Christmas at Canyon Ranch

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.

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

The Case of Priscilla Worthington

I would like to share with you a recent NYC-based dating episode involving a good friend of Penelope’s (not a disguise for Penelope, I swear). This case study is based on the last five months in the dating life of Priscilla Worthington, a good friend of Penelope’s.

I met Priscilla’s new “man” (just wait, you'll see why I question his manhood) a couple of months into their relationship. Let’s call him Mr. Private Equity. He hails from a posh ‘hood in Newport, Rhode Island and collected a degree from HBS along the way (the mention of which, ten years ago, would have impressed me, but now comes across like an admission of HIV+ status).

So, I met Mr. Private Equity randomly when he showed up to collect Priscilla from an impromptu soiree we were enjoying with the Naked Man and another friend at Smith & Wollensky’s, the capitol of steak and testosterone in NYC. Private Equity seemed ill at ease in the environment and hid a bit behind Priscilla’s skirt. I didn’t want to tell her my initial impressions but I suspected Private Equity would have to break up with himself first before he could date anyone seriously, much less Priscilla, a tall Eastern European head turner with a wicked long drive on the golf course.

I held my tongue, recognizing that Penelope is not exactly a role model for healthy or long-term relationships (unless two months counts as “long term,” which sadly it may in NYC, the city of transient emotions and commitments).

I watched and I listened. The courtship progressed. Although he did not golf, he was an avid runner so he was at least health-oriented. Plus, they shared a love of the theater and they had already booked a New Year’s vacation to the Dominican Republic (before any incidence of cholera had been reported).

But then there was the evening we met for a shopping session at Bergdorf’s so she could shop for a “break up dress.” Some of you may be unfamiliar with the term, but a break up dress is the classy yet sexy dress one wears when one suspects one may be on the precipice of a break up. The theory is that he will see what he thinks he is about to discard, begin to drool, lose all sense of reason, be overwhelmed with torrid images of removing the dress and invite her away for a romantic weekend instead of breaking up with her. The ability of a female to cloud a man’s judgment has long been one of the most significant factors in the perpetuation of the human species, trust me.

Then there were more troubling signs: the weekend he disappeared to Alaska for a funeral, followed a few days later by another trip out West for a memorial service during which he remained incommunicado throughout; and his inability to hold his liquor (actually, any liquor). What was emerging was a stark pattern of incompatibility.

Yet it was still a surprise when at the tail end of a girls’ weekend in Palm Beach Mr. Private Equity and Priscilla broke up.

First there was the abrupt email. He sent her a scathingly critical email as we sat at a bar waiting to board our flight back to NYC. I was so stunned when she relayed the contents that I forgot to pay the bill. Fortunately, ten minutes after boarding, JetBlue re-opened the closed gate, delayed our departure and encouraged me to deplane so I could pay the bill (I really hope that $12 in revenue keeps that bar afloat).

One of the many complaints Private Equity leveled was that Priscilla had not given sufficient prior notice of our intended plans to grab a burger at our favorite burger joint upon returning from FL that evening. Not only was he horrified and appalled by the blatant spontaneity of the burger scheme, but he was truly disgusted by her suggestion that she would then meet up with him post-burger and post-wine. “Priscilla,” he responded “that sounds like a booty call.”

Wait, isn’t every American guy’s dream to have some chick call him up for a booty call? Am I missing something?

Despite his behavior, Ms. Worthington remained open-minded and agreed to meet up with Private Equity for dinner the following evening to sort out their misunderstandings. She planned her outfit carefully. Having worn the break up dress one too many times, she deliberately wore pants for this meeting—the denial of calves and flesh, the ultimate insult. I didn’t want to tell her, but she had been wearing the pants all the time, and had been the only one wearing pants.

It’s awful to be dumped, but to be dumped by a guy who is likely gay and constantly has relatives dying in Alaska is particularly harsh.

In retrospect the compromises Ms. Worthington made were too great, but when do we know where to draw the line between acceptable and unacceptable compromises? How do we navigate the grey area? None of us want to grow old alone so compromise seems like an obvious path forward, no? Maybe the fact he did not play golf was not grounds for immediate romantic dismissal, but short of non-negotiable behavior, like physical violence, how does one decide what is grounds for dismissal?

Penelope

Happy Thanksgiving

I'm sure you all noticed last week's Wall Street Journal article on the correlation between happiness and gratitude. Grateful people are happier people.

So, when I woke up this morning I immediately set to counting my blessings:

Today I am thankful for :

• The company and friendship of the Naked Man,

• A job in a challenging and fickle economy,

• A family in good health,

• A leopardcat that pees on the floor only in one part of the apartment but not every part,

• The fact that my house guest didn't think anything of the fact that I was too tired (arguably a euphemism for inebriated) to make it to my bed last night so slept fully clothed (with shoes on) on the pull out couch next to her,

• The country-wide insider trading investigation (which, frankly, is like Christmas arriving early for hedge fund lawyers), and

• All of Penelope's supporters and their comical and insightful responses to my "private blog"

Happy Thanksgiving from the Entire Editorial Staff of The Lunch Report

Penelope Frost, Editor in Chief

Naked Man Report: The Naked Muse?

I don't want to bore you with my tales of the Naked Man, but . . .

As it turns out, the Naked Man is also a muse, in the most unconventional sense. When we think about a muse, we usually think about a female sylph wandering around the moonlit woods at night, surfacing occasionally in a transparent pink gauze nightie with a pale cherub-like smile on her face.

My muse is not so easily marketable. He (yeah, that’s the first problem--they're always supposed to be “shes”, no?) would really put people off if I dressed him in a gauze nightie, no matter what the color. My muse wears a size large golf shirt, drinks like a fish and smokes like a chimney (although he swears this won't carry over to 2011).

How could anyone be inspired by such a booze muse? I'll tell you how. This muse defies every stereotype that has guided my bigoted existence for the last 20+ years.

The Naked Smoking Muse has the affection of a kitten (although he abhors cats, not pussy, just cats). The NSM worships Glenn Beck and his compatriots but will still show enough consideration to tear out an article on our Democratic Senator Gillibrand from the NY Post and pass it my way, even if he SOO disapproves of her.

The NSM will condemn 501(c)(3) organizations in general and their borderline fraudulent tax schemes, and then he'll bring you to a benefit for anal canine cancer in Bridgeport, CT, where the host of the benefit welcomes you to “God’s Country.” (Bridgeport, CT? Really? Makes that stable where Jesus was born look a little bit like the newest induction to the Small Luxury Hotel Collection).


My only regret is the same regret that anyone has about a muse. The muse remains an idea and an inspiration, but the muse is never a living, breathing or present human being who wants to keep you company. A muse materializes and disappears at opportune and inopportune moments, the disappearance always being the most powerful aspect of his or her existence. The muse is, and remains, an idea.

A naked muse? Why the question mark? Clearly there’s something great about the Naked Smoking Muse, but clearly, he doesn’t want to be a boyfriend or fill any similar conventional role. So Penelope has been searching for a place where NSM might feel comfortable and thrive. Let’s see:

1. Good friend? Yawn. My Siamese cat is a good friend. I can’t kiss a good friend (although I confess I have tried to kiss the Siamese when tipsy and she clawed my lips)—just won't work for Penelope and I suspect not for NSM.

2. FWB? Never, no, no, no, and no analysis needed.

3. Brother figure? Please see the response to 1.

4. Father figure? (A) Fathers don’t generally have children at age 11 and (B) please see response to question number 1.

5. Occasional Trysting. Guys fantasy. Chicks undoing/nightmare. I’ll pass.

6. Girlfriend/Boyfriend. Could work but there are serious perception issues. “Boyfriend” is perceived by the man not as a resting state, but as a transitional state before the chick nails him down, makes her pregnant and wrests all freedom, spontaneity and fun from his life. If that were my perception, trust me, I would run faster than he would (and not just because he has a bad knee). So, unless there’s some sort of marketing campaign launched to undo the distorted image of these roles, this won’t work either.

So, sigh, maybe this is why muses are transient presences in our lives, meant to peak for a few months, leave us crest fallen and then be replaced by a brand new muse (BNM). No BNM has surfaced so I am going to try hard to see what can be harvested from the NSM. I just can’t bear foregoing the Naked Muse altogether, not just yet. No, no, no.

Muses are creatures defined by their transiency. They leave. It’s the memory—and not the muse—that inspires, if not distracts us. There are no live in muses—as soon as they move in, they lose their muse-like inspirational powers as they overwhelm and bore use with their utterly trite permanence.
Penelope

Naked Man Report: Romancing The Philistine

Some of you will recall Penelope’s encounter with the Naked Man over a month ago.* By way of an update, Penelope and the Naked Man continue to share grilled cheese and pinot grigio from time to time.

Despite exemplary character traits such as opening doors, pulling out chairs and placing ice cubes in his white wine,* the Naked Man is a self-proclaimed philistine, a Naked Philistine.

How does a brash Ivy League brat who gets a high from deconstructionism and other literary theories date a philistine?

Dating a philistine means Penelope needs to find someone else with whom to see Swan Lake at City Center (which, as you well know, runs through November 7th). Why? Because all male dancers are gay and no heterosexual man wants to watch gay men flaunt their packages in sheer tights midtown on the West side, or so the Naked Philistine posits.

Dating a philistine means Proustian analogies are to be avoided and no mention of a madeleine should be made, even a trite reference used to describe some maudlin flash of nostalgia. Literary references should be limited to the NY Post and The Drudge Report. If it ain’t in one of those publications, then it’s not worth talking about (and who cares if you end a sentence with a preposition anyway).

What intrigues me though is why the Naked Philistine so adamantly and proudly claims the philistine title. Was this so I would be surprised and seduced by his sense of literary modesty when he quoted Shakespeare to me while downing sirloin at Smith & Wollensky? And by the way, does a true philistine even know the word philistine?!

Was this so I would be stripped (figuratively, please) of any respect associated with having achieved, at least on paper, an education and be made to understand that a girl who works at Hooters is on a level playing field with me from the perspective of the Naked Philistine? Actually, she's probably on a higher plane than I am, because at least she knows how to market herself, which may be critical from the Naked Philistine's perspective—the ability to translate talent into cash or some other equally laudable commodity.

What's the great shame with liking books and art, if not preferring them most of the time to the drudge of corporate achievement? Is it that it can’t be quantified (except, of course, by certain hedge fund managers who frequent Christies and Sothebys)?* Perhaps naively, I thought the best in life could not be quantified: a warm smile on a gray day, a well-timed hug, a joke that jolts you from a depressive torpor.

The Naked Philistine devours newspapers, as many as possible, every morning, often as early as 4:50am. Maybe he chooses this uncivilized hour in an effort to hide his thirst for knowledge and his fascination with politics from the light of day.

Who knows why he holds the arts in such disdain. Maybe he scorns the false superiority of those who aspire to “intellect.” But that’s conflating two important notions. Enjoying the arts is radically different from pretending to some form of artistic expertise and judging others for a supposed lack of it, both of which Penelope abhors.

As disappointed as Penelope is that the Naked Philistine doesn't want to see Swan Lake (“ballet no way,” he said—at least he rhymed), she remains open to what she can learn from the Naked Philistine on topics and techniques of which she is completely ignorant. Maybe it’s all part of the opposites attract or complement each other theory.

In any event, at least for the present, and based on an application of a broad selection of psycho-social-emotional theories, Penelope has decided that philistinism is not in fact a tragic flaw (with apologies to the reference to Greek dramaturgy). He may well have fatal flaws—maybe she will discover one tonight—but this is not the one.

Notes

*See “Beware the Naked Man,” http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2010/10/beware-naked-man.html

*I respect people who thumb their noses at extraneous etiquette. There are so many good reasons to put ice in your white wine, not the least of which is that I can drink as slowly as I like and it will remain chilled.

*Although some dispute whether hedge fund managers drive the prices at auctions houses, hedge fund managers Kenneth Griffin and Steven Cohen have been among the top 10 art buyers in the last year. http://www.bloomberg.com/apps/news?pid=newsarchive&sid=a91lHt5PmIQ8&refer=muse

Beware the Naked Man

Below is an instructional anecdote that forms part of Penelope’s multi-series publication on dating for grown ups.

Anyone who finds himself or herself still dating after age 40 is probably suffering from an excess of guidance, often unsolicited, on the rules of dating and, its kissing cousin, mating.

There are so many rules to bear in mind: don’t kiss him on the first date; don’t accept a Friday date unless he calls by Tuesday; don’t sleep with someone unless you’ve been seeing each other at least twice a week for three weeks . . .

Even if you could manage to keep all these directives straight in your mind, for each of those rules, you undoubtedly know someone who represents the exception to the rule. The friend who kissed him on the first date, canceled her Friday plans to meet him and suffered absolutely no adverse relationship consequences as a result. In fact she may even be living happily with him now (or at least successfully projecting the image of a happy existence, which for some is just as important).

Despite all of these guidelines and their myriad exceptions, I have remained completely confident about certain core truths. For example, a guy that invites himself to your place and then immediately, without invitation, disrobes is definitely bad news (a.k.a. a dog who wants one thing, and one thing only) . . . or is he?

Penelope found herself in an untoward situation a bit over a month ago. Having stayed very late at a party in Westchester, she was running up against her Cinderella-Takes-Metro-North deadline. The last train back to NYC was leaving in 40 minutes.

Faced with the prospect of asking a drunken friend to drive her to the train station and missing one of the most stunning displays of amateur DJ-ing mixed with middle-aged break-dancing she’d ever seen (or did he just fall and stumble?), Penelope accepted an alternative arrangement proposed by her “date” for that evening.*

Penelope would stay in the room my date had reserved, and he would stay at a hotel nearby. She was reassured by the offer so decided to relax, have multiple nightcaps and take in the music and company.

Not long thereafter, Penelope could be seen wearing an orange tablecloth as a burka and refusing any offers for additional cocktails because, as she pointed out, it was still Ramadan and she should not be drinking.*

What followed should be one big bold “Don’t” for any dating adult. Aware that her date probably should not be driving and persuaded by a female acquaintance that he was a very respectable guy and should not be banished to a cheap hotel, Penelope permitted inter-gender sharing of personal space after midnight. After all, she rationalized, there were two beds in an uncommonly large room.

No sooner had she entered the room with her date than he stripped off every piece of clothing, offering only “We’re both adults” as explanation for his behavior.

As you can imagine, after a furtive glance at some rather exceptional features (not all men are created equal), Penelope immediately averted her eyes and contemplated the true horror of her situation.

If she didn’t like him or want to share mixed-gender time with him again, then the blatant nudity was a heinous and offensive gesture. If she did anticipate seeing him again, then surely his nudist display was insulting proof that he would never share the same instinct and was simply a randy man on the prowl in Westchester (much like the coyote population that has been migrating from CT to Westchester in recent years). Tails Penelope lost and head he won.

Responding to her confused instincts, Penelope did what any self-respecting woman would do. She grabbed the closest object within reach and hurled it at him, successfully shattering a wine glass along the way. With a threatening barrier of glass shards between them, Penelope would be protected until she had gotten some shut eye and sobered up enough to address the situation with aplomb.

That was over a month ago. Dare I say that Penelope could be wrong? The rogue nudist has in fact behaved like a male lion protecting his mate, hunting down valued resources for her late at night (such as grilled cheese and pinot grigio). Maybe this is an extended project of deception that could be carried off only by a sly NYC fox. Maybe Penelope has slipped into another Pollyanna delusion about some mortal male with nothing but exceedingly terrestrial and banal instincts for her. In any event, you can be sure she will let you know, one way or the other.

Notes
* Note that dates may sometimes be identified only in retrospect and Penelope was unaware that evening that this mixed-gender sharing of time was in fact a date until so informed the next day by a third party observer.

* Silly Penelope. If she would take the time to educate herself about religion, she would know that Islam prohibits the consumption of alcohol at any time and not just during its holiest month of fasting, Ramadan

Welcome to Penelope's Cult

Literary critics who have focused on the role of The Lunch Report in post-post-modern American literature have focused primarily on Penelope’s sense of job dissatisfaction and related social disassociation.

It’s true, my sense of job satisfaction has been well below 100% and often well below 30%. So much so that I have been considering joining a cult to give myself a clearer sense of purpose.

I used to think people who joined cults were troubled people with problematic relationships with authority. But as I look back, I know that once upon a time I had secretly hoped that corporate law would become my cult and give me a sense of identity and acceptance. Now that I realize that corporate law is more likely to rob me of my identity, joining a cult has resurfaced as a viable option.

I abruptly mentioned the idea to a friend over lunch the other day. No sooner had we sat down for lunch then I blurted out “I’m going to join a cult.” Without a pause, he pointed out that I could never join someone else’s cult. For the same reason that I find the culture of a corporate law firm stifling, he explained, I would feel just as stymied in someone else’s cult. He reasoned that I’m just not a follower. Instead he suggested I found my own cult.

Brilliant! Of course he was right. No wonder I’ve been frustrated. I was too busy looking for the perfect corporate cult to join when I should have been creating my own. I had even been urged by a self-proclaimed corporate law cult-leader when I joined my last job that I needed to create a following and solicit worshippers (yup, he used that word) among associates who worked with me.

So many legends in the corporate world have succeeded as a result of cult images they’d developed and perpetuated: PIMCO, the mutual fund cult founded by Bill Gross;* KKR, the leveraged buyout cult, originally founded by Jerry Kohlberg before he was ousted by his own follower, Henry Kravis; and of course there was the Greenspan cult, which lasted long after Alan's reign at The US Treasury. I would be remiss not to mention the Madoff Cult, which ended tragically in a Jonestown-style financial massacre, but I prefer to focus on the more successful examples.

I was inspired with a new sense of purpose and immediately set to designing my cult.

First, I would need a name—the Cult of Penelope. No, “Penelope’s Cult” (sounds much more possessive). Maybe not that savvy from a marketing perspective but it’s simple and easy to remember.

Next, I knew I’d need some sort of totemic symbol. How about a large stuffed leopard? A stuffed animal may make my cult seem less serious (and may even introduce a “plushie” innuendo* that I’d rather avoid), but I certainly don’t want a live one. I've never understood why cults so often unnecessarily harm animals in their rituals.

My supplicants would be invited to deposit their offerings before The Leopard. In exchange they would be offered pinot grigio, saltines and my acceptance and approval (no cash value, but it’s always nice to know someone’s out there rooting for you, no?).

Next, I would need an official clothing line for my cult. Something more modern and secular than Hare Krishna’s orange togas. Got it: Lily Pulitzer, a lifestyle brand for a lifestyle cult that believes in redemption through golf, swimming and tennis.

At this point, I realized I had a handle on the aesthetics of my cult but still needed to get down to the core substance of my cult. I did some extra research. The hallmarks of a cult are:

• Adulation of a charismatic leader;

• Use of coercive persuasion or brainwashing to recruit members; and

• The “inculcation of deep-seated dependency on the group and its leader.”


According to the Cultic Studies Journal, a cult is

[A] group or movement exhibiting a great excessive devotion or dedication to some person, idea or thing and employing unethically manipulative techniques of persuasion and control (eg. isolation from former friends and family . . .) designed to advance the goals of the group’s leaders to the actual or possible detriment of members, their families or their community.”*

Goodness. Upon reflection I wasn’t sure I was comfortable with the concepts of dependency, anxiety and coercion. I see far too much of this fostered by “managing directors” and “partners” (huge misnomers, no?) among their corporate employees to believe it can lead to any good.

What a shame. I was so excited by this project, but once I discarded things like thought control and dependency, I realized all I had left was “adulation of a charismatic leader.” Maybe what I wanted wasn’t really a cult. After all, the thought of distributing brochures in airports, launching an internet marketing campaign and tweeting the word of Penelope was seriously unappealing. Maybe what I wanted was just a little bit of attention and respect (okay, occasional adulation would be nice too).

I don’t need to create my own cult just for that, do I?


Notes
*The Pacific Investment Management Company, LLC runs the Total Return Fund, the world’s largest mutual fund.

*A "plushie" is someone affected by “Plushophilia,” a sexual fetish involving stuffed animals. Although plushies once practiced in relative anonymity, a 2001 article in Vanity Fair made their practices more widely known. See “Pleasures of the Fur,” http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2001/03/furries200103; see also “Who Are the Furries?” http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/magazine/8355287.stm

*William Chambers, Michael Langone, Arthur Dole & James Grice, “The Group Psychological Abuse Scale: A Measure of the Variety of Cultic Abuse,” Cultic Studies Journal 11(1), 1194.

Penelope Is Out of the Office

Penelope will be out-of-the office from August 20, 2010 to August 30, 2011.

Maybe it started with an innocent typo that threw everyone off and made us forever paranoid about implementing an automatic out-of-the-office email reply. It’s unclear why but, somewhere along the way, the automatic out-of-the-office reply fell into disfavor in corporate America.

I suspect it derives from a sense of class consciousness—everyone knows that only functionaries use the out-of-office reply message. Those with seriously important jobs cannot afford the luxury of absence and would never be so gauche as to announce their absence in such a forthright manner. But still, why did it become obsolete?

On the one hand, a client should know we are unavailable so that the lack of an immediate response is not misconstrued as a brush off. On the other hand, consider the horrors that an out-of-office message can spawn.

For obvious reasons, an out-of-office message suggests that you’re not there. Not being there can really be a problem in a service profession. It signals an interruption in service.

In the corporate world*, “serving” requires a reversion to serfdom whereby telling your vassal that you are unavailable is an option considered only in contemplation of death. By definition, “service” means that a family member’s birthday or an anniversary takes back seat to your master’s moods and professional aspirations.

And what if you forget to tell each and every client that you won’t be there. There’s never a good time to explain to the client that, at the end of the day, your personal life really is more important than what your client believes, once again, to be the most pivotal moment in their career and in your service provider-client relationship. It’s awkward to work that into a conference call, no? Yet, alerting them in advance is preferable to their being surprised by an abrupt two line message that you’re abandoning them for five consecutive business days.

Perhaps the greatest fear that dissuades a corporate person to shun the out-of-office message is a fear of poaching. In your absence, the client may seek out advice from a colleague, encouraging a colleague to encroach on the territory you’ve been grooming to generate more business that will in turn be attributed to you and not to your predatory colleague. Better to secure your territory than let wild animals roam free in your absence.

Faced with the horrors described above, nowadays many will feign presence rather than publicly concede absence (the corporate term for vacation) with an automatic out-of-office email reply. Rather than confess the need for a personal life (which, to have, already suggests a certain lack of professional dedication), they fake their presence with the help of technology.

Calls are taken remotely, in an effort to suggest to clients that you’re not on vacation but simply calling “from the road” during a business trip* or ripping yourself away from a meeting out of the office. Laptops enable us to log on and deliver excel spreadsheets, powerpoints, and other token symbols of corporate productivity.

Hand in hand with the feigning presence strategy is the failure to announce a vacation in advance to our colleagues. Vacation days are kept on the down low with perhaps a covert email sent only to an assistant indicating that although you will be out of the office, no one is to know this, including colleagues.

This helps perpetuate the fiction that no vacation is occurring. If there was no pre-vacation announcement and you managed to respond to clients reasonably promptly, then in the eyes of the corporate world no vacation has occurred and your Protestant work ethic remains unsullied.

Today, we’re never out of the office. Instead we circumnavigate the office, via cell, Blackberry, fax or text. Unfortunately, if we’re never out of the office that means we’re never really anywhere else either. So when we’re in Bali vacationing with a significant other, chances are we’re not enjoying the sunset but instead scheming of ways to sneak into an unoccupied room and have a torrid threesome with a cell phone and Blackberry (if you must, use protection and close the door).

A word of caution to those who fake their presence from afar though. Naïve is the client who does not notice a change in your communicational pattern—the lengthy and thorough emails suddenly supplanted by truncated messages delivered in a different font at unusual hours. You’re deluding yourself that you can be just as professionally “present” by Blackberry while sitting on a beach.

Despite the success of the “Be Present”* clothing line that has accomplished great notoriety among yoga circles in America, fewer and fewer of us are present anywhere anymore.

Notes
*Clearly the quandary of whether to enable the out-of-office reply is not unique to America. The crisis and the debate have reached international dimensions as well. See “Out-of the-office reply: got the message,” Financial Times, http://www.ft.com/cms/s/2/17e32334-69e5-11df-a978-00144feab49a.html

*Although business trips have become anachronistic for many of us, there are still some pockets of civilization that see value in meeting a client face-to-face and having a live discussion. There’s also the amusement of snickering at how your client dresses when you meet them in person.

*Be Present is a clothing line especially designed for Yoga that has achieve great commercial success in recent years.

The Changing of the Guard

Witnessing a generational shift can be inspiring. But, if you’re part of the generation that’s being shifted or superseded and new stars are beginning to outshine you, then it can also be stressful.

As I slurped up my soup today at lunch (which, with the saltines and soda, came to $1.90, just within my new lunch budget) I reviewed the events of the last two weeks. I’ve been a bystander to all sorts of epic changes yet realized it only once I found myself in the contemplative company of some chicken noodle soup.

Although most of these cataclysmic shifts occurred right at my own golf club, the ramifications are in no way localized to a Westchester country club.

When I reached the 16th hole at my golf club last Sunday, I surveyed the Hudson River for the usual assortment of sail boats. I saw an unusually shaped barge floating towards NYC that I almost mistook for an aircraft carrier, until I realized that aircraft carriers rarely cruise up the Hudson. Only days later did I learn that the barge was carrying a new bridge, one that would replace the existing Willis Avenue bridge, in what journalists described as an “insta bridge” event. Out with the old and in with the new, all in one day.

Little did I know that at the same time I was trying to make sense of the aircraft carrier on the river, the pillars of my society were foundering. Tiger Woods was at that moment finishing 18 over, a career worst. More importantly, however, a younger couple defeated one of the most senior and celebrated golf couples at our club.

When you live in the present, it’s always too early to tell whether you're living a one-off aberrant incident or you’re witnessing history. I may not remember any of the details in 5 years but I'll remember that it happened. I’ll remember that there was a weekend—a moment—when it all crystallized and we knew were witnessing a changing of the guard—the new Willis Avenue Bridge replacing the old, Tiger’s plummeting status in the world golf arena, and the crowning of new husband-wife champions at my club.

This younger couple will become the new inspiration of the annual husband-wife championship (as well as undoubtedly other golf tournaments) with their names etched in wood in the grill room for generations to admire and emulate.

And maybe 20 years from now, having seen these names engraved often enough to incite envy, their own children and their children’s contemporaries will be gunning for it—first hoping, just once, to be listed alongside their idols* and then once listed, eventually gaining enough confidence and generating enough of a track record to erase those records altogether and replace them with their own.

As I scraped up the remains of my soup and transitioned to dessert (saltines, yum), I realized that my contemporaries and I are already at an age when we’re beginning to develop legacies.

All of this left me curious about how society at large might see my history to date, my nascent legacy. So, like the accomplished narcissist that I am, I Googled myself (don't pretend you haven’t done it).

1st Hit: my position at my law firm. Yawn.

2nd-4th Hits: articles I’ve written about the hedge fund industry. Double yawn.

5th Hit: A testament to my paltry support of The Morgan Library and some random Democrats. Proof that I’m not exactly a financial powerhouse.

6th Hit: A reference to being Ivy League Player of the Year, which would almost be impressive were it not for the fact that the sport was gymnastics and everyone knows that college gymnastics is hardly as competitive as what occurs pre-college. I had a foot in the gymnast’s grave and was competing against other athletes well past their prime. Big deal.

As I looked at the hits, I knew that this was not the stuff of legacies—these were more like accidental appearances in the game called life. I don’t know what my legacy will be yet but even single people have legacies, whether they like it or not. I suspect creating some form of legacy will involve less time drinking and arm wrestling* in the grill room and more time being productive, like chipping and putting.


Notes
*Although I am told there are few moments as joyful in the parenting process as when a child excels beyond a parent, I'm not convinced my fragile golf ego could handle the experience.

*Despite having started doing push-ups in earnest a year ago, I was defeated almost immediately.

Penelope's Dating Guide for Grown Ups

The advice that follows below emerges from a series of conversations with women who forgot to meet a significant other when they were younger and remain chronically single.

Lest you doubt Penelope’s expertise on, and understanding of, prolonged singlehood, I provide a brief outline of her credentials:

Few people are as good at spending time alone as Penelope. If there were a handicap system for solitude (as there is for golf), Penelope would be a scratch loner. And that’s why it phases me only occasionally that I have spent the last 15 years largely alone. Not lonely, but alone, single, unmarried and whatever other boxes I have to check on tax returns, doctors’ forms, etc.

Being single means my schedule is very easily adjusted. I don't want to get up early on Saturday? Decision-made—I sleep. I can change my mind about what I’m going to eat for dinner seven times and it generates no friction—no one cares how many times I change my mind about these things.

Being single means I’m a better listener than a speaker, because I go to cafes by myself and I eavesdrop.

Being single means I am subjected to less small talk at work. You see, there are fewer safe topics when you are single and work in an environment where you are meant to have grown a spouse at least 10 years ago (if, for no other reason, than to make corporate America easier to run with obvious targets of small talk and networking connections, like kids and schools).

Being single means I haven’t had a proper boyfriend in 15 years, although I will admit to some highly inappropriate situations that I tried stubbornly to fit into the “boyfriend” category, like an obstinate child slamming the circular peg into the square hole insisting the circular peg can be transformed through sheer will.

At this age, boyfriends do not arrive in the neat and tidy packages they used to show up in, with a youthful smile, a promising job and future, and only one ex-girlfriend who was “great” but just came along too soon. Instead, they usually show up bald, with children, ex-spouse(s), maybe even current spouses, addictions, doubts, and even criminal records.

This is why Penelope believes it critical to offer guidance for NYC women who forgot to meet someone when they were young and naïve. Maybe you were too busy climbing a corporate ladder. Maybe it took you 15+ years to heal a wounded heart. Maybe you thought the proper ordering of a life was to try to become president first and THEN find a significant other. Whatever your story, following is some NYC-based advice for women “of a certain age.”


· The Kind Advice of Others. Unless he or she got married in the last 3 years, do NOT listen to the well-intentioned advice of married friends. Chances are they met their spouses/significant others 10+ years ago and any advice they have is just plain stale. Meeting someone at 25 has little to nothing to do with meeting someone when you’re 40+.

Example: A girlfriend told me that if I meet a guy I should pretend he’s the only guy for whom I’ve ever had romantic feelings. Sorry, but if you’re 40 and you tell a guy that, he's going to assume that either you’re a convicted felon who’s just completed a lengthy prison sentence or that you’re an unusually damaged catholic who has been fighting an urge to join a convent the last two decades. He won’t walk away, he will run, very fast (even if his hips have been replaced already).

· Nothing Has Changed. It seems like everything has changed at this point, your waist included. However, nothing has changed. Men are still men and women are still women. Many of the Men Are From Mars principles still apply. He’s probably still a hunter and you, still a gatherer. This may seem inconsistent with the point immediately above—embrace the contradiction.

· Be flexible. After 10+ years of solitude, even an ex-gymnast like Penelope can be inflexible. You’ve probably developed some laudable lifestyles, like daily yoga, no eating after 10pm and no more than two drinks. Be a little flexible, go out and get tipsy one night rather than spending extra time at the gym. He would probably prefer to spend that time with you rather than you spending it fine-tuning your washboard abs. If you’re still hanging out with him in three years, he’ll probably be encouraging you to spend more time hanging on to the remnants of your six pack, so enjoy the time with him now

· Let Him Pay for Dinner. Unless you’re 21 (in which case, why are you reading this?) and he’s a 45+ year old business man, chances are he’s not trying to subjugate you by paying for dinner. He’s trying to be a gentleman, whatever that means in this day and age. Mind you, I said “let him pay,” not “make him pay,” or judge him for not paying. Make a polite gesture to get your wallet from your purse. And if he calls your bluff and let’s you pay, fergodsakes you better have your wallet with you.

· Talking About Money. This is a tough topic and should be approached with great caution. Maybe it was easier 20 years ago when neither of you had any. Or maybe you’re a trust fund brat (TFB) so you knew that until you had 15 years of therapy under your belt, the topic would be off-limits. Money can be deeply symbolic in different ways for different people so tread lightly. Try not to be visibly disappointed when you learn he has no private jet—that just smacks of gold digging. And if you suspect you earn more than he does, don’t insist on paying for everything, unless your real goal is to castrate him.

· Put Snarky Girl Away. It was with pride that I once joined an online chat group called “I speak sarcasm fluently”. Yet, a constant barrage of acerbic wit and well crafted sarcasm, while welcomed in a bar of male colleagues, probably won’t win you many points if you meet a real keeper. It has no doubt behooved you in the workplace to toughen up and show some moxie, but this is not the place to show how tough you are.

· Getting Good At It. At this point you’ve probably been working a while or, if you’re a TFB, you’ve gotten better at working a room or speaking at benefits. In other words, at this point you’ve gotten used to being good at something. Dating is not something one gets “good at” (notable exceptions include Elizabeth Taylor). The goal is not to become an expert but to get good enough to get lucky (no, not that kind of lucky—that’s called “hooking up”)—lucky enough to get to know someone with whom you could spend a meaningful chunk of your life.

This is just the beginning of a multi-part series that Penelope expects to publish over the coming months. Penelope urges you to write in with your comments and questions, either by email (penelope.frost@yahoo.com), on Facebook or on her blog (http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com).

Px

Confessions of a Financial Bulimic

I was first diagnosed with financial bulimia as a college freshman in 1985.



I had just been given my first checking account. As soon as my parents deposited the initial sum in my account, I knew I would have to change my ways. I needed to protect this modest amount from the financial threats of extravagance and waste. So I abandoned my daily post-study ritual of buying a 3 cent piece of Bazooka bubble gum. Already, I felt more in control of my spending.



I then bought one of my first adult cocktail dresses for $250 (not an inconsiderable sum for a party dress in the mid ‘80s). I had sacrificed my afternoon bubble gum so surely I had earned the cocktail dress—even if this wasn’t a perfect dollar-for-dollar offset.



Some of my loyal readers will recognize these same behavioral patterns in the pages of the Lunch Report. The Lunch Report began as a testament to Penelope’s ability to lunch on no more than $3 a day (measured on a strict per diem basis, and not cumulatively).



Penelope is prone to sitting at her desk savoring saltines while reflecting on the injustices inflicted on single women in corporate America.* But Penelope is also prone to spending a weekend at The Breakers in Palm Beach, as she stoically battles the winter blues on some of Florida’s best golf courses (while, of course, pilfering hotel shampoo).*



But let’s go back again so we can understand the origins of her financial disorder. By 1990, Penelope had learned to live in the south of France on a weekly food budget of 60FF (pre-Euro, about $10). Every scrap of food was maximized for value and usage: stale bread dutifully dipped in oil, sautéed and consumed. Cheese rinds never discarded but also fried and eaten and grocery store samples scarfed down obligatorily as amuse-bouches.



When I moved back to NYC in 1992, I resisted this city's hallmark indulgence: ordering in dinner. Instead, I continued my discipline of making my own dinner. I did loosen the purse strings slightly, however, and let myself add a half glass of wine from a bottle whose cost never exceeded $7.



Shortly thereafter, the parade of excuses marched in, stomping all over my Calvinist budget. I developed increasingly fanciful rationalizations for spending: “you're only young once, go out and live it up” and “hey, if you want to meet someone, you gotta travel, do a Hamptons share, and buy some new clothes.”



And, the ultimate excuse: “you know you get more work done in cafés than at home, so why not take your documents out for dinner, every night.”



And so, I evolved from one of the most financially disciplined creatures in NYC to a full blown financial bulimic. Living in NYC made it easy to hide my disease. After all, NYC is inhabited primarily by financial enablers—those dedicated to encouraging you to spend $ you don't have (friends convincing you “you deserve it” and banks issuing easy credit)—and their co-conspirators, the financial predators—those who actually extract the $, restaurants, shops, etc. NYC would not be what it is were it not for the evolutionary force of these two breeds.



As I struggled to understand my nefarious urges, I found myself flipping through the pages of Money, A Memoir: Women, Emotions and Cash, which explores the complex emotional relationship between modern women and money--their own and others’.* What did money represent to me anyway? Financial or emotional security?



By 2000, having failed in my quest for a sugar daddy, I learned to become my own sugar mama. In December, with great longing, a girlfriend and I watched doting husbands stand on line at Tiffany’s eager to bejewel their wives for Christmas. It then dawned on us that we could buy our own jewelry. And so we did. We each bought a pair of pearl earrings with a tasteful sprinkling of diamonds.



Recently, I reread Money, A Memoir. As interesting a reread as it was, I realized the book mischaracterized the subject as a gender issue and, in so doing, trivialized centuries of male pride, ambivalence and embarrassment associated with earning and spending money.



Understanding the rapport between money and emotions has universal appeal but may be all the more difficult to fathom in the capital of materiality, NYC. As I sift through nearly two decades of anecdotes, the men stand out as much as the women:



•The senior Morgan Stanley managing director who refused to eat in any restaurant where the cutlery has already been placed on the table because that meant the price of an entree would be too high. Yet he offered to buy me a new winter coat one night rather than wait on a lengthy coat check line.


•The senior partner at a very white shoe firm who saved the miniature gins and vodkas from every business flight he took so he could populate the bars in his 5 homes with these mini-tributes to his frugality.


•The jobless girlfriend who fretted continuously over her financial security, yet found fast solace in a $600 Botox treatment.


Why do we do these things? As I've learned, we all suffer from varying degrees of a financial consumption disorder. So, don't be ashamed. You're part of a well known financially bulimic demographic. The rest of us are here to support and sympathize with you, so write in and share your stories of financial excess and economic ambivalence.



Editorial Staff Note: Shortly before publication, Penelope suffered a relapse and bought a sweater because her office was over air-conditioned. She will be implementing a strict $2 limit on lunch until the excess amount spent on the sweater has been recouped. Please send food donations to The Lunch Report, P.O Box 777, NY, NY, 10021 and they will be redirected accordingly.





Notes

*“Eating Single in America,”

http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2010/03/eating-single-in-america.html



*“Lunch at The Breakers, Recession-Style,” http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2009/12/lunch-report-lunch-at-breakers.html.

“Correction and Addendum”

http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2009/12/lunch-report-correction-and-addendum-to.html



*Money, A Memoir: Women, Emotions and Cash, Liz Perle (Picador, December 2006).

Babes in Bandon

Penelope has just returned from a golf expedition out West to Bandon Dunes, an obligatory pilgrimage for any self-respecting golfaholic. For the non-golfers amongst you, Bandon Dunes is one of the most revered golf destinations in the world, with five challenging links-style courses. Historically, a male-only golf destination, more recently the resort has built a lodge in order to characterize itself a resort.*

The Bandon challenge begins with reaching the resort, situated 30 minutes away from one of Oregon’s most cosmopolitan hubs, North Bend, Oregon (which boasts numerous strip clubs and strip malls). Perhaps the more noteworthy landmark near Bandon Dunes is America’s largest wild animal petting park, just 8 miles from the resort. In order to distract visitors from the gorilla that zealously repeats the exact same sequence of chest beating, jumping, thumping and howling (a repetitive sequence disturbingly typical of wild animals in captivity), the zoo offers visitors the opportunity to pet and hold baby tiger and lion cubs.

Like other golf junkies, my golf buddies and I have been reading about this resort and its breathtaking views of the Pacific ever since it edged out Pebble Beach as the number one resort golf course in Golfweek’s rankings. But before the Crisis pressured golf resorts to offer more affordable golf packages, Bandon was off limits financially.* Thanks to the Crisis, Bandon's lodging prices are finally within grasp (assuming some form of short term financing is available).

There I was at the best golf resort in the West with my own clubs, my lucky bobcat five-wood headcover, new grips on my irons and my favorite golf buddy. I should have been in my element, but instead I was overwhelmed by other elements . . .

First there was the wind. The 335 mph wind blew right through me, despite the solid defense I mounted with four layers of clothing.

Then there was the rugged terrain. The layout of their newest course, Old MacDonald, left me dazed, confused and exhausted. Too much walking, too many hills. Too open a layout to know where I was going (and my caddy, who confessed he had only walked the course once, wasn't much help).

The noise of the wind precluded any conversation, so I was alone in my struggle against the elements. Just like a character in a Jack London story, soldiering on in the bitter cold tundra with no gloves (except that I had a golf glove on either hand) and worn shoes (except that I wore brand new golf shoes with sparkling white shoe laces). I am confident Jack London would have written a story about Bandon Dunes had he been a golfer.

Then there were the men, whose behavior was every bit as rugged and unmanicured as the links-style golf courses. A unique mixture of West Coast baba cool (think pony tails), red neck hill billy and golf die hard, the culture is a male-centric one. Shaving is either optional or discouraged, it wasn’t clear, and the look golfers aspired to clearly involved a toothpick hanging from the jaw.

My traveling buddy's thwarted quest for a feminine hygiene product confirmed my suspicions--we were squarely within anti-chick territory. No feminine products sold here. No spa either. The existence of a spa would run the risk of drawing women to the resort, a risk apparently not worth running so there are no plans afoot to build one. Yes, we had discovered where men who used to go to Myrtle Beach go once they've packed their wallets with a bit more financial security. We were surrounded by Myrtle Beach alums (circa Class of 1965).

After 36 holes on Old MacDonald one day, we wandered into McKee's pub to refuel before retiring to our bare boned pre-fab A-frame unit for which we paid $600 a night (no bathrobes and, no, the shampoo was not worth stealing).

We passed 8 men slouching over their table, the way they would never slump at their home club or with their wives present. They straightened up as we walked by and the leering campaign began. From the safe distance of our table (which we chose because it was at the opposite end of the room from them), the hungry wolves licking their chops staring down their vulnerable prey seemed safe, and comical.

They voiced compliments on my bright blue and white argyle golf pants (John Daly would be proud). If only I had known that my gender alone would attract far too much attention to begin with, I would never have been so bold as to wander around the Bandon jungle flaunting such audacious patterns on my legs.

Our driver, a transplant from Bucharest, fleshed out for us the stereotypical male golfer who visits Bandon Dunes. The typical male Bandon golfer will place a call to his wife en route to the resort from the airport, letting her know he has arrived safely and that he loves her. Then he will shut off the cell, tuck it away in his pocket and request to be driven to the nearest strip club.

Our driver recounted with lighthearted disgust one adventure in particular (imagine a thick Romanian accent here): “This one guy. I bring him to the strip club and what does he do? He hooks up with the ugliest chick in there. I swear he was desperate. He wanted me to bring the girls back to the resort but I don’t do that stuff. She asked if I wanted anything. No way.”

I’m not sure what the moral of this story is. Maybe you need to spend too much money away from home just to realize how much you love your home course and the golfers who inhabit it. So, was it worth it? Absolutely.

*http:///www.bandondunesgolf.com/pages/history/64.php

*Sea Island and The Breakers, two resorts that once proudly charged in excess of $1000 a night (excluding golf) not send postcards begging people to come stay for $250-$350 a night with golf included.

Corporate Lawyer/Part Time Nun

After two years of wondering when and if I would ever be blessed enough that my clients would harass me on evenings, weekends and vacation, I suddenly realize I am, once again, the chosen.

At nights my blackberry is no longer just a search engine to help me while away lonely evenings on Google or Facebook. The blinking red light elicits all the promise that the shining green light of East Egg once held for Gatsby.* I see the red light and I know a client needs me. An adrenaline rush ripples throughout me and I am ready to serve. This must be my calling. I am a born again lawyer. Or a nun, with a more secular focus.

I had forgotten how uplifting it can be to analyze and draft for 10 hours straight. The mental stimulation stirs me. I no longer need an alarm clock. I check messages at 4am, nap and am up at 7am. It's an opportunity to become mentally stronger and physically sturdier (because lawyering in NYC is as much, if not more, a physical sport as a mental or professional endeavor).

I am now drawn to my clients and their documents more than food or sleep. I want to perfect the art of responsiveness—the articulate and thoughtful email that arrives on a holiday weekend only minutes after a client's panicked and disheveled query.

It's not just the satisfaction of providing top notch service to a demanding client. There is a sense of strength that comes from denial. While I serve, I strengthen myself. I deny myself social and physical indulgence, whether it be conversation or sleep. I insist this does not make me servile but better at serving. The more I serve the more I benefit and the more my clients must benefit. I am struck by the parallels between my life and that of a nun’s.

A corporate lawyer and a nun?! An incongruous pairing of greed and aggression with purity and denial? Not really. Nuns and corporate lawyers are far more similar than you might suspect. Female corporate lawyers and catholic nuns even more so.

Of course, there are many superficial distinctions to be made between the female corporate lawyer and the catholic nun, most notably:


· Dress Code—There’s no denying that dress codes for nuns are generally stricter than for corporate lawyers. Although I know of no top law firm that officially sanctions Ally McBeal-style way-above-the-knee skirts (although management committees at most of these firms secretly fantasize about them), Sister McBeal is loathe to flaunt even her ankles.
· Wine Consumption—After 5pm Ally McBeal could often be found in a local watering hole downing white wine. Even after vespers are over, Sister McBeal will never be found openly sipping a pinot grigio, although she might tuck a mini Jack Daniels into her habit or the folds of her robes to savor in her room later on.

Otherwise their lifestyles are more aligned than their wardrobes and drinking habits might suggest. Female corporate lawyers deny themselves many creature comforts, including family (either existing families or potential families), because otherwise they would not be taken as seriously. Or they deny themselves their own style as they indoctrinate themselves with the style of those, mostly men, who have preceded and negotiated before them.

It’s true that there are far more female leaders in the legal profession than female leaders in the catholic church. However, that's hardly surprising when you consider that nuns are not allowed to serve as "leaders" in the catholic church.

Fourteenth century nuns convinced themselves they were getting closer to God by denying themselves food.* They got closer to the neurochemical distortion that results from prolonged bouts of anorexia nervosa, but, given their current rank in the church, they may not have gotten closer to God (then again, I could be wrong and the meek (skinny and hungry) may still inherit the earth). On the other hand, all the denial that female corporate lawyers have embraced may not have advanced the ball that far either (but may have advanced other balls).*

Sometimes the process interferes and competes with the purpose. In A Nun’s Story, the 1959 film about a proud nun torn between her devotion to God and her professional aspirations as a nurse, Sister Luke (Audrey Hepburn) rises at dawn for morning prayer, a model of discipline and devotion. She eventually leaves the convent, resigning herself to the realization that she was driven less by a love of God and more by a love of the nursing process and her superiority in this discipline to all other nuns in the convent.

Not to put Sister Luke to shame, but the female corporate lawyer retrains herself to rise well before dawn—preferably waking every 2-3 hours to check on her wayward corporate souls in need of securities law advice. The process becomes addictive and appeals to the perfectionist instinct. Ultimately though she may become torn between the vows she took as an officer of the court to represent her client zealously and her personal aspiration to advance within the corporate Egg structure, the latter often being at direct odds with the former.

Notes
*Nick Carraway, the narrator or F. Scott Fitzgerald’s classic The Great Gatsby, spends a summer in West Egg, a guise for the post-WWI new money community of Great Neck, L.I., while becoming fascinated with his second cousin’s lifestyle and residence in East Egg, a thinly-disguised Manhasset, L.I.

*"The Plight of the Female Partner, By the Numbers,” April 29, 2010; “Women Lawyers Struggle to Attain and Keep Partner Positions,” Forbes Blog, April 30, 2010; “Female Partners: What the Law Firms Are Hiding,” David Yas, Massachusetts Lawyers Weekly, March 8, 2010.

*Catherine of Siena (1347-1380) is one of the most famous of the fasting saints and throughout the medieval period extreme fasting was critical to the concept of female holiness. Fasting Girls: The History of Anorexia, Joan Jacobs Brumberg (1988).

Just Buy It!

In NYC, there's only one thing a single woman spends more time searching for than an eligible man: a suitable place to live, an apartment of her own (once you're over 30 you really need more than a room of your own).



Penelope has been searching in earnest for an apartment to buy but the more she searches the more obstinate she becomes about returning to her one bedroom rental in Lenox Hill, the one with the perfect entryway, western exposures and coveted herringbone floors.



At this point I've logged even more hours on Streeteasy.com than I ever did on Match.com in my quest for a man. I would spend entire days logged on to match.com, inputting the sought after features (male, NYC, likes pets, Christian, at least a B.A in education), and scanning the results. Often I’d return to the same profile repeatedly because I’d forgotten why I'd rejected a potential suitor. I'd pull it up and spot the tragic flaw: he was 4'3"; he was 74 years old; or he was a devout Jehovah's witness . . .



Occasionally, I would stumble on a profile that was in perfect harmony with my search criteria. I couldn't meet him soon enough. And when I did, there was usually a comical mismatch between my expectation (or his profile) and who sat across from me. Either that or his behavior was not to be believed, like the fellow who started out by telling me my face was less angular than in my photo, then explained that he didn’t vacation because it disrupted his sense of routine and exposed him to too much sunlight. I couldn’t run away soon enough.



It won't surprise you that real estate is full of the same deceptions as internet dating. I try not to get my hopes up but it's difficult to be positive and open-minded without accidentally believing that Apartment 10E is "the one". Look at the trim on that building―how could I not live happily ever after there?



One morning I saw a promising pre-war in Carnegie Hill, just one block from the park. Not only did its profile boast herringbone floors, but an atrium and outdoor terrace. The description did note "waiting for someone with vision." What it required was willful blindness: too dark to discern any herringbone, and the "atrium" was on the inside of the building surrounded by brick walls. Perfect for cultivating mushrooms and breeding bats, but nothing else.



Then there was the perfect Park-Lex apartment with the generous living room, and not a single closet . . .



I spoke with the friend who had tipped me off to Streeteasy.com. She admitted you have to kiss a few frogs before you find the right apartment. At this point my lips were chapped but I wasn’t ready to concede spending my retirement in a rental so I kept at it.



I saw a 2BR in Beekman with multiple walk-in closets (never did I imagine that the initials "W.I.C." would literally send shivers of excitement down my spine). No herring bone floors. I let on to the agent my secret obsession with herringbone. At home, I stare at the Escheresque floor pattern for hours and the frustrations of my workday magically dissolve. He suggested I have someone paint a herringbone pattern on the floors. I didn’t laugh.



One of my owning friends (everyone in NYC knows your friends fall into two categories: owning and renting) advised me that you can't expect one apartment to meet all your needs and that I may not find one with western exposure, herringbone floors, WICs, and large rooms in a pet friendly doorman building within my price range and neighborhood.



What was she saying? Was she recommending I just "buy it"?! It reminded me of Lori Gottlieb's book "Just Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough" and all the controversy the message of "settling" for a guy that's "good enough" stirred up among single women.



At this age, it's unlikely I will ever marry, so finding a womancave of my own is critical. I haven't settled for just any guy and I won't settle for just any apartment. Couldn't she see that?



Then again, maybe my analogy wasn't perfect. You can change apartments a bit more easily than men. There isn't quite the same societal disapproval for selling your apartment as there is for divorcing your spouse. In fact, many people purchase apartments with a keen eye on resale value and have no shame in discussing it. Discussing resale value (aka the prenup) when husband shopping, on the other hand, is usually handled with far less transparency and primarily by attorneys.



So maybe she was right, maybe I should just buy it. Maybe. I think I'll stare at the herringbone some more as I think it over.



Penelope

The Lunch Report: Partying with Penelope's Parents

Last Sunday I hosted a party, the first one I’ve hosted in years. I had forgotten what a taxing undertaking hosting a party can be.

It didn’t take a village but it did take a family, my extended family. I enlisted a girlfriend Whitney who, conveniently, has turned herself into a chef since we first met 25 years ago. I also asked one of my brothers to help and make sure Beauford the Bobcat was properly mounted on the wall.* There’s nothing like a bobcat falling off the wall to ruin a good party.

Whitney prepped the food and I prepped my brother on the invitees. I told him who had dated whom, who should be cut off after two drinks, and which women he was and was not allowed to pursue.

Once guests arrived, I found myself pointing out my favorite objects: “This beautiful Mahogany dining room table is circa 1730. The leaves are folded so you can’t see, but it’s in amazing shape.” I had to stop myself from saying “Oh, and to the right are my parents, both circa 1936. They’re also in excellent shape.”

Sometimes I slip into a juvenile habit of regarding my parents as an integral part of the background, whose roles are somehow confined to supervising. So, I was strangely flattered that so many of my guests had such kind things to say about my parents. I’m not sure why I was surprised. After all, they’re independent individuals with independent interests and their existence as “my parents” may not be their only noteworthy attributes.

I forget how unique my mother's path has been: born in New York; spent a few years in China; had a short stint in a convent (her reward for graduating early from boarding school); "came out"* at the Debutante Assembly and the New Year’s Ball in New York in 1955; dumped Charles the race car driver thereafter; and married my dad in 1961. Now an accomplished alpine gardener, her expertise in penstemons* is discussed in hushed tones in elite gardening circles in New York City.*

I forget that my father grew up just outside of NYC with several siblings as blonde as he (when he still had hair), had an adman dad who may have been the archetype for Don Draper, started out in the Manhattan D.A.'s office, transitioned to Dutchess County where he had his own firm, two horses, a dog, several cats (one of which peed on his documents one evening, which was entirely my fault), chickens that laid Dr. Seuss-like green eggs* and four children who orchestrated simultaneous attendance at college in an effort to challenge his capacity as a provider.

I don't know if any of these details figured among what intrigued my guests, but I did want to pause and reflect. They're not just a series of anecdotes or facts. They're my parents. They didn't just bring the extra bottles of vodka and wine (but thank goodness they did). They brought themselves.

Thanks, Mom and Dad. You done Penelope proud.

Notes

*Although Beauford had already passed to bobcat heaven long before I secured him on eBay, I recognize my acts may be construed as condoning the slaughter of pretty kitties. For this, I am truly contrite. When I look at Beauford, I hear my dead grandfather’s voice: “I want to find out what your thinking was. I want to find out what your feelings are. And did you learn anything.”

*No, she’s not a lesbian. “Coming out” refers to the tradition of a young lady or “débutante” being introduced to society.

*Technically, a Penstemon is a large genus of North American plant from the Scrophulariaceae family. Untechnically, they’re all frilly and girlish.

*Active in the North American Rock Garden Society (NARGS) since 1984, she is one of their most highly recommended lecturers. She has taught at the New York Botanical Garden, is past president of the Berkshire Chapter of NARGS and has taught Master Gardener classes as well. See “The Low Down on Gardening Low Down,” New England Wild Flower Society. http://www.newfs.org/learn/catalog/sym0901

*Of Chilean descent, Araucana chickens lay naturally blue, pink and green eggs.

Important Post Script: FEMA workers have now completed the post-party clean up. Among the objects found include two cell phones, one "Sycuan casino" water bottle, one fuschia feather boa, and one hand grenade. Please email penelope.frost@yahoo.com if any of these objects belong to you.

This Little Piggy Went To Market

I've had nothing to say for weeks. I blame that on the person who told me if I wanted to be heard, I had to "market" myself. My stomach turned.

I've always been suspicious of marketing. It transforms people into who they are not. Isn't this how so many of us came to believe Tiger Woods was not just a golf star but a star at large? Yet one of the most successful marketing projects ever degenerated into a nightmare. Image witchdoctors the world round are still trying to sever the image of a pathological philanderer from the products he advertises.

It's unlikely I would face the same issues as Tiger, at least not right away, but I was still ambivalent. How would I market? The "f" word immediately came to mind.

There are now over 400 million Facebook (FB) users. Even God has a FB page* so it may well be the marketing medium of choice.*

FB is revealing, as much because of what people write or post as because of what they do not. The person who posts what he had for breakfast may be more opaque about his political views. FB creates an illusion of social and communicational transparency.

And if statistics are to be trusted, FB isn’t just for kids anymore. For adults, Facebooking may not be like breathing, as it is for most under 24, but it's still an adult preoccupation.

Some adapt to FB frighteningly well, posting items as care freely as teenagers. Others go through a honeymoon phase of reconnecting with long lost friends before fading into voyeurism, snickering at friends' posts and accusing them of PWI (Posting While Intoxicated). Still others, like Penelope, marvel at the promise of the FB paradigm, but break into a cold sweat at the mere thought of posting something on their own wall. What would it mean?

How can one ever decipher the implicit rules and the secret language of FB? “Friending” someone may have little to do with friendship in the traditional sense. P'lo gets that. They may be friend junkies inviting others to see how many friends they have (hoarding friends in order to win the unannounced competition for the most friends).

Who can imagine translating the implications of intergender FB gestures? "He friended me" may resonate with some girls as "He wants to date me" while it smacks of "Great, I'm just a buddy . . ." to others.

All of this said (posted) and despite her deep-seated fears of FB and becoming a networking tramp, after several cocktails and a flickering of an epiphany, Penelope resolved to market herself and create her own FB page.

The background info was easy (although maybe this is not a place for candor but another marketing opportunity? Who cares who Penelope IS—who SHOULD she be?) but then she hit "The Wall." Did Pink Floyd ever imagine "The Wall" would be an internet venue for sharing the minutiae of our daily lives?

Penelope was speechless (postless).* Are people who update their walls numerous times a day really lucky enough to have friends who care what they ate for lunch?
Or are they pumping their profiles for the News Feed?

The more one updates one's page, the more one's profile will appear in the FB Newsfeed (the CNBC ticker of your own social life) when your "friends" (in the most inclusive sense: random acquaintances; frenemies; ex-husbands; estranged relatives . . .) log on to FB. It doesn't matter what you think of them, but how often you think of them.

Despite all this, Penelope wants to "friend" you. Her motive is not impure—she really wants to know what you think and have to say and believes FB will facilitate this. If FB isn't for you, she understands, but she still wishes you would check out her blog, comment, criticize or just post an emoticon.

If you’re shy, need to protect your identity, or work for the CIA, please consider adopting an anonymous persona. After all, one of the reasons the Internet and blogging have become such robust and blissfully transparent fora for the swapping of ideas is the anonymity they allow.*

Looking forward to hearing from you (and your friends).

Yours truly—P’lo

NOTES
* See http://www.facebook.com/pages/God/10141208299?v=info. He is very Christian about accepting new friends.

* See proliferation of evolving citations to articles posted on the Internet about the power and necessity of marketing via FB. Seriously, between the time Penelope writes this and you read this, anything Penelope could cite would have become stale—that’s how many articles are being written about FB and marketing.

*At this point, you may be wondering why I am referring to myself as "Penelope" in the third person. Well, I hired a bespoke marketing agency (too elite to identify here) that, together with a psychoanalyst, specializes in blogging. They immediately recommended that I switch from the first person to the third person. The shift is intended to create a sense of disembodiment and self-alienation that enables Penelope to do and say things that I certainly never would. The shift also creates intrigue for Penelope's audience (previously known as "you"!).

*For a thought provoking analysis on transparency and the Internet, please see the four part series posted by Paris-based sociologist qua marketer, Minter Dial: http://themyndset.com/tag/transparency/

The Lunch Report: Twelve Angry Women

Someone strides into my office and blurts out “What is this? I don’t understand it,” shaking a document in my face. His lack of comprehension must be my fault.

While discussing an ambiguous agreement with another one of my mild-mannered colleagues, he lurches back in his chair and yells “So what if there’s language missing. Everyone knows what we mean.” I can’t recall the “everyone-knows-what-we-mean” explanation ever persuading a client or a jury, but something tells me I ought to nod emphatically in agreement.

I’ve probably mentioned it before, but I’m a lawyer at a top corporate law firm in NYC. Ever since I’ve been at this firm I’ve struggled with cultural issues. It’s an American firm. I’m American. It’s a New York-centric firm. I’m from New York.

The cultural issues I wrestle with are not as subtle as issues of national or metropolitan identity. I wrestle with emotional identity. With few exceptions, everyone around me speaks a foreign emotional language. But like any foreign language, we usually marvel at the elegant inflections and unique sounds before we realize we cannot understand a word being said.

In a group meeting forming part of my interview three years ago, I witnessed a freedom of expression that seduced me. No awkward pauses or three minute cautionary prefaces—everyone chimed in freely with random observations, so much so that they forgot they had directed questions at me. It was suggestive of the liberation I would taste if I joined this firm. Soon I would be able to express enthusiasm without shocking my colleagues. I might even use exclamations!, BOLD ALL CAPs and emoticons ;-)

So I joined the firm.

It never occurred to me my colleagues would be just as uninhibited when exploring other parts of the emotional spectrum, namely anger. Or, what I call “anger,” because therein lies the cultural rub.

I see crass and immature displays of anger; my colleagues see people “taking charge” and “showing interest.” So, until I raise my voice, interrupt others and make my nostrils flare on command, no one will believe I am truly engaged or on top of my game.

Forget the bestseller "Getting Past No: Negotiating Your Way from Confrontation to Cooperation"* that was distributed as mandatory reading when I was a junior associate. The books I need now are "Getting Past Rationality: Screaming Your Way to Success" and "Verbally Bitchslapping Your Colleague Into Agreement: The Power of Monosyllabic Epithets." As long as I live in their world, I must speak their language, right?

Actually the American Psychiatric Association doesn’t see it that way. The APA’s efforts to demarcate the norms of emotional expression in American culture mean certain forms of anger constitute “mental illness.”* The offspring of Intermittent Explosion Disorder,* Temper Dysregulation Disorder (TDD), promises to make its way into DSM-V:*

n. A disorder characterized by severe recurrent temper outbursts in response to common stressors. Usage: “Because he suffered from TDD, he lashed out at everyone when he was diagnosed with ED and realized he would never experience a two hour erection without medication.”*

Could it be that most of my colleagues are mentally ill? Possibly, but, gosh, for mentally ill folks they sure generate a lot of revenue and rack up a lot of legal accolades every year. If their temporal lobes, where anger resides, were “cleaned up” (a lobotomy being one form of cleansing), they might not be as successful. Recipes for success are always highly individualized.

At my prior firm, I was accused of being a “guy” at the office. I don’t grab my crotch while speaking or use football analogies, but I don’t sugar coat my criticism either. I don’t soften statements by turning them into questions through a pseudo-English inflection? I say it like it is.

Yet, despite leaving the sugar, spice and everything nice at home, I’m just not angry enough. Anger just isn’t my style. So why the title “Twelve Angry Women” then? It’s hard enough to find twelve senior women at my office, much less twelve angry women.

The original “Twelve Angry Men” (1954) was premised on the frictions and frustrations of twelve male jurors trying to overcome cultural prejudice to reach a consensus. There were no women jurors in the script. Was it unimaginable that women might also get angry in the same context or is it that the writer just couldn’t figure out a single adjective that would capture the emotion of a mixed gender group striving for agreement?

She calls it anger; he calls it enthusiasm; the APA calls it illness. Isn’t it just style? The demands on rationality and analysis implicit in the lawyering process should pave a wide common ground between the genders, pushing objectivity to the fore and emotions—which always exacerbate the gender divide—to the back. Not here. I must be in left field.*

Notes
*William Ury (1991).

*See “When Anger Is an Illness,” Wall Street Journal, D1, March 9, 2010.

*IED was recognized by the psychiatric profession as early as 1980.

*DSM V stands for the fifth edition of the APA’s Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, expected to be published in 2013. Considered the bible in America for mental disorders, DSM V is also expected to introduce Negativistic Personality Disorder and Sluggish Cognitive Tempo. Sounds like a must read!

*Advertisements for erectile dysfunction (ED) medications warning of erections lasting more than four hours would appear to suggest that erections of shorter duration, say three hours, are perfectly normal.

*Originally written in 1954 by Reginald Rose, the teleplay was made into a film in 1957, starring Henry Fonda and remade in 1997 with Jack Lemmon.

*”Twelve Angry Women” was adapted from the original play by Sherman Sergel in 2004. There were no male jurors in the script.

*“Hey, you’re in left field!” Act I, p. 14, Twelve Angry Men.

The Lunch Report: Flying with the Freaks

When I had my lunch today it was -58 degrees F out, yet I was as toasty as can be. Even at 39,000 feet, my client's Gulfstream 450* (not the latest model, but good enough for Penelope) had impeccable heating and surprisingly moist air (maybe I would arrive with that coveted skin condition, dewy skin?). This was my first flight in a private jet and I was predisposed to love it.

Once in my seat, the only one on my side of the aisle, I stretched my limbs to full extension then retracted them into my favorite position, an expansive Indian-style (sorry, are we still allowed to say that?) position.

By two hours after wheels should have been up, the thrill of flying private was fading. As it turns out, private jets are not immune from the same delays and mechanical malfunctions as commercial planes. As mechanics surrounded the plane and poked at it, we all settled into conversations or reading materials.

On a commercial flight, you can depart and arrive and never exchange words with anyone, which is typically what I do (and if you need tips on how to escape conversation with your flightmate, just email me).

Unfortunately, on a private plane, whether host or guest, you cannot avoid some level of conversation with your fellow travelers. As a corporate lawyer, I am generally blessed with an ever ready excuse—the tyranny of work. Being a corporate lawyer means never having to say you’re sorry;* it’s never your fault. It’s work that makes you cancel and retreat into a blissfully solitary cave when you’re not feeling social. But after two hours, even I could not in good faith pretend to be engrossed by the two page document laid out on the table in front of me.

The children traveling with us were far more patient than the adults (of course the adults lacked the assistance of one Spanish-speaking nanny per person to whip out computer games and snacks at the slightest hint of boredom).

We deplaned so the mechanics could fuss more invasively with the plane. Sadly, the terminals for private jets only prolong social obligations. Terminals for private jets are generally small with no shops to visit. They nurture small communities of people with both passengers and flight support staff who can easily remember you. Maybe transitioning from commercial to private flying is how I imagine I would feel if I left NYC to be smothered in the smallness of the suburbs, seeing the same folks over and over.

Eventually we switched to a G-V (G-IVs are so 90s anyway). And we were off.
Lunch—baked chicken and vegetables—was served buffet style with drinks of our choice. Although I usually reach for a white wine in flight (the only time I drink Sutter Home or Turning Leaf, I swear), I was too comfortable to need to anesthetize myself to my surroundings.

Will I really always fly private for now on? Probably not. Private flights lack the "freak" factor I secretly enjoy when traveling amongst hundreds of people I’ll never see again—like the teenager seated next to me with so many body piercings that I was dying to ask her if they hurt when she sneezed but was afraid to speak to her. Or the woman seated next to me on one recent flight who scratched her head obsessively during a three hour flight as I pretended not to notice the scabs she liberated from her scalp throughout the flight. Repulsive? Absolutely, yet also somewhat intriguing.

I might also miss the anonymity of flying commercial. In Up In The Air, George Clooney's character Ryan Bingham claims he travels 320 out of 365 days of the air and happily remains free from attachments and community, traveling with an "empty knapsack," the symbol of his freedom from personal relationships.

Despite his disdain for the communities and close relationships formed at ground level, he unwittingly creates a pseudo-community of dysfunctionality 35,000 feet in the air through his "elite" traveler status which, ironically, ensures name recognition when he checks in at airports and strips him of the privilege of anonymity. I am not there yet so can hold fast to my anonymity, for now.

We complain about them, maliciously and vehemently. We devote substantial television time and internet space to criticizing commercial airlines. Yet, those dreaded commercial flights form a transient bridge to people we will never know—the untouchables for those who fly commercial but the unseeable and unobservable for those who fly private.

I thought flying private would be the ultimate travel privilege but, at least for me, flying with the freaks while retaining some measure of anonymity are much greater privileges (and, well, much cheaper). Oh, my flight is boarding now. Must go.


Notes
*The Gulfstream 450 is a modification of the G-IV, a part of a family of jets produced by Gulfstream Aerospace, a General Dynamics company based in Savannah, Georgia. The G-IV has been superseded by the improved G-V model.

*A modest perversion of Ali MacGraw’s famous line in the 1970 film A Love Story: "Love means never having to say you’re sorry."

The Lunch Report: My Magentic Lunch

We're all getting older, some of us more visibly than others.

I remember when "getting older" was a clichéd joke that I would hear "adults" use in a quasi-self-deprecating way.

I say “quasi” because Americans are generally bad at self-deprecation. A woman’s “I’m sooo old” usually comes off not as humorous self-indictment but as hopeless sincerity borne of extreme self-consciousness, begging to be rebuffed with a "don't be absurd, you're not old" from a caring friend. Meanwhile the caring friend diverts her eyes away from the crow's feet that seem to have mysteriously overtaken her friend’s entire face.

I guess I should have realized sooner that I was old. There have been so many clues, all of which I’ve willfully ignored or misinterpreted.

Maybe I should have realized it last weekend, when I stayed in a hotel in South Beach, Miami that manages to charge top Euro (now that only Europeans can afford America’s better hotels, “top dollar” is considered anachronistic) for mediocre rooms just because they house a decent contemporary art collection. The “contemporary artists” were 10-15 years younger than I. I always think of contemporary artists as 10 years older than I am. Maybe it was intended to be a collection of child-artists . . .

But today I finally realized I am old, and this is how I found out. . .

Today my shoulder and I had our first MRI in 18 years.* Eighteen years ago, we volunteered for an MRI, as part of an experiment, but today we needed an MRI. Last October I fell down the stairs and landed on my shoulder. First there was excruciating pain and then a series of doctors. I used to jump down flights of stairs for fun—since when did such a slight tumble require medical attention? Since when had the sturdy bones and cartilage that make up this invulnerable “me” become so fragile?

When I arrived at the imaging center, I was impressed by how much MRI culture had evolved. Of course there’s still the infamous clanging, but it has been muted with certain creature comforts.

MRI centers now offer music. My underage (under which age, I’m not sure) technician offered me a headset and asked whether I would like to listen to "80s" music. It wasn’t a good guess of my age—she had the patient info sheet and knew exactly what I would have been listening to in college.

As she slid me into the massive cylinder that would host the magnetic resonance session, I was looking forward to a light nap accompanied by New Order or Simple Minds. OMD’s “If You Leave” would certainly help me ignore the clanging. Instead, I was jolted awake somewhat by the sound of John Denver’s “Sunshine on My Shoulders.” At first I thought it must be a mistake but next came Captain & Tenille’s “Love Will Keep Us Together,” followed by Elton John’s “Bennie & The Jets.” I still remember listening to this 45 on my sister’s record player when I was 7 years old.

Without realizing there was any distinction to be made among the various pre-1990s genres of music, what she had actually put on were, as you surely recognize, 70s tunes. For her, 70s and 80s music was all part of a single prehistoric musical era that pre-dated CDs and iPods.

Yet, couldn’t she hear the difference? Couldn’t ANYONE with ears hear the difference? Maybe not—it wasn’t hyper-techno and there were no rap lyrics. To her ears, it was all a part of that uniform world of sound that preceded her musical consciousness. And I must be part of that uniform world of “older” people who would listen to such music. After all, what distinction is to be made between 42 years of existence and 52 years of existence—both represent a really long time.

And what do I have to say about this long long time I’ve been hanging out and existing? What did I have to show for it? Just as I felt a panicky midlife crisis moment coming on, it gave way to a midday epiphany.

One of the advantages of getting older is seeing the nuances that you could not appreciate when you were 19 or 20. Sure, maybe some wrinkles and grey hair come along with those nuances and subtleties, but, all in all, I think I’d rather be able to appreciate the finer distinctions I glossed over at age 20 (even if it means I have to color my hair to hide the grey) than actually be 20 again.

So today for lunch, I ate a little pride but gained a sense of peace.


Notes
*I was a subject of an experiment conducted by a friend who has since become an expert in studying the brain through magnetic resonance imaging. Dr. Fahmeed Hyder is a doctor passionate about his work and the only boyfriend I've ever had who gave me a picture of my brain for my birthday (and, for any ex-boyfriends reading this, not only do I in fact have a brain, but the MRI did not reveal any missing portions or general deformities).