As a result of a variety of recent stresses, including a bout of bronchitis, I opted for a solo Christmas this year at Canyon Ranch in Miami Beach, Florida.
I was so excited at the heightened sense of well being waiting for me in Miami that on the day of my departure I moved my flight up from 7pm to 4pm.
Upon arrival I couldn't ignore my disappointment. The other Ranchers looked suspiciously like me, average and aging. I was anticipating spectacularly fit folks who would shame me into taking better care of myself. Determined to make this a life-altering experience, however, I pushed the negative thoughts away. Tomorrow I would attend all sorts of soul-transforming classes, including yoga, pilates and something called Buff Ballet Booty.
I woke up the next day eager to start my new life. I sauntered down to breakfast and ordered some banana bread. The micro-serving was quickly obscured by a sugar (organic) wrapper I'd discarded, so I politely summoned my waiter to ask when my bread would arrive. He pointed out that my bread was in fact there, all 160 calories of it. Wow, that's breakfast? No time to fuss-mustn't be late for pilates.
Having taken a pilates class only once before, I am no expert but it certainly didn't leave me with any hope that I was firming the amorphous zone of flesh that had gathered around my midriff in the last few years.
As I left my pilates class and passed the pool, I overheard a teenager asking an instructor whether he knew any Burdenko* instructors in St. Louis. A light went off. This is a paradise for those who aren't already spoiled by NYC, which has one of the most diverse proliferation of "fusion" classes in the world. You want Yogilates with a Capoeira* influence taught in an Bikram* temperature studio? You can find it in NYC.
After pilates, I tried Vinyhasa yoga. I've long been fascinated with the tyrannical influence of yoga in America, forcing shame on anyone who can't touch their right toe to their left ear. I wasn't sure I saw the point but I dutifully did my warrior pose, the downward facing dog and the half moon. I disobeyed my instructor's command to heighten my sense of self-awareness, instead staring at the ocean, wondering with which children the Dr. Seuss books I had donated had wound up (would Green Eggs and Ham change their life as it had changed mine?).
We closed with "namaste".* I was supposed to feel enlightened but I was depressed I could no longer wrap my left leg around my right ear like I one could.
After I stopped in the grill room for a "proper lunch" of seared scallops and salad. According to the menu, which meticulously lists calorie and protein content for each dish, this was a 170 calorie lunch, roughly 10 calories per dollar.
I was so satisfied that I put my fork down, fled the compound to the nearest grocers and bought some cheddar cheese, rice krispy treats and diet coke. Finally, I was beginning to feel that rush of "elevation" yoga was meant to evoke. With a blissful buzz from the diet coke working its toxins into my body, I cuddled up in a chair under the sun with Andre Agassi. I had picked up his autobiography (finally available in paperback for non-Kindle folk), "Open," in the airport and we'd been inseparable since JFK.
Slowly, I was changing my Type A game plan. I had planned a spiritual boot camp for myself only to realize I could do this in NYC even more easily. What I could not do in NYC was read on the beach or run up a tab at The Delano Hotel.
And so, on Christmas day, I implemented Plan B. It was beginning to feel a lot like Christmas . . .
I spent the entire morning in bed with Agassi, rapt and inspired. When I was too hungry to read about the dissolution of Andre's marriage to Brooke Shields, I headed straight for the nearest Cuban restaurant and ordered something called "Sazon Ruedas de Serruco," fried filet of kingfish. Calories? Too many to count. Cost? About one third of what I was paying for lettuce leaves back at the Ranch.
Later I went for a run. What a change of scenery. The endless blue and green Ocean. Feral cats darting in front of me, breaking my stride. Carts of empty soda cans being pushed by cheery homeless men who, strangely, looked more fulfilled than most of my fellow Ranchers. It was welcome chaos after the excessive order of The Ranch.
By 8pm, I was ready for The Delano. Off with the spa pants and on with the Levis . . . It was time to really "be present."
Each person shapes his or her own path to spiritual satisfaction. As it turns out, my path does not involve denial, counting calories or focusing on my self. It involves festive Cuban restaurants dripping with grease and cheer, making small talk with strangers at The Delano, downing oversized gin and tonics poolside and making drunken calls to friends and family.
Merry Christmas and Happy Boxing Day
Penelope
Notes
*Burdenko is a water workout designed by Igor Burdenko that emphasizes balance, coordination, flexibility, endurance, speed and strength. What happened to just jumping in and splashing around?
*Capoeira is an Afro-Brazilian art form that combines elements of martial arts, music and dance.
*Bikram is a style of yoga practiced in a heated studio.
*Namaste, typically said while bowing, derives from the Hindi for "let there be a salutation to you." It is typically pronounced by both the instructor and student at the end of a yoga session, often to the complete befuddlement of a yoga neophyte.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
The Joy of Being Dumped
It’s not winter yet but, for single people, socially, winter is already here. Winter for a single person has nothing to do with temperature and snow, although the lack of sun light can certainly aggravate the harsh climate.
Winter is that hopelessly long stretch of weeks (which feels like 70+ weeks, even if the calendar claims it’s shorter) when the days end early, drinking begins early and the absence of a significant other is felt so much more acutely.
No one with whom to share the burden of social “opportunity”—the endless string of holiday parties at which you pretend to be upbeat (must be polite, for the sake of your hosts) as it becomes painfully obvious that you will spend another New Year’s eve, another Martin Luther King weekend, and another Presidents’ Day weekend by yourself.
My readers may have noticed that this time last week I was not single. That’s right, Penelope was dumped, just in time for the holiday season. Excellent timing.
The phases of recovery from a break up generally parallel those following a death, although I would never pretend it is a loss of the same dimension. Based on what I’ve read, the stages involve denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
This is a daunting agenda, and based on past experiences I recognize I excel at depression but fall short when it comes to anger and/or acceptance. But I guess I better get to it unless I want to spend the rest of my life with a leopardcat who can’t stop urinating on the couch.
I once read The Power of Positive Thinking by Norman Vincent Peale so am hoping that if I manage the process effectively, there could even be significant benefits, including:
*Workaholism. An excessive focus on work is a common outlet for someone experiencing a romantic rupture. Having just experienced my lowest billable year ever, this sounds like a win-win for me. Let us just pray there is enough work to feed the sense of workaholism I hope to nurture in the coming months. I do notice that drafting documents and handling conference calls have seemed much more rewarding than sleeping or eating in the last 24 hours, so this is promising.
*Weight Loss. Clearly this is the season of weight gain. Yet, by timing my being dumped as judicially as I have, hopefully I will have created the perfect counterforce to weight gain—if I can just milk it long enough so I remain as depressed and uninterested in food as I have been in the last 36 hours. Based on my estimates, I should be able to lose all the weight I gained hanging out drinking and eating with the Naked Man, and maybe even more by New Year’s, which I will obviously be spending with the leopardcat dreaming of a different life.
*Financial Savings. One of the upsides of the depression that ensues from being dumped is that you’re far less likely to exceed your budget. This is because (1) you have no desire to go out and socialize, hence the restaurant and taxi bills goes way down and (2) you feel crappy about yourself so the last thing you’re going to do is go out and buy clothing—better to hide behind the frumpy look of your existing rags.
*Kitty Litter Replacement. One of the first tasks that seems to fall by the wayside when Penelope is happy and frivolous is changing the kitty litter. Now that there is no wind left in her sails, Penelope will have all the time in the world to focus on changing the kitty litter. In fact, maybe if she can combine this activity with the spirit of the first item above, she will become obsessive enough that she’ll arrive at work by 7am (having changed the kitty litter once already) and then run home at lunch to change the kitty litter again.
*Lower Golf Handicap. You may have discerned a thread in Penelope’s earlier communications, maybe not. She would very much like to be a better golfer but certain frivolities have distracted her from a greater calling. Now that the same question has been asked and answered for the umpteen millionth time (Question: Can I meet a guy interested in having a long term relationship with me? Answer: No), there’s not much sense in wasting time asking the question again. Time would be better spent focusing on things for which Penelope demonstrates less incompetence, not competence mind you, but less incompetence than in the interpersonal sphere. Far more rewarding would be an hour spent chipping than an hour spent showing kindness to someone who is likely to slap you in the face.
As I reassess the various net benefits of being dumped, I can’t understand why not everyone is writing Santa begging to be dumped for Christmas.
Happy Holidays.
Penelope
Winter is that hopelessly long stretch of weeks (which feels like 70+ weeks, even if the calendar claims it’s shorter) when the days end early, drinking begins early and the absence of a significant other is felt so much more acutely.
No one with whom to share the burden of social “opportunity”—the endless string of holiday parties at which you pretend to be upbeat (must be polite, for the sake of your hosts) as it becomes painfully obvious that you will spend another New Year’s eve, another Martin Luther King weekend, and another Presidents’ Day weekend by yourself.
My readers may have noticed that this time last week I was not single. That’s right, Penelope was dumped, just in time for the holiday season. Excellent timing.
The phases of recovery from a break up generally parallel those following a death, although I would never pretend it is a loss of the same dimension. Based on what I’ve read, the stages involve denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
This is a daunting agenda, and based on past experiences I recognize I excel at depression but fall short when it comes to anger and/or acceptance. But I guess I better get to it unless I want to spend the rest of my life with a leopardcat who can’t stop urinating on the couch.
I once read The Power of Positive Thinking by Norman Vincent Peale so am hoping that if I manage the process effectively, there could even be significant benefits, including:
*Workaholism. An excessive focus on work is a common outlet for someone experiencing a romantic rupture. Having just experienced my lowest billable year ever, this sounds like a win-win for me. Let us just pray there is enough work to feed the sense of workaholism I hope to nurture in the coming months. I do notice that drafting documents and handling conference calls have seemed much more rewarding than sleeping or eating in the last 24 hours, so this is promising.
*Weight Loss. Clearly this is the season of weight gain. Yet, by timing my being dumped as judicially as I have, hopefully I will have created the perfect counterforce to weight gain—if I can just milk it long enough so I remain as depressed and uninterested in food as I have been in the last 36 hours. Based on my estimates, I should be able to lose all the weight I gained hanging out drinking and eating with the Naked Man, and maybe even more by New Year’s, which I will obviously be spending with the leopardcat dreaming of a different life.
*Financial Savings. One of the upsides of the depression that ensues from being dumped is that you’re far less likely to exceed your budget. This is because (1) you have no desire to go out and socialize, hence the restaurant and taxi bills goes way down and (2) you feel crappy about yourself so the last thing you’re going to do is go out and buy clothing—better to hide behind the frumpy look of your existing rags.
*Kitty Litter Replacement. One of the first tasks that seems to fall by the wayside when Penelope is happy and frivolous is changing the kitty litter. Now that there is no wind left in her sails, Penelope will have all the time in the world to focus on changing the kitty litter. In fact, maybe if she can combine this activity with the spirit of the first item above, she will become obsessive enough that she’ll arrive at work by 7am (having changed the kitty litter once already) and then run home at lunch to change the kitty litter again.
*Lower Golf Handicap. You may have discerned a thread in Penelope’s earlier communications, maybe not. She would very much like to be a better golfer but certain frivolities have distracted her from a greater calling. Now that the same question has been asked and answered for the umpteen millionth time (Question: Can I meet a guy interested in having a long term relationship with me? Answer: No), there’s not much sense in wasting time asking the question again. Time would be better spent focusing on things for which Penelope demonstrates less incompetence, not competence mind you, but less incompetence than in the interpersonal sphere. Far more rewarding would be an hour spent chipping than an hour spent showing kindness to someone who is likely to slap you in the face.
As I reassess the various net benefits of being dumped, I can’t understand why not everyone is writing Santa begging to be dumped for Christmas.
Happy Holidays.
Penelope
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