  Luckily, the guy is a midlevel associate at a huge law firm that probably makes him work around the clock.  Thank Goodness for modern-day, high-paying, low quality-of-life sweat shops.

Obama’s Speech to Schoolchildren

I watched the speech.  No exhortations toward anarchy, communism or socialism.  Just a common sense message about taking responsibility for one’s education.  And it rang true coming from someone who started from humble means, without a father and achieved the heights of the American dream.  I  don’t think any of President Obama’s right wing radical detractors could match the authenticity of the message or the messenger.

The first day of school

Tomorrow is my son’s first day at a new school.  This is our dream school.  It is small and the teachers and administrators really understand my son, his talents and his needs.  He was so happy when we visited and he even enjoyed the day-long evaluation and interview process.  When he was accepted to the school, I felt like we won the lottery.  (Then we realized we needed to win the lottery to pay the tuition, but we pulled it together.)

Now, he is scared.  He doesn’t want to go to school. My partner left for a business trip (bad timing) and all he wants to do is go to the airport and take a plane and find her and bring her home.  I get it.  I want to do that, too. I also get that he doesn’t want to start a new school, or go back to any school for that matter.  But my heart is breaking because my little baby is sad and scared.  He’ll be fine.  I will be a wreck.

Just part of being a parent, I guess.