Month's End

Unfortunately, a persistent stomach bug kept me from doing much today, only to lounge about and breathe a sigh of relief at this last day of January. Snow fell yet again last night, but now a warm sun has melted the remains as I wait in vain for any glimpse of spring. My poor, pale calves still ache from fitness classes of pumping and blitzing, but my gym bag sags at the front door in hopes of another go round tomorrow. The self-congratulatory Grammy Awards drone in the background as I tie up the last colorful stitches on my mom's birthday present, to be mailed tomorrow morning.

Finally, Hello February!

Gym Rat

Today I took the plunge and attended my first group fitness class at the Penn gym. I was a bit apprehensive, as new experiences can be awkward, but it ended up being really positive. Maybe I'm kidding myself and I'm sure I'll feel it tomorrow, but I felt I held my own amidst a sea of perky nineteen-year olds. Running has served me well for many years but has well and truly lost its sheen of late. I'm tired of feeling guilty for not slogging my way through the cold and dark and now, instead of beating a dead horse, I've given myself an attractive alternative. Frankly, I love the idea of just showing up and someone telling me what to do for an hour!

I'm proud of myself for doing this. For parting with the money, for trying something new, for getting my heart rate up on a Wednesday evening when I could have just as easily sprawled on the couch. There was actually a moment halfway through the class where I thought, "I love this! This is fabulous!" and I'm still on an endorphin high.

I am determined to sweat my way into a pair of these bad boys just in time for summer!

Old College Try

Apparently the wind and rain that recently wreaked havoc on Southern California took the nonstop cross country as a whipping wind and rain snarled commutes and frizzed hair this otherwise ordinary Monday morning. But, after the storm's passing, the clear skies and unseasonably warm weather have been a welcome relief from the barren, sepia landscape of a never ending January, and Gus and I enjoyed our evening walk in the fading dusk of Haverford College that much more.

Although my family holds a multi-generational tradition of dreaming of an education at Vassar College, if Gus and I ever have children, Haverford is now in the running as another school to suggest. If nothing else, our tenure on the east coast has not only opened my eyes to the incredible choices available in higher education, but also to, here anyway, the importance placed on the pedigree of choice in higher education, and I endeavor to bequeath the next generation with this gift, should this be the path so chosen.
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On another note, this weekend, I came to the realization that I had lost myself to a, here, still unnamed process. Sacrificing my health for something outside my own skin, something that is, as of yet, unknown. I have always prided myself on my ability to set limits and a commitment to my own sanity, and I mourned to discover this had been lost within the grand pursuit. And so yesterday, I made a recommitment to myself, which started with a gym membership at my work, and ended with a gentle yet firm reminder that there is nothing on this earth that is worth sacrificing my own physical, mental and spiritual health. I maintain, nothing.

Spam

I had all but survived today -- ready to shut down the computer, turn off the lights and head on home when ding! a new email message announced its arrival in my inbox. I should have left well enough alone and saved it for tomorrow, but instead I opened and read its acerbic contents. Unfortunately, the email was from one of the professors I work with, a subset of humans whom I have already labeled as a special kind of rude and socially inept. In this brief message, Professor Impertinent nitpicked an email I had sent him, pointing out its perceived flaws and foibles down to the molecular level his kind so love to wallow in. Among other egregious errors, apparently, I had used the wrong adjective to describe an upcoming meeting he was to attend, having wrongly chosen the word "brief" to describe what he indignantly informed me could not, under any circumstances, be the correct length of a meeting of such rank and gravitas.

Woe to the woman that folds this man's extra-small briefs inside out or serves his prune juice in a water-spotted glass. A warning to the poor child that drops daddy's TI-84 or mistakes his precious protons for photons. Nobody's perfect, asshole, not even you.

Pretty Pinafore

My mom recently forwarded my sister and me an email about the virtue of aprons and their many uses, and likely how few modern young women are familiar with these once staples of the home. I commented that this certainly isn't true of her daughters, as both of us are tried and true wearers of this homemaker's staple. My sister's apron is one that I made for her a few years ago, and for Christmas this year I made aprons for a few family and friends. I also made one for my mom for her birthday last year.

So it came as a great surprise when I emailed the two again to admit that, presently, I do not have an apron of my very own. The few I do own didn't make the cut, and await my return in our storage unit. Since then, I have had to make due with tying a dishtowel around my neck, or wearing an old sweatshirt over a hostess outfit.

Well, this most certainly would not do! So, with their encouragement, I took advantage of today's dreary raininess to make a quick run to the fabric store and whip up a smock of my very own. Here are the pleasing results!

Blessed Curse

The news reports of the last two days have been dominated by the events in Haiti, where a magnitude-7 earthquake all but flattened the capitol Port-au-Prince and the surrounding areas. As photographs and first-hand accounts begin to arrive, we see an area of the world where people were already facing daily challenges far greater than those we have experienced, now coupled with an unspeakable tragedy.

It is in trying times such as these that I find it particularly difficult to hear people say they have been "blessed" in their lives. For it stands to reason that if some among us have been blessed, then the opposite must also be true, and there are those among us who have been cursed. The nefarious Pat Robertson certainly thinks so. I do not believe this to be true. God no more curses a Haitian mother who has seen her child crushed under rubble than God blesses a Hollywood starlet with beautiful children and a quick metabolism.

So where is God in this tragedy? So often scoffing skeptics point to events such as Haiti as proof that a higher power does not exist, and at first glance, we could lament this to be true. After all, why would God do this to the people God so claims to love? But if we reject the idea that some among us are hand-selected to be blessed, cursed or otherwise, then God's presence becomes clearer, at work in something much greater than a game of arbitrary bestowals. Indeed, I believe that God's presence is where it has always been, and where it will continue to be when the camera lenses and headlines turn elsewhere. It is in the kinship that defines the human condition, in loving thy neighbor and helping a stranger in need, examples of which we have heard and seen in the last two days in our collective sorrow, the willingness of volunteers, and the outpouring of donations. If there are to be any blessings, I will point to these acts as more deserving recipients.

Toplo

Another dusting of snow fell in Ardmore last night. Not enough to stop traffic or cause delays, but it did serve to further convince me that this January might very well get the best of me, and dashed my feeble hope that spring is just around the corner. I am in desperate need of sunshine! When will this cold front let go and move on? I need bare shoulders and painted toenails and sunglasses and bright colors and open windows and warm breezes already!

Alas, since none of these are likely to make an appearance still for months to come, I am trying to stave off the chill by warming my hands on the blazing fire of good memories...

On the spur of the moment, we decided to take a ferry from Dubrovnik, Croatia to Bari, Italy. After handing over our kuna and taking a place in line, we ran from the car to the nearest market to collect provisions for the eight hour crossing. A butcher cut us down a sausage and sliced off a wedge of good cheese. We selected a baguette, wrapped a bunch of grapes in brown paper and selected a bottle of wine. A tube of Pringles was thrown in, for good measure. We paid for our food, bagged it in crinkly blue plastic and darted between the other passengers' cars, just in time to start up our own and slowly snake our way into the belly of the boat.

Having been tipped off by our guidebook, once parked, we quickly gathered up our food, blanket, books and other necessities and bounded up the stairs to stake our claim. We made a beeline for starboard and selected an ideal spot on the warmed metal floor to lay our blanket, both protected from the front winds and shaded from the scorching sun overhead. Settled in, we leaned against the wall and stretched out our legs, listening to the gulls and ferrymen squawking on the pier and the lapping of the blue-green Adriatic against the bulkhead below.

When she finally took off from the harbor and made way out into the sea, we snacked, read, dozed and gazed, lulled by the wine and the warmth and the whirring of the engines below. As night fell, we watched as a fiery red orange sun set behind the land of our next adventure.

(Sorry for the grainy quality, it's a scanned film photo.)

BFF

Following another bout with hibernation, we eventually donned extra layers and made our way out into the dark, smoked night. Our foggy breath led the way as we walked through the deserted streets of our neighborhood, and not one person did we meet along the way. Under the streetlights, clumps of snow sparkled in the light. It crunched beneath our boots and we decided it sounded of goats munching leaves. We watched for patches of ice between the spotlights and held hands over precarious slippery spots.

When we returned home, our attic apartment now felt too warm. I hung my down jacket and stripped off wool socks. I was invigorated from the walk but still felt fragile and sad. Tears brimmed in my eyes and, seeing this, Gus wrapped me in a strong bear hug.

"You're my best friend," he said. These are some of my favorite words to hear. Indeed, in addition to being my spouse, my lover, my partner-in-crime, Gus truly is my best friend and I his. Over the years, he has been a steady shoulder to cry on, a careful giver of advice. A spot-on fashion consultant and an encouraging enabler ("Don't you need another pair of wedges?"). A willing gossip and a bringer of Bailey's and potato chips when things get dire. Someone who has always been on my side, regardless of the circumstances, and who always will be. A best friend truly and surely.

You're in my heart, you're in my soul/

You'll be my breath should I grow old/

You are my lover, you're my best friend/

You're in my soul.

                                                     --Rod Stewart, "You're in my Heart"

Party People

Early Times

Yesterday, a sprinkling of snow brought beauty to the monotony that is January. Three inches fell evenly on all that remains outdoors, and a bright sun made the barren landscape sparkle and shine. For me, the first month of the new year feels like 31 days that must simply be endured, and this is a characteristic I do not associate with the other eleven. Try as I might to find it, not a hint of spring is showing, the ends of branches still closed tightly against the bitter elements and the dirt of my garden hard enough to break my spade.

At yoga this morning, the view from the upper level studio showed only bare tree branches and flat rooftops against the pale blue sky. In the other months, when the windows of the studio are open, I can hear the rustle of the leaves and the bustle of the streets below. Today, however, windows and sashes were tightly drawn, and I could only catch glimpses of the unadorned tree limbs swaying and scratching in the wind, unable to hear the rattling of their frozen bones.

Tonight, a foretaste of the feast to come as we've been invited to an anesthesia group's holiday party. To be held at a downtown hotel, it promises to be quite the event. For Gus, a suit has been drycleaned and shoes shined and for me, a glamorous outfit has been carefully assembled. Best of all, finally, a chance to showcase my sky-high, knock 'em dead red-soled shoes.

Straphanger Blues

Beep beep beep.

After an eleven day hiatus, I jolted awake at the unwelcome insistence of my alarm clock. My rusty return to the pre-dawn routine was stilted and slow, with Steve Inskeep alone encouraging me through the dark shadows; Renee Montagne, it was announced, is fortunate enough to still be on vacation and, I assume, rising at her leisure.

After one last, longing glance at my slippers, I begrudgingly began my brisk workaday walk to the train, the world not yet awakened from the howling of another three dog night. Without the prism of Christmas, glittered flurries and leftover snow piles quickly lose their picturesque charm. Rhododendron leaves curl in against the cold like hundreds of frozen scrolls. Glassy puddles of ice reflect only my grayed likeness, twinkling holiday lights now darkened with passed purpose.

At the train station, riders huddled inside against the blast of the passing express train, my pea green wellies a standout amongst a vainglorious crowd of Louis Vuitton Neverfulls and Burberry scarves. Upon the train's arrival, chivalry and pretenses are pushed aside in a mad dash attempt to bypass the cold and secure one of the few remaining seats.

"All tickets, all passes out and ready for final inspection! All tickets, all passes!" cries the stout mufflered conductor as the train picks up steam. Through the dirty, double-paned window I watch the station, and my vacation, come to a cold, unceremonious end.

Sage Advice

This morning, I woke with the sun, its bright rays streaming into our bedroom and shining a light on the warren of dust bunnies we've apparently been raising. A whipping tempest creates a bright but bleak new year as it howls through the city, taking the midwinter temperatures into the single digits despite the blue skies.

After breakfast, I attended a yoga class which was one of the best I've been a part of during my seven year practice. The instructor took advantage of the new year to focus the class on new beginnings and acceptance and I found his suggestions to be particularly applicable to life outside the studio. He spoke to the idea that every inhalation is a chance for renewal and, conversely, every exhalation, an opportunity to release and let go. He stressed that instead of forcing the body past its comfort level, if we accept what we are capable of in the pose today, the focus can return, as it should, to our breath. We can then look honestly and openly at who we are in this moment, and without judgment, force or competition.

"Yoga is the perfect opportunity to be curious about who you are."

                                                                   --Jason Crandell, Yoga Instructor

“So as long as a person is capable of self-renewal, they are a living being.”

                                             --Henri Frederic Amiel, Swiss philosopher