Late Out of the Gate

Last weekend, I watched the Preakness hoping to see a potential for a triple crown. I developed an interest in horse racing a few years ago when I was invited to attend the Kentucky Derby, all-expenses paid for by Playboy and Brown Forman (a missed benefit of my past life). Having associated horse racing with OTB I was pleasantly surprised to see people with teeth whose clothing didn’t stink of their own urine. I loved the pageantry and the grand traditions of the event – the oversized and exaggerated hats on women, the crisp linen suits on men, the morning mint juleps and the good old southern hospitality and food. But mostly, I came away with a genuine interest in the sport.

As I cheered on Street Sense who was quick out of the gate, I knew that didn’t matter. It didn’t guarantee a win. After all, he came from the 13th position in the Derby this year to win it. It came down to the wire, literally, with a photo finish and Curlin beating out Street Sense in the final stretch to take the Preakness title.

Life works the same way.

I didn’t get my first tooth until I was over a year old and I didn’t lose a baby tooth until I was 8. I was wearing training bras when my friends were getting their learner’s permit and I was still having growing pains when my friends were having labor pains. I seemed to lag behind in the race of life. Not that life is actually a race, unless of course, you consider the finish line a coffin. But life seems filled with short sprints that seemingly feel like endurance tests where our placement is graded, marked and scored. It is always about firsts and lasts, about placing somewhere on the gamut of contenders.

As a kid, it was who was picked first and who was picked last when choosing sides for red rover. Then during the teen years, where life seems to be littered with contests and competition, it is hard not to judge yourself by your placement. Who got boobs first, who got to first base, who turned 16 first, got their licenses, a car and a social life. For those kids who were held back because their birthday was on the cusp of the cutoff, suddenly found themselves at an advantage around their 16th birthday when they could load up their mother’s sedan with 8 kids, a few six-packs and drive to Saunder’s Woods to drink and pretend to be cool.

I have always felt I needed to play catch-up in life. I was a tiny, short, scrawny little kid with spindle-like legs that were always covered in bruises from falling out of trees or climbing stone walls as I searched the woods behind our house for ancient artifacts left by the early Pennsylvanian settlers. A good 6 inches shorter than my contemporaries, I could pass for 7 years old when I was 10. Now, I would take 3 years shaved off my age graciously and with delight, but as a proud 10 year old I was all but destroyed when the woman at the gardening shop asked me if I was starting 2nd grade when I was about to enter the 5th grade. “I’m so sorry,” she said to my mother who was standing next to me holding a palate of daffodils while I wailed and cried. “She’s just so small. She looks like a little porcelain doll,” she whispered to my mother hoping to backhand a compliment my way.
When we got into my mother’s Volvo station wagon I was still crying. “Am I going to be a midget? Why does everyone think I’m some little kid? It’s so not fair. Can you ask Dr. Zavod for some drugs to make me taller?” I was short, but I was precocious.

“Your father and I are normal height. You will grow. I promise. You just may grow a little later than everyone else.” My mother reasoned with me hoping I would hang on to the hope that everything comes in time. She also gave me a corresponding pillow that was embroidered with the saying, “Please be patient, G-d isn’t finished with me yet.”

Still, it sucked. I spent my first 15 years on this planet under the 10% line on the growth chart that the pediatrician, Dr. Zavod gave me to take home which I studied and pencil marked constantly. I would measure myself on the same wall, where despite the fact that my father would not allow us to write on it, I was able to notate my height by scratches in the paint. Each summer, after I came home from camp, my sneakers too tight, I would rush to the wall hoping for a mega surge. I would pray that my head would clear the in-wall speaker and nicknames such as shrimp, shorty and smidget the midget would evaporate.

I hate to say it, but my mother was right. Just when the brawny giants on my softball team growth halted at the standard 5’2”, I surged ahead – finally landing at a healthy and slightly above-average, 5’6”. I was late, out of the gate, but I finally caught up to everyone else and surged ahead. I had graduated from the petite department.

My single status mimicked my earlier plight. One by one my friends found boyfriends, got engaged and continued down life’s primrose path of having babies and starting their adult lives while I shrunk in the distance, lagging a leg behind. Marriage and love became what boobs and a driver’s license once were – a goal to reach in an unspoken race with others. And I was worried I was on my way to the glue factory.

The race of life is long – with many hurdles and many small races along the way. It is a race only with yourself. And if watching horse racing has taught me anything, it is to never bet on the favorite and to always look for the come-from-behind winner. Some horses are slow out of the gate, but once they hit their stride, there is no stopping them. Funny how that applies to people too.

Motivating Factor

I have never been a self motivator. Back in college, when I had a paper due I would procrastinate until the final moment and pull 3 all-nighters in a row to get it done. I needed that pressure to push myself in the final lap. I was always the one running to the professor’s mailbox at the 11th hour to turn in the assignment by the skin of my teeth.

I find myself regressing to my old ways when it comes to doing weights at the gym. Triumphant after a 3mile run, I would reward myself by rushing through a circuit of weights. Three sets, nah, I just ran - I think, mentally patting myself on the back. I’ll do 20 sit-ups, lay off the carbs and call it a day. Besides, I don’t want to look like Chyna Doll.

I was sharing this dilemma with a friend last week. “You have to go to Radu and take a class,” she said adamantly. “They push you so hard there; your body does things you can’t even imagine were possible. I did it for two months before my wedding and I cannot even begin to explain the difference it made. I couldn’t get out of bed the day after the first class, but I’m sure you will be alright.” A ringing endorsement. Later the next day, gift certificate for three classes arrived at my apartment.

I’m not one for classes at the gym, mainly because I lack coordination and I hate to be that person in the class who runs in place while everyone else is easily following the instructor’s moves. The bottom half of my body cannot do one thing while my top half is doing another, so I have avoided Jane Fonda type workouts over the years opting for less embarrassing exercise. That head, shoulders, knees and toes thing was even complicated for me.

Before I signed up to take a class, I went to Radu’s website to see what the rage was all about:

“The Radu Method is an effective, time proven, scientific program designed to bring you the rewards of complete physical fitness. The approach is straightforward. No fads. No nonsense. It brings moves to the looks and function to the cosmetics. Physical Training is not an act of escape. It requires active concentration and discipline. You cannot perform without total participation.”

Celebrities such as Cindy Crawford swear by Radu’s methods, even penning a book with Radu himself. The gym is located on 57th and 5th. An unassuming spot, the 2nd floor location lacks any of the bells and whistles the major healthclubs boast. The treadmills are not state-of-the-art, the sweaty interior is far from glamorous and the locker room resembled my gym’s high school one more than an upscale Manhattan health club. But, all that aside, after an hour of excruciating pain, I can understand why it is all the rage.

This boot camp style class of 6 people was led by one instructor whose arms were so big and muscular I was afraid to not do what he said because he could crush me with his pinky and thumb. Once a professional football player, the instructor used the training methods from his background for the class. First, there was an obstacle course which required some fancy footwork maneuvering around cones while carrying a weighted medicine ball – shuffling to the right, dropping the ball and using it to do and push up and then quickly jumping to your feet and shuffling left, and switching hands to carry the ball around each turn. We jumped rope, ran stairs, climbed ladder walls all while keeping our heart rate up. There were no breaks, there were no excuses. “Baby girl, keep moving. Don’t stop,” he said as he stood behind me pushing me, literally, as I tried to run in place while playing catch with a partner and an 8lb ball. “Faster. Go faster, fast feet basketball style. Only another 45 seconds. Keep going.” He bellowed like a drill sergeant, strolling back and forth behind us as I tried to push through the pain.

My arms felt like Jell-O. I could barely lift them to push myself up from the mat when he was already on to the next exercise. “Baby girl, move! I said move. Come on, why are you stopping?” I’m stopping because I think my heart just shot out of my chest and fell out of my sports bra!

At one point, I wanted to cry, but I thought that would be even more embarrassing than just running in place. When the hour was up and I was still standing (barely), I felt such a sense of accomplishment (and pain). I would and could never do this on my own – without a drill sergeant leading the charge; I would lie on my mat and stretch in yoga poses.

We finished off with abs. I turned to the woman on the mat next to me and said, "I've never given birth, but I can only hope that this hurts more than labor."

"Well I've given birth three times," she said, "and that hurts a lot more." She kept crunching, her tiny flat stomach neatly wrapped in tight fitting spandex, I couldn't imagine this skinny, taut woman gave birth to anything larger than a potato let alone three children. "But at least they give you drugs for that," she added in between crunches. I wondered if I could get an epidural for workouts.

Radu offers classes every hour on the hour. The classes are small, especially during the off hours, where the instructor can provide you with personalized attention (though, I’m not sure if that is a good thing or not). You do not have to be a member of the gym; there are no monthly fees or yearly dues. The instructors all have different athletic backgrounds, from ex-football players to track and field superstars; they incorporate different styles training into the classes. Kickboxing, basketball, swimming – every sport lends itself to moves that help fully condition a body – any body.

An introductory package is available for $30 for 3 classes, after that the classes are $25 each. If you are looking to get fit or you are into S & M (the self-inflicted torture part), Radu is the best place to feel the burn...and get the fire burning in your belly.

Bugged Out

Trying to do my part to save the world and live “green”, M and I slept with the window open the other night instead of turning on the air conditioner. “It’s not too hot,” I said as I shoved open our window and the night air rushed in through the screen-less opening. “We shouldn’t leave the air conditioning on or leave the lights on when we are not in a room. We should conserve energy.” I sounded more tree hugger than hip-hugger. M chuckled, but I was serious. “Look, I’m not saying which should bake in our own sweat and live in a sauna but it’s only May and we don’t need to have the air on so cold that you could freeze meat in here.”

I won out and we slept with all of the windows open which created a nice cross-current of circulating air that lulled me to sleep. The next morning, I awoke early when the blare of the horns of angry commuters began at around 7am. I closed all the windows and crawled back into bed for another half-hour. When I finally dragged myself into the bathroom to brush the morning breath away, a very unpleasant sight greeted me.

Covering my face, neck and what I could see of my torso, were tiny red raised bumps. “Argh, Oh my fucking hell,” I screamed loud enough to wake M and have him standing in the doorway to the bathroom in under 5 seconds. “Look at me. Look at me!! What is this? Do I have the chicken pox, the measles, hives? Did I contract some strange bird flu?” M inspected the bumps with an untrained medical eye while I nearly hyperventilated convincing myself that this was it, this was the rare disease that I have feared ever since I heard of Ebola and watched the movie Outbreak.

“They itch too.” I started scratching my skin like a lottery ticket. “I think this is the chicken pox. Go Google a picture of chicken pox. Oh my bloody friggin hell, I am going to have the friggin chicken pox all over my body for my shower. I cannot believe this is happening to me.” I almost started to cry as M applied Sarna cream to my neck and arms. “Carrie,” he said calmly, twisting my wrist to look at the other side of my arm. “These look like mosquito bites. I mean, I’m not a Boy Scout troop leader or anything, but I am pretty sure these are bug bites”. The tears which had welled in my eyes suddenly trickled down my check as I looked up at him and then at my arm. Perhaps I was ever-so-slightly overreacting, I have been known over the years to be a hypochondriac of sorts. Maybe, this wasn’t some exotic ailment that would one day be named after me, but rather a common case of boring old bug bites.

“We slept with the window open, blondie,” M said tapping his finger to his skull and making the ‘think about it, idiot’ – eyes at me.

“Why did I get eaten alive and you don’t have a single bug bite on you? They feasted on me like an all-you-can-eat salad bar.”

“You must have sweet blood.”

That is the answer everyone always uses when, somehow, I manage to get attacked by mosquitoes and they remain untouched. So I ran to the computer to get the real scoop. You can always find the truth on the Internet (or a version of it). I went to medical websites and to Yahoo bulletin boards to uncover the reason behind my red splotches, but there didn’t seem to be just one right explanation, just a lot of old wives tales.

Someone blamed a heavy fruit diet on increased mosquito bites while Dr. Tom Greenfield attributed it to having Type O blood (which I do not have). Using scented creams and perfumes ranked high among hypotheses for increased attraction of the flying bloodsuckers. Some people are allergic to the bites which make them redder and itchier while others have no outward symptoms of being bitten, another website proffered. And my favorite rationale: mosquitoes let off poison into the skin when they bite causing inflamed irritation. This one, I did not believe.

The next night before bed, I locked all of the windows and turned on the air. “You are off your ‘Green’ kick?” M asked.

“I can’t do it. I am running out of blood and skin. Look at me, I have 4 bug bites on my face! I guess we could get one of those mosquito nets to put around the bed and I could sleep with bug spray, but still that wouldn’t drown out the early morning sirens. You know what? It ain’t easy to be green. Kermit the Frog knew what he was talking about.”

Old School

Remember the good old days - when cell phones didn’t have those annoying Black Eyed Pea song rings and you actually hand-wrote a birthday card rather than sent an email one? Remember the world before DVR when you actually had to be home to watch the Sopranos on Sunday night and there was no such thing as “On Demand?” Ah, yes, the old school ways of living.

I have gotten so accustomed to having a digital camera, the instant gratification of looking at a picture immediately after it was taken that I can barely remember what it was like to bring film into be processed and have to wait to get back the 4 X 6 prints. I have unofficially always been the camera-girl; the one who is responsible ensuring that all birthday cake candle blowouts are recorded, all weddings processionals are captured on film and the one everyone accosts screaming “Let me see, let me see. Erase that one!” Now, with digital cameras being the size of a credit card it is easy to toss it in my bag and carry it with me all the time. It is assumed that I have my camera if a moment erupts that requires photojournalism. Yet, I still have a few friends who argue each time I pull it out, embarrassed if I ask the waiter to snap a picture of our group for posterity. “We look like friggin tourists,” Debra usually utters as she gets annoyed and embarrassed when I stack our group of friends in to a cheerleader-like pyramid for one more picture. “We have the same photo each time we go out,” she says as she dutifully smiles. But without fail, she is the first person to ask for the photos the next day.

Before M and I left for vacation my camera decided to take its last breath. Not long for this earth, it gurgled and twitched as I opened the lens, sputtering a few last times before it went kaput. I went into the junkyard of technology which I keep in a bin under our bed – old cell phones the size of a VCR, battery chargers for items I no longer own and array of wires and instruction booklets that I have accumulated over the years and never have edited down to things I may need in the future. At the bottom of the pile of red and green wires, I located my old Nikon camera. At the time when I bought it (circa 1996), it was state-of-the-art with drop-in film loading and a body size that was considered small. Now it seems like it is as big as a Toyota 4 X 4 and as dated as Donald Trump’s do.

On our first Floridian night, M and I dined at a waterside restaurant as a magenta sun slumped behind the horizon and boats bounced on waves in the harbor. “Take a picture of this,” M said as he positioned himself on the dock with the magnificent background. I pulled the larger camera from my purse and took a few shots before we walked back up the pier towards the restaurant. “Can I see the photo,” he asked when we reached ground that wasn’t swaying and where I didn’t have to tip-toe for fear of getting a heel caught in the wooden slats. “You can’t. I don’t have my digital camera. I’m going old school this trip,” I said showing him the back of the camera that didn’t have a screen. He looked disappointed, unable to comprehend a world where instant gratification did not exist – where he couldn’t press send on his Blackberry and shoot off an email to people 1000s of miles away. “So how do we get the pictures you took this trip? Does anyone develop film anymore?”

To me, there was a sense of freedom and the promise of future excitement while we were away. Back in college when I used to bring my film to Ritz Camera on State Street to have my photos developed, I would pay the extra for the one-hour processing and hang out at Espresso Royale next door. Like a kid on Christmas morning, I would tear open the white sleeve excited to see what photographic presents awaited. Of course, back then, I didn’t have a cell phone to call my sorority sisters and alert them to the hysterical pictures they had to rush over and see. Back then, we actually had to make a plan and stick to it when it came to setting a meeting time and place. But, I miss the delayed excitement where I could re-live a spring break trip or a party with fresh eyes and fresh photos. With a digital camera, you scroll through the photos millions of times before they are ever uploaded, removing any sense of wonderment.

Back in New York, I had to finish the roll before I got it developed. I had 6 shots remaining on the roll so I took Chief and did a photoshoot of him lifting his leg, smelling trees and getting very interested in a brick wall that must be very popular among the neighborhood dogs. I took the finished roll of film to 86th Street Photo a few days later as M begged me to get the pictures back. I waited the hour to have the film processed on CD and prints.

I shuffled through the prints, weeding out the pictures that didn’t make the cut – that weren’t “print-worthy,” the kind which would never go in a frame but instead would be stored in another junk bin. Out of 36 pictures, about 11 made the cut. I loaded the pictures up on Ofoto and left the prints on M’s pillow.

When M got home from work I told him that the photos were on the bed. “Huh?” he said. “On the bed?”

“Yea, I got prints too! I also got them on CD so I could upload a digital copy.”

M grabbed a glass of water and headed to the computer where he instantly logged onto my Ofoto account and flipped through the slideshow of photos. “What are you doing?” I have real pictures. Real ones which you can hold in your hand. I had them developed. You don’t need to look at them on the computer.”

“Ugh, that’s just more clutter. I like technology. I like instant gratification. It’s 2007, we don’t need to party like it’s 1999 or take photos like it’s 1999. Oh, and by the way, can we get rid of some of that crap in the technology graveyard that is under our bed? I think I saw a transistor radio in there.” When M finished looking at the pictures online, he settled into his pillow, sent an email from his Blackberry and watched a saved TiVo episode of the Sopranos.

Some people like the new school way of living.

Born to Run

I could say that I started running a few months ago – to live a healthy lifestyle, have a resting rate of 55 and to attain that indescribable runner’s high which I heard mentioned frequently – but that would be full blown lie. I started running purely for vanity. I started running because I ordered my wedding dress a size smaller because I swore, up and down and cross my heart to the saleswoman that I would absolutely 110%, no matter what, be that size when it arrived in August….even if it meant cutting off a limb.

If you look at a real runner’s body, it is taut and lean, but I wonder if that is from running or if their bodies are naturally that way which thus makes them better runners. Regardless, I have been told by many that running is the best form of exercise, so I tried it. The first day on the treadmill I ran a painful 1.5 miles. Around the half-mile mark I felt nauseous and dizzy and I wondered if anyone at the gym had ever collapsed on a treadmill, slid off the back and slammed into the wall. I wondered if people would laugh first then help or help and then laugh. I wondered if I would be able to make it to a mile and I also wondered how the lady with the AARP card on the treadmill next to me could be chugging along at 6.5 mph for over 30 minutes while I was inches from puking up a piece of pizza onto the friggin monitor.

The next week I ran 2 miles. Well, actually I ran part of a mile, crawled the other part and walked the last mile while I watched E! True Hollywood Story. With sore muscles, I stood under the rain-showerhead letting the hot water soothe out the kinks in my neck. I washed back three Aleve with Gatorade and prayed for the pain to go away or that I somehow find a way to finagle a prescription for some serious painkillers from my doctor. But as the weeks wore on and my Nike Shox broke in, running got a lot easier. I ran outside. I ran inside. I ran in the suburbs. I ran in the city. I ran in the park. I ran in the dark. I ran in rain. I was insane.

I actually started to like it. Plugged into my iPOD, the city was quiet and it was refreshing to drown out the noise – to watch the world on mute to my own soundtrack. And then it happened. As I was running along, my mind clear, my breathing rhythmic and in synch with my steps, Van Halen’s Right Now shuffled onto my iPod. A sense of euphoria overwhelmed me; a high unlike any from an illicit substance washed through my body as my entire body tingled. I pushed myself harder, increasing my speed almost to a sprint. I ran feeling like Forest Gump, as if I could run forever – from New York to LA and back. I had attained the runner’s high. Short lived and only for one song, the feeling was surreal. I had to get it back, I needed more.

I run regularly now. My favorite run is the East Side’s Esplanade from 63rd Street to 96th and back (about 3 miles and change). Running a 9 minute mile, for me, is a huge feat. And while my initial intentions were purely superficial, the benefits are anything but. Sure, I love that I am losing weight, but I love that I am seeing improvement in my stamina and my strength. Maybe I wasn’t born to run, but I feel born again running.

Banquette Etiquette

There are certain rules of etiquette which most men know and follow – holding the door for a woman, letting a woman exit the elevator first, putting the toilet seat down. TV, books, mothers, they have all done their job instilling these societal rules of etiquette into men. But there are some nuisances in these laws of male pattern behavior that some men (M and others) don’t seem to grasp.

Recently, we enjoyed a double date dinner with our friends Alissa and Justin. “I managed to get us a reservation at Sfoglia,” I told Alissa. Sfoglia, a new Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side and outpost of its Nantucket original has quickly become one of the hardest reservations to get on the Upper East due to its petite size and big reputation for amazing homemade fare. We arrived early to ensure that they would honor the reservation, but found ourselves forced to wait in the small lobby area until the people at our table finished lingering over their cappuccinos and cake.

“We are ready to seat you know,” the hostess said as she grabbed four menus and headed back behind the rich velvet curtain to the dining room. M and Justin popped up from their seats at warp speed, hunger pangs from a 9pm dinner reservation driving them forward. They bolted after the hostess as Alissa and I were slow to gather all of our coats and bags and follow. Steps ahead, the hostess gallantly moved the table out from the wall of bench-seating, swinging it forward to allow room to slide behind the table and into the banquette in the cramped yet cozy confines of the restaurant. M and Justin wiggled their man size hips and butts through the tiny opening, nearly taking out 2 glasses of wine which sat precariously perched on the abutting table. “Sorry,” M said to our dining neighbors who pulled their glasses to a more interior position. M planted himself on the bench and pushed the table out further so that he would have more elbow room to maneuver when it came to twisting spaghetti on a fork. Alissa and I took the two chairs directly across from them as the hostess handed us menus with a funny smirk on her face.

“Why did she laugh?” M asked as he broke his concentration from the menu for just a brief moment.

“She laughed because you two are supposed to be sitting in these seats. Women are supposed to sit on the bench seats.” It was like one of those ‘Which is different than all the others’ picture games you played as a kid when all of the apples were red but two green pears popped from the photo. “Look to your left, now look to your right. Do you see any men seated on the banquette?”

M and Justin gazed around the crowded restaurant, checking out the long line of ladies who shared the bench seat with them. The ten tables which shared the wall bench were filled with well-heeled female diners as their male dining companions sat across from them in high-backed chairs. “But the bench is more comfortable,” M protested, unwilling to acknowledge this unspoken rule of etiquette. “But women need the bench because we have purses which shouldn’t go on the floor and can’t be hung from round-backed chairs.” I argued logically a point of explanation. “We have wider legs,” M shot back.

I did some Internet research when we got home that night to prove to M that I wasn’t concocting some fake law of etiquette to steal the better seat. On Real Simple’s website, I found (and printed) the proof: “Traditionally, a man cedes the inner seat, whether banquette of chair, to his female companion. The woman faces out, and the man faces in – he should want to look at the most beautiful thing in the room,” says Spillane. “If you are dining with someone of the same sex the guest gets first dibs on the best seat (and view),” says Peggy Post, author of Emily Post’s Etiquette.

A few weeks later, we celebrated our first anniversary with dinner at Nish (the old March). As the hostess walked us back to our table, I lagged behind taking painful baby steps in a new pair of open-toed shoes I was trying to break-in. When she swung the table forward gesturing for us to slip in, M froze. “Darling,” he said in an over exaggerated tone, nearly bowing as he motioned with his arm for me to take the interior seat. Smiling, I took my place as the hostess motioned for M to slide in next to me. Confused, M didn’t move for a moment. “No, I am suppose to sit across from her….to focus on the most beautiful thing in the room. That’s what Emily Post said and I am sticking to it,” he proudly and mockingly told the hostess as both he and I noticed there were no chairs on the other side of the table. “This table is more romantic. You both sit next to one another and face the whole room,” the hostess said to a still standing and befuddled M.

Eventually M got on board and took a seat next to me. Our romantic seating arrangement was actually quite cute, though I would never choose to sit next to M on one side of a booth at a diner because I think people who do that are weird and annoying (and dating less than 2 months). Here, it worked. It added a bit of extra romance to the evening as M reached for my hand and leaned over to whisper something in my ear. “What would Emily Post say about this seating situation?” he said jokingly in a soft romantic breathless voice.

Later that week, I bought him an anniversary gift: a pair of cufflinks and Emily Post’s Etiquette book.

Honeymoon Promises

I picked October for our wedding because I wanted the colors and warmth of fall. Pecan colored bridesmaid dresses with chocolate brown sashes, glowing candles whose lights dance among the towering centerpieces of branches with dangling burgundy roses and burnt orange calla lilies. It was my wedding vision….and it will be my wedding reality.

But while fall may be a beautiful time of year in the Northeast to get married, it is a bad time of year for honeymoon destinations. I had always envisioned spending my post nuptial days cruising around the winding roads of the Amalfi coast in Italy, drinking Ouzo on the beaches of Greece and sunbathing in the south of France. Turns out, unless we want to be the lone tourist in winter parkas these European destinations are out of the question. It’s rainy season in Thailand. It is hurricane season in the Caribbean. It’s the off season in Europe and the Mediterranean.

M could care less where we vacation, as long as I make all of the arrangements and the clutter of travel magazines is removed in a timely manner from our coffee table. I have started looking into Southern Hemisphere destinations where it will be their spring when it is our fall. But I have been to Buenos Aires. I have been to the rainforests of Brazil and Argentina and I would like to go somewhere new. Someone just suggested Costa Rica, so now I am exploring that possibility online. Australia is just too far. I don’t think I have enough Xanax to last that long on a plane. And since I do not swim, snorkel or scuba dive Bora Bora sounds boring boring. And of course, there is always Hawaii, which, other than being as cliché a French manicure at a wedding, is truly the perfect destination.

Listening to Anderson Cooper on TV the other night, I contemplated this conundrum while mulling over guidebooks which I picked up at the travel agent. My ears perked up when I heard someone on the TV describe paradise. “Tennis, a private pool overlooking lush green hills and a meditation and yoga center,” the voiceover continued. Wow, I thought – this sounds idyllic. Tennis for my fiancé, yoga for me; I wondered what tropical island they were talking about. “Promises rehab clinic is where stars like Britney Spears come to get well.”

Ok, so much for that idea. While Spear’s Rehab sounds relaxing, I want to drink champagne on my honeymoon – something which I doubt is on the menu at Promises. So now we are back to Hawaii, having gone full circle around the globe, I think we may just do the cliché route complete with welcoming leis and a luau. Plus we don’t have to get our expired passports renewed, a task I have been avoiding until I have a good hair day to get the picture done.

The Zen of Travel

There is something about the last day of vacation, it is the first day you start to relax and unwind. “I’m not ready to go home,” I said to M as I rubbed 30 SPF on my bronzed arms, the glistening blue pool yards away. “I’m just starting to decompress. I need a few more days to bake in the sun, go running among the palm trees and a few more games of tennis.” He agreed without saying a word, turning off his Blackberry for 20 minutes, sinking into his lounge chair and diving into this month’s Esquire magazine.

It takes at least two days to leave New York behind when you are on vacation. Slow service, lines, traffic – all the things which cause one to pull their hair out in anger which is as much a New York- signature style as a bagel, linger after the flight touches down 1000s of miles from Manhattan. Day one, you anxiously tap your foot waiting for the line to snake forward at CVS, your arms weighed down with aloe and after-sun lotion. Cursing under my breath, I try to squelch the inevitable tension drugstores seem to bring me.

Still, you are quietly enraged that the couple who showed up after you was seated before you at the sushi bar. “We were here first,” I whispered to M as the two other diners were whisked from the crowded bar area and to a table. “Relax, what’s the hurry. We don’t have anywhere to be.” He soothed the New York crimp from my neck with his words. But for me, it is easy to take the New Yorker out of New York, but nearly impossible to take the New Yorker out of me.

By the time I fell into this Zen-state it was time to repack my bags and check my newfound sanity with American Airlines. Tanned and rested, I slung my beach bag over my shoulder as I checked the screen for the status of our flight. “It’s delayed,” I turned to M and said completely calm. “It looks like it’s getting off an hour late. Great, means we can get a drink at the bar.” I had hit my stride, unfazed by delays or the jam packed airport bar, I was in vacation mood. Nothing was going to rattle me.

We settled back into our bar stools at the Fort Myers airport and ordered up two drinks. “Maybe they will cancel the flight and we can spend another night here.” I drifted off into that pleasant thought – another night in paradise, sleeping soundly in a king-sized bed with the windows open, the cool night breeze gently shaking the opaque white drapes in our fabulous hotel room. “One more day of sun, that is all I want.”

Finally, an announcement buzzed on the loudspeaker over head, our flight was boarding. We loaded up our bags and headed for the security checkpoint. A Disney Park line had formed, seemingly miles long, we inched our way towards the metal detectors. I could feel the agitation inside me start to bubble, and just like a temporary tan complexion, my vacation mood started to flake off like dry sunburned skin.

“Take off your shoes and place them in a tray. Everyone must take off their shoes and jackets,” a TSA officer hollered at no one in particular. We disrobed, removing our watches, wallets, sweaters – and placing them in a bin. “Miss, you need to take off your belt too.” Nearly naked, barefoot I plodded through the metal detector as the majority of my clothing rode through on a conveyor belt. “I’m lucky they let me keep my bra,” I said to M as we tried to get dressed at the end of the line. It looked like the open dressing room at Loehmanns as everyone around us was in a state of undress. One woman struggled to get the light-up sneakers back on her screaming 3 year old daughter who had thrown her doll nearly down to Gate C3. Bellowing, she kicked at her mother as her father chased down her toy. A man attempted to shove files into a laptop bag that had spilled out down its descent on the belt while a teenager refused to remove his iPod as he passed through security. It was chaos.

“This is an oversold flight,” we were told by the stewardess who began boarding us seconds after we arrived at the gate. “We are asking that people check all large bags here. The overhead compartments cannot accommodate for all carry-on luggage.” Frantically, people repacked their items into smaller bags and handed over their oversized bags – unsure whether they would arrive at our destination. “Where are our seats?” M asked. I checked the ticket. “You want the good news or the bad news?”

“Good news.”

“They are together,” I smiled, “but we are in the last row.” Any ounce of remaining vacation Zen was snuffed out.

What can only be described as a putrid odor that smelled like a mix of two-week old rancid tuna fish and industrial pine-lemon scented cleaner leaked from the bathroom which abutted our seats. “Don’t even say it,” I said to M when his jaw unhinged and the vein pulsated in his neck. Three hours, 4 screaming babies and 3 double-vodkas later, we landed at JFK. Last to disembark the plane, I turned to M and said, “I need another vacation from this vacation.” It is hard to hold onto the Zen airborne.