i wrote this on friday but forgot to post it - that's the kind of day i had

the runway show was this morning, and this time when i got my invite, rather than paralyzed with fear, i was really excited. i didn't obsess over what to wear, i didn't anticipate any embarrassing moments. i was simply glad to be going.

except.

it was freezing this morning, a wind chill of eight degrees, and abandoned my original plan to get there really early. i didn't want to be stuck on the sidewalk waiting to be let in, slowly losing feeling in my extremities. so i left a little later than i had planned, but still with enough time to make it.

but then.

my MetroCard said "insufficient fare" when i swiped it, which made me realize i have not yet received my monthly WageWorks card in the mail, which aggravated me. then the F train didn't come for twenty minutes. literally. the platform kept filling up and zero trains were coming by. inwardly, i was crumbling. but i told myself that fashion shows always start late. even if i wasn't totally on time, i would surely still get a seat.

of course, all the people on the platform probably had equally pressing appointments, so we all tried to squeeze onto the first F train that came by. i made it on, but it took the train operator about thirty tries before he could get the doors closed, due to the various limbs and parcels sticking out.

i had to transfer to the A train at one point and then the C train at another point. both were painfully slow. it felt like two days had gone by since i left my apartment. i didn't even look at the time—i was afraid my brain would explode—so when i finally made it to Spring Street, i just booked it.

i was in my red coat, a funky scarf and my tall black boots. for someone who has trouble walking in sneakers, i have to give myself credit for sprinting across Sixth Ave and Varick without nary a stumble, let alone a total wipeout.

by the time i got to Hudson, i was a disheveled, breathless mess. i asked the guy with the ear piece standing outside if i could still get in. he said to knock on the second door from the left. it was ajar so i pretty much busted in and accosted the woman behind the table.

"can i..." [huff, huff, huff] "still go..." [huff, huff, huff] "in..." [huff, huff, huff]

"for the nine o'clock show?" she asked.

i nodded.

she did that wince, that you-are-so-pathetic-but-i'm-trying-to-be-polite wince and cooed at me, "no, sorry, it already started."

i actually said—or panted—"shit."

then i turned around and left. and checked the time. nine-twenty. i called my mom, because i am an eight-year old trapped in a thirty-two year old body and panted/cried to her that i'd missed the show. it wasn't a big deal in the scheme of things - it wasn't like my job was on the line - but it had been one of those weeks and this faux pas sent me over the edge.

my co-workers were sympathetic when they returned to the office, wondering what had happened to me. they were careful not to rave too much about the show, even though it was awesome. as the day went on, i cared less and less about the debacle that morning.

but it all really went away when i got the following e-mail from Lauren:

"i saw you running down spring st. this morning! i was gonna run/call after you but i could tell you were rushing to get to a fashion show or something. was it fun? you looked very stylish!"

i burst out laughing when i read it. and with that my perspective was snapped back into place. (thanks, Laur.) but assuming i'm invited to the next show in September, i'm getting there at like five in the morning. just to be safe.

mb

meant to be

i know i'm a few days late, but i wanted to write about Valentine's Day. it's never been a favorite holiday of mine, but maybe because this was our last V-Day as a non-married couple, i found myself reflecting on the first V-Day Michael and i ever spent together.

it was February 1999. we were seniors in college, both living in the same dorm building. V-Day was on a Sunday that year, which is not as bad as it being on a Friday or Saturday, but i still had the entire day to contemplate being very single, no classes or obligations to distract me. 

i had planned to spend the day alone. i'm sure there was some chocolate or pizza involved (probably both)—but what i was most excited about was watching a movie on VHS (no one had DVDs back then) that i'd seen in the theater the previous fall, Next Stop Wonderland. it was such a "me" movie: good, misunderstood, prone-to-sarcasm girl is single and dissatisfied with her dating options. mom intervenes, places a personal ad on her behalf, and hilarity ensues. it was mostly about fate and timing with the overarching message that things work out, true love blossoms, if you're patient. 

so i was at least looking forward to tempering my loneliness and frustration with a little hope, even if it was fabricated by Hollywood. 

now, i forget exactly how the events of the day transpired—it was 10 years ago and my college journals are in a box at my parents' house—but what i do remember is that Michael came a-knockin' that afternoon, just as i was settling in to watch my movie, and he stayed. he didn't want quarters for laundry, he didn't want to raid my fridge. he wanted to stay. he wanted to hang out with me, on Valentine's Day, in my dorm room, despite the fact that he had a sort-of girlfriend at the time.

so we stretched out on my skinny, dorm-style twin bed and i pressed "play" on my beloved movie and—to my recollection—he proceeded to talk through most of it. he asked questions about the characters and the plot. he was just being his goofy, endearing self but i was super-serious back then and all i could focus on was how he was ruining my movie. 

then again, i could have kicked him out and i didn't. 

after the movie, i think we actually talked for a while about relationships and that's when he told me he'd bought this quasi-girlfriend of his a Claddagh ring. it nearly killed me because first of all, i couldn't stand the girl (such a phony-baloney) and second of all, she was Jewish! what did she need an Irish Claddagh ring for? (i know that's an un-PC thing to say, but you know what i mean.) and on top of that, she didn't strike me as especially nice or deserving.

obviously, i was green with envy. i still didn't understand why no one was giving me an Irish Claddagh ring on Valentine's Day.  

eventually Michael left my room, to go take the girl to dinner somewhere and give her the blasted ring. in my memory, he left somewhat reluctantly (i knew they wouldn't last) and i might have been a teensy bit grateful to have not spent all of V-Day alone. 

we have spent many February fourteenths together since that time and they're a microcosm of our relationship—some were low-key, some were romantic, some were...dramatic—but V-Day 2009 was the best so far. we had a whole day to spend together doing as we pleased, no errands to run, no car trips to take, no to-do lists to tick off. we spent the afternoon in the city, wandering around MoMA, and then FAO Schwarz and then the Village. it was a fun, cozy, sweet and perfect day. 

Michael teases me all the time about our first Valentine's Day together—how in his mind it was such a nice experience, meanwhile i was hating the fact that he was there. i'm sure i didn't hate it nearly as much as i let on at the time, and considering i was overjoyed to spend the day with him 10 years later, i am very grateful he crashed my pity-party-for-one all those years ago. 

just like in Next Stop Wonderland, it all came down to timing, fate and the right amount of patience.

mb

can i just say? eeek!

i could not sleep at all last night. 

i was tossing and turning well past three a.m. first of all, around 10 o'clock i'd seen a mouse in my kitchen and it greatly disturbed me. i was on my couch, watching the crossover episode of Private Practice because i wanted to see why that pregnant woman couldn't breathe and i saw something moving out of the corner of my eye. i turned my head, saw the furry beast, gasped and sat up—before i had even finished gasping and sitting up, the thing darted under the bookcase i have in the kitchen and disappeared. 

i sat frozen for a minute and then i grabbed my cell and called Michael. in tears. 

i always said i'd prefer to have mice in my apartment than roaches, but you know what? this is what i decided as i was tossing and turning (and feeling itchy and paranoid) at three a.m.: i'd prefer to be the only mobile creature in my apartment, thank you very much.

Michael went to the corner market and got me some glue traps. i slid one under the bookcase and ran like hell in the opposite direction just in case. somewhere in my brain i did know that that poor mouse had so many more reasons to be terrified of me than i did to be terrified of it. but somewhere else in my brain i imagined it running around in my cabinets or taking a snooze in my bathtub or curling up on my pillow as i sleep. and that part of my brain was in control last night. 

so the mouse freaked me out. and it was also very windy last night and my building was rattling more than usual. and i kept hearing people yelling in the street. and i started Water for Elephants this week and read a somewhat disturbing chapter before i turned the lights out last night and just had a general feeling of un-ease. i wondered if it was a full moon or something, if that's why everything felt so crazy.

somehow i finally slept, but my alarm clock went off before i could really make a dent in my exhaustion. when it went off, i rolled over and somehow pulled a muscle in my neck (still suffering as i write this). i had the radio tuned to 880 AM and the first thing i heard was about the plane crash in Buffalo. and then they said the date: Friday, February 13. 

ahh. doesn't explain the tragic, unfortunate plane crash, of course, but perhaps everything else. this date is giving me a serious case of bad juju. 

and it makes sense. i have a bad association with the Friday the 13th movies. i believe it was a February, actually, many many many years ago. i must have been ten or eleven years old. a friend of mine had a sleepover birthday party and late at night we watched one of the gory Jason movies, no idea which one. it didn't matter. i had never seen one before and it petrified me. horrified me. i remember the next day when i made it safely back to my parents' house, just the sight of my dad's flannel shirts hanging in his closet freaked me out (which, back in the day, is what Jason wore in those movies).

anyway, my point is—i'll be glad when this day is over. not that Valentine's Day is any less scary...

mb

back in the saddle

this morning, for the first time since January 6th, i got up early and went to the gym. (i'm sure you've been losing sleep waiting for this report.) seriously, though, i hadn't even realized how much i missed my gym routine until my walk back home after the workout - i felt like nothing could ever get me down again (potholes included). and that theory held up during an extremely hectic day at work. i just put my head down and go, and i felt more productive than i have all year. it struck me as i left the office tonight (to go pick up the first component of our save-the-dates, which i'm constructing myself) that i do so much better when i'm swamped. theoretically, i should have been exhausted but instead i felt energized. and that was without the help of Red Bull.

hopefully i can keep it up the next, oh, eight or nine months... it became clear over the weekend that there's sort of a lot to do for this wedding. not that i thought it would be easy-peasy but something about sitting down and looking at lists and budgets and menus and centerpiece options makes a normal person feel very, very tired. (i'm back to focusing on the songlist instead and i've basically decided that once the reception starts, i'm just going to dance, the entire time. i know i'm supposed to mingle and make the rounds at the tables but damn - who made up that rule? i can't think of another time in my life when i'll get to dance to live music in such an awesome dress and won't all my relatives and friends know that i'm happyand grateful they're there? or can't they come onto the dance floor so we can make small talk while we boogie?)

well, anyway, i'm going to try to keep my energy up as long as i can. and i better put this current burst to good use. especially because i just wasted an hour of it on American Idol. (oh, yeah, did i not mention that my so-called breakup with AI didn't stick? oh well. i'll stop when i want to.)

mb

can i just say? the WTF?!?! edition

i have other things to vent about—like the fact that my ankle is 100 percent fine, but i had to pay another $30 co-pay and waste another 90 minutes in the waiting room on Wednesday just so the docs could tell me i hadn't broken anything, that i must've just "tweaked" something. i thanked them for the good news but really felt like yelling, "HAVEN'T YOU JERKS EVER HEARD OF THE TELEPHONE?" 

i also think it's ludicrous that Michael Phelps got suspended yesterday for smoking pot. for reals? what's wrong with people? maybe he should have been a little more aware of cameras in the area before he inhaled, but come on—he's twenty-three! just because he broke a bunch of swimming records doesn't make him above the normal stupid stuff kids do. i just think, with everything else going on right now, to make an example of him in this way is a wee bit insane.

but what i really, really want to vent about is Nadya Suleman. i wasn't going to share my two cents about her until i heard that a big reason why she decided to have so many babies is because she was an only child and felt she lacked "certain connections" growing up that way. and now i just cannot keep my mouth shut.

first of all—i grew up an only and had a fabulous time. i had a vivid imagination, loving parents and a boatload of friends. i grew up knowing how to be self-sufficient and OK with being on my own when necessary. of course i have some of the hang-ups all onlies have, but they're no more severe or bothersome than the hang-ups anyone has based on their birth order. 

my point is—even if, for the sake of argument, we say that Ms. Suleman had a crap childhood for various reasons, that is not a reason to have eight more children when you already have six under the age of seven—and especially not when the eight new ones are in need of serious medical attention and probably will be for many years. 

it just makes me angry. i've ranted about this before, i know. but so many people don't think before they have children. they go, "ooh, i'll have a baby!" and they make it about themselves. "ooh, i'll be a mommy" or "ooh, i'll be a daddy" and that's where the train of thought ends. 

it seems to me that taking on the responsibility of parenthood is simply about ensuring that the human being you create will—at the very least—not be a detriment to society someday. at best, you hope they will do something good in the world, whether it's winning a Nobel prize or being a really great friend to someone. 

kids are not something you own. they're not created to make you feel better or complete or purposeful. they are human beings. and if you do it right, they only depend on you for a small fraction of their lives anyway. if you're that empty or that sad or that lonely—get a dog! get a friend! get a hobby! 

actually, Nancy Snyderman summed it up perfectly this morning in an interview. "when you lack a connection in childhood you go see a therapist," she said. "you don't have fourteen babies." 

i was actually thinking the other day that all pregnant women should probably have a psych evaluation when they first see their ob/gyn or have their first ultrasound. if the evaluation doesn't go so well, they should be required to seek help on a regular basis throughout the pregnancy. i know this breaks all kinds of privacy rights and civil liberties and whatnot, but seriously—i've said it before—you can't drive without a license, and if you do, you're in big trouble. you can't own guns without a license and if you do, you cause big trouble and you're in big trouble. if you get married without a license, it's not legal.

but there are absolutely no laws to prevent anyone from becoming parents, and that baffles me. absolutely baffles me.

i'm reading this book right now called The Gathering. it's fiction and it's a little twisted, but it's about a big Irish family. a big, troubled Irish family. and the whole book is basically the narrator railing against her parents for being so irresponsible and having so many damn kids. because she and all her siblings have been done a disservice, growing up so lost in a crowd of names and faces. a part i read this morning struck me as so true—she said it's always the same with big families—one always dies, one's always a drunk, one's always mad. i obviously have limited experience with big families myself, but the experience i do have is very similar to that description.

and that's what i keep thinking about regarding Ms. Suleman. fine, she's got all these kids now and she's going to love them all, and without any help, but there is only one of her, and fourteen of them, and they all need a lot of attention in order to thrive. the great irony—the real sadness, actually—in this situation is that her kids will probably grow up feeling the same way she felt growing up—lacking a connection. 

and, as she's proven in such a mind-boggling way, kids who don't feel loved enough or safe enough or truly cared about can grow up to do odd things. irresponsible things. 

if i were one of her kids, i would seriously question why she chose to have me (and all my freaking siblings) when the deck is so very stacked against her—she doesn't have a job, she doesn't have a partner, she obviously doesn't have a very strong or supportive family. she's just setting her kids up for a life of struggle, in my blunt opinion. and i find that extremely selfish. 

she does, however, have an agent and possible book and TV deals. 

awesome.

mb

aging ruthlessly

so i went for my CT scan today and this is what came of it: i do not want to get old.

my father would say that the alternative (ie death) is much worse. but seriously... i spent some time in the waiting room (more time than i spent getting scanned, naturally) and got a real good look at all the things that can go wrong for a person. a rather round man next to me had been injected with a dye that would illuminate some problem or other when he got his MRI. a raspy, scrappy woman with a cane was ranting about politics until she fell abruptly into a nap (she was snoring so i know she didn't expire right then and there). yet another round man was anxiously awaiting his own test. and another woman was wheeled out post-scan and had no idea where she was or what was going on. (teeth seemed to be at a premium, too.)

i should note that since my appointment last week with the ankle doc, i have not done a single thing they told me to do. i have not used the cane, i have not walked slower (i'm physically incapable), i have not worn my running shoes - except for Saturday when i went to the gym and spent an hour on the elliptical because i thought if i didn't go i might lose my mind.

i also, on Saturday night, had three or four glasses of wine on an empty stomach and paid for my sins yesterday when i couldn't clear the fog in my brain (or satisfy my raging appetite) for half the day.

seeing those sort-of sad, not-well, rapidly-aging folks in the radiology waiting room today reminded me why i might want to reconsider abusing myself the way i tend to. then again, is it better to throw caution to the wind now, probably enjoy life more (at least have more stories to tell) and pay for it later? or will i be glad at age eighty-two if i play by the rules now?

well, anyway, i had the scan (administered by a tech who had less personality than the machine i was laying on/in) but didn't get any results yet. i really don't think there's anything that wrong with my ankle. i went bowling, too, on Saturday (crammed a lot into one day) and neither my workout nor my pathetic attempts to knock down pins with a heavy ball seemed to make my ankle feel any worse.

in fact, i'm pretty sure it feels better than it did a week ago, which makes me think soldiering through the pain is better than any ski boot or flippin' cast they could force on me. and there you go. i've just answered my own question. aging well is not about behaving yourself, it's about getting on with things even when they tell you not to.

hopefully the CT scan will back me up on this.

mb