Working It Out…Sorta

My friend R. and I have made a pact to get (back in) shape this summer.  It’s not that we’re total slogs but we both have, for various reasons, experienced, well, a bit of slippage.  We’re not talking about getting Kate Moss skinny (not in the realm of possibility) but just back to where we were – both in terms of fitness levels and yeah, weight (okay, it’s only about five pounds but still).  Here’s the thing: we both used to work out – a lot.  It’s always helped my head as much as my body.  And I have written and edited my fair share of stories on the topic.  BUT  the last year has been kind of minimal so, because we are not ready to give up just yet…

In the past week I have done yoga, a body sculpting class, a step class (haven’t done that in 15 years, was getting serious flashbacks) and a ‘core fusion’ class – tiny little moves that absolutely kill.  I have been told never to use more than 3 pound weights but do lots of reps, I have been told that unless you use 5 – 8 pounds you will never see a change.  I have tried to love Pilates (eh) and I have done everything I can to avoid cardio (I know, I know.) R. and I have vowed to keep food diaries and cut out wine.  (Of course, we discussed this last night after class with, yes, rosé and Sancerre.)  I have bought date books and notebooks and made lists and goals (what can I say, I still believe a new notebook is a fresh start for virtually anything in life.) It’s fun to be doing it together.  It helps to have to report in – and screw off with a pal. And I’m welcoming your in-put.  Here’s R’s question from last night: She weighed herself 3 times in a row and got 3 different weights just by moving the scale an inch.  Which should she believe? (I vote for the lowest.)

PS I have exercise ADD so will try lots of new classes/theories/workouts this summer.  What are you loving at the moment?

The Godfather/NYC PREP/Gossip Girl Connection

Rumor has it that John Gotti and his buddies used to watch the Godfather movies and model their behavior on the mobsters portrayed – who were, of course, supposedly modeled on real-life mobsters. Whatever was once a true portrayal was rendered irrelevant by the funhouse mirror of images endlessly distorted, growing more exaggerated with each reflection.

Which brings me (go with me here)  to the NYC Prep, the new (supposed) reality TV show.  The performers (for I cannot help but believe they are playing to the camera, acting in ways they think will live up to type, or at least the type they have seen in Gossip Girl) drink, hop into bed and spend, spend, spend in the most gratuitous and, let’s face it, obscene manner.  It is a world of rich sixteen year olds swilling martinis and backstabbing with manicured nails.)  But who are they reflecting, really?  The image they have seen of themselves portrayed in that fine example of cinema verité, Gossip Girl? And where does that leave real teens, feeling that they  have to live up to these caricatures that are supposedly modeled on them?

I happen to have a 15-year-old daughter who attends an Upper East Side private school (though not,  thank God, one represented in this particular artistic outing).  Whenever I watch Gossip Girl with her, I repeatedly offer up an unwanted Greek chorus along the lines of, You know you can’t really walk into a bar and order a cocktail, right? You know oral sex is sex, right? (Okay, yeah, I’m sounding old and cranky.  But shouldn’t teens at least have to hide their drinking and carousing?)  My daughter, of course, rolls her eyes and tells me to please be quiet while Serena is talking. Which I do, secretly hooked as much as I am repulsed.

In more serious moments, my daughter insists that she knows the show is fiction, and that she and her friends obviously don’t act this way.   (What, no limo with a wet bar?)

And yet.  Her  most recent letter from camp included the plea,  “Will you please record NYC Prep? Everyone is very excited about it.”    My reply, You know you can’t walk into a bar and order a cocktail, right? You know oral sex is sex, right?

Dreams of My Father

I realize I am (really) late to the party on this one, but I just finished reading Barack Obama’s autobiographical book, Dreams of My Father.  It’s incredibly well-written, reflective and fascinating.  (Note: I’m going to stay away from politics here.)  Aside from the themes of growing up with the influence of various cultures and races (and how that can leave you belonging nowhere and everywhere) it is, most of all, an examination of the effects of growing up fatherless, the longing and doubts, the fantasies and resentments this can elicit.

Perhaps one of the reasons I was so drawn to this is that my own daughter has been without a father since she was six, and my late husband’s father abandoned him when he was two.  The two circumstances (and their effects) were quite different even if the end result is the same.  My husband’s mother was an unwed teenager when she became pregnant.  Her partner in crime married someone else months after she gave birth and my husband never knew his father.  I remember when we first married and had a child, he told me he had no real idea what a family was or how a father should act.  He literally had no road map to follow – and had decided tendency to mistrust fathers in general.  (In fact, he turned out to be quite good at it.)

Nine years after he died, our daughter is a happy, well-adjusted 15-year-old.  Though of course she went through a very rough time when her father died, she came out the other end, in part because she knew he had loved her.  I recently asked her if she missed having a father and she said that she did wonder what it would be like but that she was “happy with us.”   She, too, will have to discover her own road map.  Of course, in this day and age, so many of us have to create our own families.

Children, as the Dreams of My Father and Obama’s amazing journey make clear, are incredibly resilient.  And patterns can be broken.  And some sense of peace with the past can be found.  I’ll stop rambling.  All I can say is, read the book.  If nothing else, you will come away with a greater appreciation of all the different forms that families can take.

Who has your number?

Your weight.  Your finances.  Your Age.  And then, of course, there’s sex.                    Is there any single person you tell the truth to about all of those things?

I don’t.  I had an aunt who used to make a very public guess about my weight every single time I saw her…with, let me add, startling accuracy.  (Perverse, yes, but welcome to my family.)   My mother, on the other hand, (who is equally weight-obsessed but doesn’t ask numbers) finds it incomprehensible (and mildly annoying) that I consider my income and general financial situation private.  She does, of course, know my age.  But am I honest about my age with everyone? Naw, I consider that on a need-to-know basis.    I was married for ten years.  My husband knew my (our) money deal, my age, sex stuff (duh) – but in all that time he never new my weight.  My point here?  (And no, it’s not that I’m a pathological liar.)  Most of us keep some information private.  What we choose not to share says a lot about ourselves, our self-image, our relationships.   I do wonder sometimes what would happen if we were totally honest about each of those things with everyone. (Okay, yes, I’m talking about myself here. Maybe some of you are already at that point.)  Would it be liberating?  Or would is it still no one’s business?  Does it matter?    Do you share all your numbers?  If not, why not?

Dating Dilemma: Sparks or Steadiness?

Dating doesn’t get any less confusing whether you are 17 or 70. On the new More.com webiste, I’m doing a weekly blog about relationships (God help me.) In my first one, I’m wondering about the dilemma between choosing a safe, steady relationship without any sparks, or holding out for one that makes your fibers tingle. Here’s the first part of In Search of the MIssing Tingle, but click through to read the whole piece – (and while you’re there check out some of the other great stories

In Search of the Missing Tingle
by Emily Listfield Guest Writer {View Profile}

My friend G. is in her late forties, beautiful in a tall, terrifically elegant born-to-it kind of way. (Think long legs, long blond hair.) We have both been single for a number of years after lengthy marriages (she’s divorced, I’m widowed) and have completely different dating styles. G. has not been on a date in years. At various times she has told me she’s:

A) glad that part of her life is over because it only got her in trouble in the past.

B) concentrating on raising her daughter.

C) doesn’t even miss it anymore.

D) It’s just so hopeless, why bother?

I, on the other hand, go on a lot of dates (many of them blinder than blind). The result, though, is the same– neither of us has been in a serious relationship in a few years. So when G. called up the other day to tell me she had a date that night with someone she had met through her job I was thrilled for her. “I hate this,” she protested. “I feel like throwing up. What if it’s a disaster?” “No matter what happens, it’s a good thing,” I replied. “It means the nerve isn’t dead.”