greetings from the edge

life is not exactly great right now and this morning i received an ill-timed e-mail from a woman who works at the studio that filmed and edited our wedding DVD. it nearly sent me over the edge.

           

the DVD was lovely and well done, but during our first dance segment—which, as you know, we worked hard on and were very proud of—they cut to a crowd reaction shot at the most interesting part. there was plenty of coverage of our box-stepping, but the cool combination in the middle was completely, utterly missing.

i e-mailed the studio to ask if a re-edit was possible (since they'd assured me the dance was there in its entirety) or if i could get the raw footage so we could at least see the whole thing.

it took her a week to get back to me, but the woman finally wrote back today. she made it seem like i'd somehow insulted the studio by calling out their careless editing and that they were doing me a huge favor—not to mention compromising their artistic integrity—by re-working the DVD.

then she threw in this line: "by the way, did you know that you had a wardrobe malfunction. that is not in the video, but when i give you your raw tapes, you will see it. "

i was seriously stunned when i read that. because yes, i did know i had a wardrobe malfunction—or at least, i was aware that my husband realized i had a wardrobe malfunction at the end of the dance (when i went to high five him after our big dip-and-kiss finale). i checked with my entire bridal party and a huge cross-section of our guests afterward and no one saw anything. or, at least they had the good sense to not to tell me they saw anything, which i chose to believe.

maybe i'm just extremely sensitive right now but throwing that tidbit out there in such a manner, on a monday morning after a really crappy weekend—it just rubbed me the wrong way. i envisioned their creepy editors huddled around a monitor playing and replaying that part of the footage. it's probably my overactive imagination and i have no idea if their editors are creepy or not. but why did she feel the need to tell me that? today? i'm vulnerable already and now i feel mortified and violated to boot. 

and after all that, she signed the e-mail, "Love, {name redacted}"

love? love!? i don't even know you, lady, and you just really embarrassed me. i fired off a response immediately, which made me feel better for about five minutes. now i just feel crappy again.

like i said—i'm on the edge. i'm not one to wish my life away, but i cannot wait for this stupid month to be over.

mbm  

weighing on my mind

i was in line at CVS last night, three very not Kashi-like boxes of cereal in my arms (the sugary stuff is always what's on sale—they tell us to eat better and then push the crap!) and my listless, end-of-day gaze landed on the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, prominently displayed next to the cash register.

a few thoughts went through my head:

• Brooklyn Decker probably never eats Apple Jacks.
• Would a yellow bikini look nice on me?
• Do not skip the gym tomorrow.
• But god, what's the point—I'll never look like that.

i started to wonder what the point of the swimsuit issue really is. i mean, i don't think any woman would say she actually enjoys looking at it—even glimpsing it on the magazine rack. it comes out at the worst time of year, when we're all pale and bundled up in sweaters and puffer coats, which conveniently conceal the physical evidence of the carb-loading we've been doing just to get through the dreary winter days.

and sure, i know that no guy would ever pass up an opportunity to look at a bronzed model frolicking in a bikini (or less) in the sand, but isn't it—unless you're Andy Roddick—somewhat torturous? similar to standing outside a candy shop with nary a dime in your pocket? everything looks so good but ain't no way you're getting a piece.

then again—those models don't look that good in real life. they're just the blank canvases upon which airbrushing, fake tanner and lots of trick photography are applied.

so really, there's no point.

OK, yeah. i admit i'm extra sensitive this year because, for the first time in 10 years, i'm having to engage in a little battle of the bulge. and it's freaking me out.

here's what happened: as i mentioned, i decided to go off the pill last month. i don't regret the decision at all, but i did not anticipate the eight pounds that glommed onto me almost instantaneously and refused to let go. for a few weeks i was in the dark and berated myself alternately for the torrid three-day affair i had with baked brie over the holidays; for believing that margaritas, a bucket of beer and nachos was a proper daily lunch in Aruba; and for not working out harder at the gym.

of course, the berating only made me feel worse, which made me want to eat something sweet, which did nothing to lower the number on the scale. (and yes, i know that the scale is a basically worthless, if not torturous, bathroom accessory, but old habits die hard and i haven't been able to give it up yet.)

after many days of feeling bad about myself, it finally dawned on me that the seemingly overnight weight gain coincided with me quitting good ol' Yaz. i got my Google on and finally, finally came across a little nugget of information that cheered me immensely: Yaz contains a mild diuretic, and while most women going off the pill tend to lose weight, Yaz users are more likely to gain—water weight.

again with the Google, i discovered that dandelion root is an excellent natural diuretic. (i didn't want to mess with the regular diuretic pills at the drug store, which contain a load of caffeine—bad news.) i ran across the street to a gourmet market by my office and found a Yogi Peach Detox tea, which contains dandelion root, among other things, and downed two cups before the end of the day.

within three days i'd lost four pounds and felt like a new woman—or rather, like my old self again. but: depending on the day, i'm still four or five pounds more than i was at my wedding and this, i am sad to say, bothers the hell out of me. my clothes still fit, i'm working out like a fiend and—with the exception of a sugar fix now and then (yeah, not doing so good at eradicating sugar from my diet. oh well!)—eating the way i've always eaten.

truthfully, i don't see the five pounds anywhere on my body—but you can be damn sure they're lodged in my brain. i thought somehow i'd be over this by now—that at age thirty-three i'd be finally and utterly over caring about the number on the scale. isn't it enough that i'm healthy and hearty and spry?

apparently not. damn you Sports Illustrated.

mbm

c'mon, get happy...?

being anywhere in the vicinity of this might do wonders for my mood

i have been down in the dumps for a couple weeks now—thus my lack of writing lately. i don't know why, really. i'm not typically prone to the blues. but this is definitely something. it's not like i can't get out of bed in the morning. it's just sort of a low-grade sadness, i guess? i have stretches where i come out of it—i feel buoyant and hopeful and happy.  but the fog descends again and i'm back to feeling low.

this doesn't sit well with me, though, so in an attempt to combat my blahs, i decided to come up with a list of things to feel good about right now:

- pitchers and catchers report to spring training this week. screw that stupid groundhog—this is how we know winter will soon be over.

- i've been reading a lot of good books lately. i recently finished up both Alice Munro's Too Much Happiness and Richard Russo's Straight Man—both excellent, for very different reasons—and now i'm in the throes of Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol. Maureen Dowd can shove it—i'm really enjoying the book so far. and reading is the one thing that consistently  eases my blues. (last week i was reading the latest issue of Real Simple for god's sake and missed my station on the subway—by four stops!)

- i've started running again and this makes me happy. i ran five miles on Sunday, something i haven't done in i don't know how long. i've been forced to use the treadmill, unfortunately, as it snows daily in these parts now and running outside is far too treacherous for a klutz like me. but it hasn't been so bad. my cousin Alayne is training for a marathon right now and recently ran 20 miles on a treadmill in her gym. i figured if she can manage that, i can surely run a measly five. (thanks for the inspiration, cuz!) 

-  i had lunch on Saturday with Ellen and Carol, two of my former college professors. Ellen, of course, also officiated my wedding and i hadn't seen her since the big day. Carol was my mentor senior year and quickly became one of my favorite people. i hadn't seen her in forever but it felt like no time had passed as soon as we got together on Saturday. the three of us had a long and very fun lunch and as i rode the LIRR home, i was feeling so lucky to know these two warm, hilarious, smart and genuine gals. they lifted my spirits for sure.

- speaking of the wedding, our DVD arrived last week and we finally watched it Saturday night. it made my heart swell to see all of our guests laughing and dancing like maniacs and having so much fun. i was also in stitches watching the pass-the-mic "testimonials" for the first time (Joe, i'm talking to you!). anyway, it was nice to see that everything actually happened the way i remembered it.

- being married boosted our tax refund, which means an Ireland vacation might actually be in our future. that would be really, really, really great.

that's all i can come up with for now. am i missing anything? feel free to share...

mbm

using my discretion

there is a fairly significant snowstorm raging across New York City as i write—scratch that, we're officially under a blizzard warning now. and i write not from the comfort of my home or even from the cozy coffee shop around the corner, but from my office, where i am currently the only one present in my cluster of desks.

we were advised yesterday, via the company intranet, to call the emergency line after six o'clock this morning to obtain information regarding office closures. we predicted it last night before we left work—the company gods would not tell us to come in or stay home, but simply to use our "discretion" when determining whether or not it was safe and smart to come to work in a blizzard.

lo and behold, that's exactly what the message said when i called four hours ago. "due to inclement weather and with regard for our employees' safety, we are encouraging employees to use discretion when traveling to and from the office today." the message went on to say the office would indeed be open and operating under normal business hours, but the company would support whatever decision i felt the need to make regarding the snow.

let us now heave a collective sigh.

remember the days when you'd huddle in the kitchen on dark and snowy weekday mornings and listen to AM radio, fingers and toes crossed that the broadcaster would utter the code for your school? nowadays there are probably e-mail blasts or websites to check, but twenty-five years ago it was all done in three- or four-digit codes—amazing i can't remember my school's, as it was burned on my brain for years—and oh, i would be just a ball of anxiety waiting to hear the magic number.

snow day hoopla would actually begin the night before. if it started snowing around dinnertime, that was bad. they'd surely have the roads cleared by morning. if it was just starting to snow at bedtime, that was better. there was a good chance there wouldn't be enough time to plow properly, and if we didn't have a full day off, at least we'd get a late opening.

the best and worst scenario was snow that was predicted to begin overnight. the not-knowing was downright titillating to a 10-year old. i remember waking up on those mornings before my alarm went off. i'd stay in bed, eyes shut, and try to sense the snow. i don't know why i did this—why i didn't just race to my window and open the shade and see what was what. i must have preferred the mystery.

i would lay perfectly still and just listen. if enough time went by and not a single car passed our house, that was a good sign—it must be too snowy to drive. or, if a car did go by, i could tell by the sounds it made—muffled, crunchy, plodding—if the streets were bad. that, too, would indicate a snow day. and the joy i felt was palpable—knowing i had nothing to do the rest of the day but eat sugary cereal and Kraft mac-and-cheese while doing arts and crafts and catching up on Scooby-Doo and the Jetsons.

[another collective sigh? yes, let's.]

what i hated hearing was a car zipping up the street untroubled—the sound of clean tires on pristine pavement. it was so horribly clear then that the forecasters had just been messing with me. on those occasions i would burrow under the covers a little deeper and wait miserably for my mom to knock on my door and utter the dreaded words: "no snow—gotta go to school."

there's no such thing as a snow day when you're a grown-up (unless you're a teacher—buncha jerks). companies love to leave it up to your "discretion" in inclement weather, which basically translates as: "your character, work ethic, loyalty and dedication will be judged based on how you interpret this ambiguous message." if you don't go in—which is not the most ridiculous idea because, after all, snow is coming down sideways outside your bedroom window and your snow boots are five years old and from Target (i.e., water absorbent rather than water proof)—but everyone else goes in, you will of course be deemed a wimp and a slacker and be at risk for losing a potential promotion.

however, if you do make it in (soggy Target boots and all) yet no one else is in the office, including your boss who will completely miss this glorious display of your work ethic, dedication and loyalty—indications of how badly you want a promotion—you will feel resentful and like an idiot and spend your time writing a blog instead of doing work.

which, let's be honest, is not anywhere near as awesome as a Scooby-Doo marathon.

mbm

super...emotional

the only thing i want to say today is that, for me, the highlight of yesterday's Super Bowl was the Betty White commercial. i thought nothing could top her acceptance speech at the SAG awards last month, but i was wrong. that commercial was brilliant, only because of her. that lady is up for anything. i love it. i can only hope i'm as feisty at eighty-eight. hell, i'd love to be that feisty at thirty-three!

a close second favorite moment was the shot of Drew Brees holding his son (in protective headphones because of the noise) on the field after the game ended, in the midst of a monumental celebration. i stared at the TV and cried—the boy was so precious and i could only imagine the pride and joy Brees felt at that moment. 

[it should be noted that i am experiencing an especially teary case of PMS this month. i cried several times over the weekend, all for sentimental reasons—well, except for yesterday afternoon when i cracked my head on the corner of a cabinet door i'd left open. ow.] 

anyway, other than that, i found myself enduring the game more than enjoying it. probably due to aforementioned PMS and the fact that i was watching solo. ah well. 

on the bright side: pitchers and catchers report to spring training a week from Thursday. (you can't see me, but i'm doing a happy dance.)

mbm

smile like you mean it

lately i've been wishing i was friendlier.

or, rather, that i seemed friendlier. because (on most days) i'm not mean or thoughtless or rude. i open doors for the elderly and those with baby carriages. i don't shove my way onto clearly packed subway cars. i hold elevator doors when i hear someone coming (sometimes i even thrust my arm between the closing doors and risk dismemberment). i toss whatever i can afford into tip jars of places i visit frequently. i high-five the security guard who mans the freight entrance of my office building. the other day i complimented the new hairstyle of the girl whom i pay for my coffee every morning and i think i made her blush.

so, you know, i'm not a jerk. i just wish i was more open.

example: a little while ago, on my way back from grabbing lunch, i was in the elevator with a girl—a woman? she seemed about my age, but i still think of myself as a "girl" most of the time, is that weird?—anyway, i gave her a quick half-smile as she walked into the elevator and then assumed my normal position of leaning against the back wall and gazing at the TV screen for the latest fun facts or breaking news.

the girl didn't press a button for a different floor, which meant she was going to mine. she didn't look familiar but two seconds later she turned to me and asked, "are you here for the accessories meeting?" i knew about the meeting and two of my co-workers were going but i wasn't able to because of a pressing project.  so i said, "no. are you?" she went on about how she was late, coming from visiting a new store outside of the city. i told her i thought it had started late so she was probably fine. she said she was only interested in the portion of the meeting being conducted by my boss' boss. i said, "oh, well, he's always late so i'm sure you're fine."

then she said, "so how are you?" and even as i'm saying, "good!" i'm thinking, oh god this girl thinks she knows me? awkward! and then oh crap, do i know her and just forgot? but then she said, "what do you do here?" i was still in the midst of my panicked thoughts and stammered some answer that probably illuminated not a single thing about my job. "have you been to greenwich?" she asked, meaning one of the company's store locations. "yes!" i said, so glad that i'd actually been there and could speak coherently about something. "it's amazing!"

the elevator doors opened and we both got out. "my name is Samantha," she said, "in case we ever run into each other again. nice to meet you." i said, "nice to meet you too,"—never even told her my name, genius—and we went in opposite directions.

it seems silly now, but the whole situation caught me off guard. why are friendly people so disarming? why do i get so uptight when someone tries to chat with me? i can easily banter with a checkout person at Duane Reade or a waiter in a restaurant, but when it's unexpected—like in an elevator, or on a train, or at the gym—i'm just pathetically, painfully shy and awkward.

and i honestly have no idea why, though it's been a lifelong affliction.

i can't even tell you how many times people who became my friends said they originally thought i was a bitch or a snob. they mistook my social awkwardness for silent judgment or something. which, if you know me, is a little crazy. and most of the time, i don't even realize that i'm not smiling or seeming open or friendly. my shyness seeps through my face, apparently. when i'm nervous or unsure of what to say, it looks like i'm just unpleasant or unhappy.

so awful.

many years ago my Gram told me she wished people smiled more. she said around her office the new, younger people were so unfriendly—a stark contrast to how it was with the old schoolers. "you should smile and say hello to everyone," she told me. this was right before i started my first job out of college and i decided she was right, so i gave it a shot—i remember so clearly walking down a hallway at Seventeen my first week there and smiling at a few people who passed by.

i'm not even kidding—they gave me dirty looks in exchange.

this could have had everything to do with the fact that i looked like a dork in my new Old Navy wardrobe (my entire magazine experience was very Ugly Betty) and came off entirely too eager and earnest and they had no idea what to make of me. or perhaps it was just cooler to be bitchy. either way, i abandoned my Smile At Everyone plan real quick.

but now i'd like to resurrect it. even before today i'd been thinking i should work on my friendliness. i want to be more like Samantha from the elevator. it just seems a nicer way to go through life.

mbm

when less is more...

the other week i was flipping through the latest issue of O on the way to work and came across a review for a book called Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough. the title caught my eye so i kept reading. according to the review, the author—Lori Gottlieb—wrote an article of the same name for The Atlantic Monthly two years ago and it drew such a spirited response that she turned it into a whole book—the newest option on the Self-Help/Relationships shelf at Borders.

when i got to work that day, i searched for the original article online. it's still on the Atlantic website (here) and i was hooked by the end of the first paragraph. Gottlieb wrote honestly and compellingly about her situation—a single mother by choice (by sperm donor, specifically) or perhaps because she had no other choice. she had spent her youth waiting for her perfect mate, discarding perfectly nice and amenable fellas, thinking that Mr. Right was right around the corner.

he wasn't. and the ticking of her biological clock grew ever louder. she thought she'd be fine raising a child solo, but now wishes she had a typical, traditional family. a partner with whom to share child-rearing joys and frustrations. she thinks about all the "rejects" she let go and believes she'd be happier today if she'd settled.

at least she wouldn't be alone.

she wrote the article to encourage women around the age of 30 or younger to stop searching for perfection in a mate—it doesn't exist. and the longer women wait, the less chance they have of finding anyone.

i sent a link to the article to six friends—most of whom are single—thinking that if i had missed the hubbub two years ago when it was first published (apparently Gottlieb made an appearance on the Today show back then to answer criticism pouring in for taking such a non-feminist stance) perhaps they had as well.

and, as it turned out, five of them had. and 90 percent of them wrote back, "god, that was depressing."

it wasn't my intention to depress them, obviously. in fact, i was hoping for the opposite. granted, if i had read the article five (or even two) years ago, i might have had the same reaction. but being on the other side of things now for two-plus months, i have a completely different perspective. for instance, i found myself nodding and smiling at two passages in particular: 

first: "Marriage isn’t a passion-fest; it’s more like a partnership formed to run a very small, mundane, and often boring nonprofit business. And I mean this in a good way."

[i'm still new, but i can see this being very accurate.]

and then this: "It’s not that I’ve become jaded to the point that I don’t believe in, or even crave, romantic connection. It’s that my understanding of it has changed. In my formative years, romance was John Cusack and Ione Skye in Say Anything. But when I think about marriage nowadays, my role models are the television characters Will and Grace, who, though Will was gay and his relationship with Grace was platonic, were one of the most romantic couples I can think of. What I long for in a marriage is that sense of having a partner in crime. Someone who knows your day-to-day trivia. Someone who both calls you on your bullshit and puts up with your quirks."

[yes, yes, yes!]

in my opinion, the most important message in the article—and, presumably, the book—is that most women hold themselves to such ridiculously high standards and project those same standards onto every potential mate they meet. as if a guy with a degree from anything other than an Ivy League (or no degree at all!), or with more hair on his chest than on his head, or who can name every Super Bowl winner but nothing written by Dostoyevsky, is a direct (and unflattering) reflection on themselves.

meanwhile, no human man could possibly live up to such expectations. no one can be everything, and if a guy seems like he is, he's probably lying, covering up something a helluva lot more awful than a nail-biting habit or a Star Trek action figure collection.

and, hey, let's not forget—the same applies to us gals. we aren't now and never will be perfect. we exhaust ourselves trying to be, and it gets us nowhere. and, in the process, we drive our significant others crazy.

we have some annoying habits, too. we do.

bottom line: though i haven't read the book, i'm thinking Marry Him is not about settling for less than you deserve. it's about re-thinking what's most important in the grand scheme of things. it's about looking ahead, planning for the long haul rather than right now. do you want a Ken doll or a true partner? do you want a pristine model with six-pack abs or a best-friend-for-life who actually finds you sexier when you gain five pounds? do you want George Clooney or someone who will actually be there to change a diaper at three in the morning?

ok, yeah. that last one's a little tougher. but you know what i mean.

mbm

bureaucracy at work

i spent all of January meaning to get to the Social Security office to obtain a new card with my married name—the first step in the arduous process of letting the world know i'm a Mrs. the office in Brooklyn is not especially easy to get to from where i live—walking is the easiest way, and it's about two miles. most January mornings were frigid and i found enough excuses not to do it.

but last night i decided i'd wasted enough time. new month, new attitude. i was determined to go.

the walk was definitely chilly, but i kept a good pace (3.6 mph, according to the pedometer on my iPhone) and it wasn't so bad taking an early morning walk in the bright sun with Shawn Colvin to keep me company on my iPod.

i arrived at the Social Security building to see a fairly long line stretching from the door half a block to the corner. inwardly i groaned and almost turned around to head to the subway—i hadn't expected a Manhattan-esque line and wasn't prepared to invest that much time on a workday morning.

but i decided to give it five minutes, see how it moved. about two minutes later, a security guard approached a young-ish guy in front of me and asked why he was there. the guy said, "i just need a new card." the guard told him he didn't have to wait, he could enter through the first door on his left. i looked at the security guard and said, "same!" and made a beeline for the door.

"thank god," i said to the guy in front of me, who laughed. this is actually going to work! i thought. it might even be easy!

HA.

just inside the door was a security checkpoint. the young-ish guy went first. he had to take off his coat, remove his belt and put both, along with his briefcase, through the x-ray machine. as he was going through this rigmarole i noticed a sign on the metal detector indicating items prohibited from entering the building. it was the usual—knives, box cutters, alcohol. there was also a second sign: absolutely no food or beverages allowed. this made me happy i hadn't stopped for the coffee i'd desperately wanted, but i did briefly consider the apple, container of almonds and Luna bar in my bag. surely they can't mean that, i told myself.

HA.

i turned my attention back to the young-ish guy, who was opening his briefcase for the guard, showing him the scissors that were in a sleek-looking pencil case inside. perhaps he was an architect, or a graphic designer. he probably needed those tools for work. but the guard was saying he could not under any circumstances enter the building with those on his person. also contraband: the sandwich he had in a plastic baggie secured with a twist tie.

that didn't bode well for me, but i hoped for the best. (perhaps it was the twist tie that was offensive.) as the young-ish guy discussed his options with the x-ray machine operator, i was told to put all my stuff on the conveyor belt and walk through the metal detector. i passed through without incident, but—dang it—my apple and almonds and Luna bar aroused the suspicions of the security team.

"you have to throw these out," the one guard told me, peering into my brown paper bag.

i said, "seriously?"

"yes. not allowed. throw them out."

"but almonds are expensive!" i tried. (hey—a 9.5 ounce container of raw almonds from Trader Joe's is $4.99. it's not cheap to eat healthfully.)

meanwhile, the young-ish guy was telling the guard to get rid of his sandwich. "just take it," he said, handing it over, and the guard dropped the perfectly good sandwich in the wastebasket. he also took the guy's scissors and dumped them in a plastic bin.

"will i get those back after i'm done?" the guy asked. the guard shook his head.

"those were really good scissors," the guy muttered to me.

"can i leave my food out here?" i asked the guards.

"yes, you can leave it on the street."

"like, ON the actual street? on the sidewalk?"

"yes. that's the only option."

before i could explain to them the ludicrousness of that plan, the guard who was still searching my bag came across my half-full eco-friendly imitation SIGG water bottle. 

"is this water?" he asked me, shaking the bottle and something swish about. fearing he was going to take the bottle away from me, i said, "yes, but i can dump it out."

"no, no. water's allowed."

all right. let's regroup here for a second. my see-through plastic container of almonds, my Gala apple with the sticker still on it and my Luna breakfast bar for women—no good. my opaque, stainless steel bottle designed to hold liquids—perfectly OK.

i could've had anything in that bottle! flammables, poison, vodka, a rolled-up missive from Osama Bin Laden. the guard didn't even open it up, didn't make me take a sip from it (as i once had to do at Yankee Stadium) to prove its contents.

"can i just ask why?" i said to the guard. "what is the logic behind prohibiting food like this?"

"we don't make the rules," he told me, not unkindly. "it's Homeland Security."

ahh. of course. who else would be behind this but the department that oversees the TSA, which allowed a man with a bomb in his underpants aboard an international flight six weeks ago? that they screw up. but me—armed with nothing more than almonds and a desire to complete the process of legally becoming someone's wife—i have to give up my non-explosive organic sustenance.

a guard told me i could leave my food with the coffee cart operator across the street—he'd watch my stuff for me until i was done getting my new card.

"umm, yeah. i think i'll just come back tomorrow," i said.

i left the poor, scissor-and-sandwich-less young-ish guy at the security checkpoint and got the hell out of dodge. two hours later i'm still perplexed by the experience. people are allowed on airplanes with food. but not inside the Social Security office. right.

anyway, i'm going back tomorrow—i'm determined to cross this off my to-do list!—and i won't bring any food with me. but i think i may fill my water bottle with wine. just to mess with 'em.

mbm