Walk on the Wrong Side

            Thanks to the new accessory immobilizing my left wrist, I’ve avoided the gym this week.  Yes, I could probably get on the treadmill or the stationery bike.  But after the umpteenth well-meaning “What happened to you?” I might well be tempted to use my cast as a weapon.  Besides I’d probably feel compelled to prove that in spite of my cast I’m still a fit and athletic 60 minus 8 days. Which means I’d end up overdoing it and that would lead to profuse sweating (itch itch!) and/or a new injury (ouch, ouch!).

            So instead I joined my local chapter of The Women Who Walk. It’s not an actual dues-paying club, although it does seem that way on the mornings that I drive off to work. For some reason, The Women Who Walk walk not on the sidewalks but right down the middle of the street.  Typically, they powerwalk in twos or threes or fours, pumping arms vigorously and striding forcefully as if to drive home the seriousness of their exercise. Obviously, I try to avoid them (do I have a choice?), and as I’m rushing off to work, I often think the women are saying: We own these streets; you just use them to get to work.

            Well this week, the streets have been mine. 

            Every morning, I’ve taken my dog for a nice long walk. Yes, he’s the very same dog who caused me to fall in the first place. But as it turns out we both need to take a walk in the morning, and this week, we’ve often ended up at the park. The playground is always empty, and instead, there are lots of dogs and their owners.  And unlike the tiger moms and dads who no doubt bring their children later in the day, the dog owners are a mellow bunch.  We’re quick to acknowledge our dogs’ flaws. For instance, Casey is skittish and doesn’t mingle with the other dogs. Yet no one has recommended therapy or drugs or improving my own dog-parenting skills. I’ve met a few other dogs who are rambunctious or even aggressive, but I haven’t heard anyone talk of Ritalin or military obedience schools.  There’s no competition between us, and no one seems to be reveling in their dogs’ accomplishments (or lack thereof.)

            All in all, I’ve logged at least a dozen miles walking this week. As fast as I’ve walked, it hasn’t felt like exercise so much as a chance to see spring unfold close-up and to walk with different friends and catch up on their lives. I don’t think I’d be happy as a full-time Woman Who Walks, but one of the many things I love about being a teacher are the many vacations.  Some vacations I like to spend in faraway places and others, I love to spend at home, checking out alternate lives.  

The Magic of Her Snip

            For about 15 years now, there’s been a certain person in my life who knows me very well and who always lifts my spirits, no matter how low they might have fallen. We’ve been through a lot together, and yet the other day, just when I should have been seeing this special person, I saw someone else instead.

            I’m talking about my hairdresser.

            It wasn’t my choice to seek solace and style elsewhere. A loyal client, I followed Ellie when she closed her own beauty parlor and went to work at another salon. Although I may not be the chattiest person in her chair (after all, I always bring a book), we’ve still managed to get to know one another well over the years. But when I called to make an appointment the other day, I was told Ellie had left. And try as I might, I couldn’t find out where.

            I’m not the kind of woman who’s always searching for hair satisfaction and changes hairdressers with the latest whim or Groupon. In fact, I had just barely recovered from cutting off a relationship with Ellie’s predecessor, Pat. I had gone to Pat’s welcoming chair soon after surgery, when the idea of washing and drying my own hair had felt much too daunting.  Afterwards she pampered my thinning hair and battered vanity during a bout of chemotherapy.  Such kind and personal treatment so clearly merited my loyalty, and I was a happy, faithful client until … well, until I wasn’t.  Somewhere along the way, Pat lost the magic of her snip. Hair cut after hair cut left me feeling (and looking) dowdy. And yet, I stuck with her. How could I do otherwise?

            Then one day, I was heading to Pat’s salon, thinking about how disappointed I had been with my last haircut. Suddenly, a drunk driver crashed into me. I wasn’t hurt, just shook up.  I realized then that it was my own hair on the chopping block; I could take my business elsewhere.

            What is it with us and the people who touch our hair? We know these relationships are far from exclusive and have, at their roots, cash, credit or debit cards. Is it the intimate touch that makes us feel so connected? After all, who but a lover or parent caresses our hair? Or is it that we (literally) let our hair down with our hairdressers and let them see us as we really are?

            Obviously it’s nothing new … After all, Shirley Polykoff rose to advertising fame with the 1958 slogan … “Does she … or doesn’t she?  Only her hairdresser knows for sure.”

            She knows that and a whole lot more.  Just ask her -- if you can find her. 

           

Happy Passover

            In view of the fact that we’ll be asking a lot of questions at our Seders tonight, I thought I’d ask (and answer) some of the questions that I’ve heard since I started this blog 45 days ago.    

            Q: When’s the party?

            KK:  What party?

            Q:  Come on, you’ve been blogging about turning 60 so you've got to  be having a big birthday party.

            KK: No, sorry. No party.

            Q:  You mean  I’m just not invited, right?

            KK:  No. I mean I'm not having a party.

            Q: Why not?

            KK:  First of all, I don’t have the time.  What with writing this blog, teaching, breaking my wrist, and did I mention Passover starts tonight?

            Q:  Come on, how much work can it be to plan a party?

            KK: Too much. Especially since I don't really want one to begin with.

            Q: So you’re writing a blog about turning 60, but you’re not having a party.

            KK: That’s not a question!

            Q: It just seems weird. Why are you writing this blog anyway?

            KK:  Now that’s a question!

            Q: And the answer is…?

            KK:  It seemed like a good idea, and I’ve been having a lot of fun doing it.

            Q: So are you going to continue the blog after your birthday?

            KK:  I don’t know. What do you think?

            Q:  I thought I was asking the questions.

            KK: I thought so, too.

A New Wrist Accessory

            On Monday, there was an article on the front page of the sports section about a certain 60-year-old runner named Kathy Martin, who came to the sport late in life and has been setting all sorts of world records.  She gets up at 7 every morning and runs up to 12 miles a day as part of an arduous training schedule, designed by her trainer husband.

            I bet you know where this is going, right?  I, too, run, and after reading about that other Kathy this Kathy thought, “Gee, she’s older than me since I’m only 60 minus 17 days. Maybe my running days aren’t over.  I’m going to push myself to run farther and faster.”

            So today, my first day of Passover vacation, I was going to buy new running shoes. And even with all the holiday preparations and the holiday itself looming, I was still going to carve out some time to run.  Tomorrow and Friday, I’d just wake up early and hit the road. Obviously, I’d even get a post out of my new routine, building to the idea that some limits don’t really exist – except in our minds.  I’d even convince myself that 60 can be the beginning of something new and exciting.

            Well, I guess I can still write that post.  Just not today.  Because before I could get to the Sports Authority this morning, I took my dog for a walk.  I’ve mentioned him before, haven’t I? He’s a cocker spaniel who’s spooked by loud noises, baby carriages, bicycles, elevators and just about everything except else his shadow.  Typically, Casey is a quick and easy dog to walk since he has no interest in chasing squirrels or socializing with others of his kind.  But this morning, a car started up suddenly, and Casey darted in front of me, sending me sprawling. 

            It’s funny how quickly a 60 year-old (minus 17 days) athlete can become an old lady lying on the sidewalk.  Two nice young men helped me up. I hobbled home and made my way to the emergency room, icing my wrist all the while.  I told the triage nurse my pain was only a 2 or 3, since I was pretty sure I had only bruised my wrist. Turns out I was wrong.  I’ve got a break, but a clean and simple one. The doctor didn’t even think I needed a cast until he heard I was 59, and then he said, “We better immobilize it. You know, just to be sure.”

            I’m sure the other Kathy has had her share of injuries, too, but I bet she’s never typed a blog with a broken wrist.

Treasured Trash

            The biggest lie I ever told my husband had to do with a chair.

            No, it wasn’t a fancy chair that I bought and secretly spent more on than I told him.  And no, nothing unseemly ever happened in the chair that I kept hidden from him.

             It was just a chair.

            We had bought the chair at an antique store back when “antique” was just another word for second-hand junk.  According to the person who sold it to us, the chair was an Adirondack Twig chair, and it was old and kind of rustic looking.

            After a number of years, some of the twigs broke, and the chair became a little wobbly.  It didn’t really fit in with our décor either, and so eventually it wound up in our garage.  That was when the neighborhood cats found their own use for it, and so in addition to being wobbly and broken, it positively reeked.

            I declared it trash and wanted to toss it.

            But to my husband, it was still a treasure. “It’s an Adirondack Twig chair,” he insisted.  “It’s very valuable.”

            “Tell that to the cats,” I said.

            Well, one day when my husband was out of town on business, I decided to take matters into my own paws.  On bulk pick-up day, I dragged the foul-smelling and broken chair to the sidewalk, and that was the last I ever saw of it.          

            It was almost a year before my husband noticed the chair was no longer in our garage.  And even then, I didn’t confess right away that I had trashed his treasure.

            “Oh,” I said, “it was so valuable.  I guess someone must have taken it.”

            I thought of this incident because a friend told me the other day that she had just rescued some treasures. These were things left behind by old tenants or simply thrown in her building’s storage room and forgotten. Amidst the molding junk, my friend found a few things that she secretly schlepped up to her roof garden.

            “My husband wasn’t home,” she said. “Otherwise he would have had a fit. But it’s okay – cause he’ll never know. He doesn’t go up to the garden.”

            I told her my story, and I could tell she was a little shocked that I had trashed a perfectly good chair. And I’m sure she could see me thinking, what could you possibly want with that stuff?

            But since we weren’t talking to our spouses but to each other, there was no real friction.  Funny, isn’t it, how we’re so much more tolerant of differences in people we’re not related to?  Okay, so maybe in some marriages, both spouses are pack rats or trashers, but more often, we decided, opposites attract.

            So I guess in the final analysis it’s okay if we trash each other’s treasures – as long as we treasure each other.

Fair is Fair

          I have a theory that you become the age of the kids you teach. Not completely, of course, but in some very clear identifiable way.  So when I was teaching 13-year-olds, for instance, I’d find myself feeling moody and mopey for no particular reason.  And now that I’m spending a lot of time with 8 and 9-year-olds, I often hear myself scream: “It’s not fair.”

            And seriously, it’s not fair!

            I’m talking about the $1.5 million book deal that Greg Smith just signed.

            Who, might you ask, is Greg Smith and why should you care?

            Greg is the investment banker who left Goldman Sachs and wrote a piece for the New York Times about Goldman’s disdain for its clients. As it turns out, Greg and I have a great deal in common. Minus, of course, one $1.5 million book deal.

            Greg spent the past 12 years working for one employer.  I’ve also spent the past 12 years working for one employer.

            He wrote one piece for the Times.  I’ve written more than one piece for the Times (a few years ago, but you can google them if you want), and I’ve written a couple of dozen posts for this blog.

            Greg won a bronze medal for table tennis at the Maccabiah Games.  I used to be pretty good at table tennis, and if the table in our basement wasn’t sagging in the middle (and I didn’t wear progressive lenses), I’m sure I could still score a few points against any teenager on my block.

            Okay, I’m not really in 3^rd grade, so I’m not blind to the differences between Greg and me: Greg not only worked for Goldman Sachs, he is promising  to write a kiss-and-tell memoir about the firm; I, on the other hand, have been working at a Jewish day school for which I have tremendous affection and regard, and for the right price, I'd be happy to write a kiss-and-kiss memoir.  

            So fair is fair.  I’ll take less than $1.5 million. 

            Let the bidding wars begin!

The Chocolate Diet

         Excuse me a second while I unwrap a chocolate kiss.
        I’m sure you’ve heard the news by now. How could you have missed it?  Chocolate – yes  chocolate – has been linked with weight loss.  But not in the usual manner.  No, according to a new study, people who ate chocolate regularly were actually thinner than non-chocolate eaters. Yes, thinner not heavier.

            Don’t you love it??

            Not exercise. Not carrots. Not low-fat, low-carb, low-calorie. The secret to losing weight is eating chocolate.

            Well, why not?  Just because we’ve always believed the converse of that doesn’t mean it can’t be true.  After all, a lot of things we used to believe were good for us have been proven to be dangerous.

            “Nothing like a little sunshine to clear up your complexion,” my mother used to say. And I’m sure she got her information on good authority – if not from a friend of a friend who was a doctor, then direct from my grandmother.  Certainly, it worked like a charm. Darned if those rays didn’t clear my zits right up.

            As for skin cancer – who even knew to worry about it? As it turned out, we had plenty of time to worry later.

            Then there was my skinny cousin, whose mother felt she needed fattening up. My cousin wasn’t actually skeletal, but her mother felt extra pounds were needed as a cushion to fend off disease.  So she routinely whipped up milkshakes thickened with raw egg and served them to my cousin.

            I wouldn’t have minded the milkshake part, but even then, I would never have eaten a raw egg. But not because I was worried about salmonella. I wouldn’t eat cooked eggs either.

            Likewise no one gave a second thought to cholesterol as we downed our chopped liver. In fact, I’m not even sure anyone knew what cholesterol was.

            So it seems perfectly plausible to me that one day, our grandkids will be saying to each other, “Can you believe for so long they didn’t recognize the value of chocolate? Instead, they ate all those carrots and vegetables – that’s why they got so fat! Had they only known.”

            But now we do.  And so I'm going to have another chocolate kiss.