Lean In . . . Bend Over

The Lean In debate* is flourishing and Penelope has been perusing the myriad public responses. My favorites include: Lean In, Buddy Boy (savagely sexist, yet funny); The Retro Wife (sadly, what I see most); How Do You Lean In, If You Don't Have Someone to Lean On (yes, I am sympathetic with single parents); and, of course, Yes, You Can (right on, sister), by Anne-Marie Slaughter of women-can't-have-it-all fame.**

Yet, no matter how many responses I read, there is still one awful image I cannot shake every time I hear the expression “Lean In”: The image of Erin Callan, former CFO of Lehman, quite literally leaning over a conference table populated by about 20 or so 30-something men, her wearing an absurdly tight black dress punctuated by a plummeting v-neck and breasts literally spilling over and onto the conference table as she smiles and engages energetically with each of the men around her.

This is not an image I invented, but a memory I cannot repress from a meeting I attended with a client at Lehman in 2006. I would have diverted my attention from her odd display, except that my tax colleague had already surreptitiously emailed me on his BlackBerry within seconds of our sitting down, confirming what he thought I might be wondering—yes, those were fake breasts.

Based on my brief experience, Callan is a stark contrast to the typical corporate female Sheryl Sandberg describes in her book. Callan did not hold herself back from pursuing any opportunities offered to her, which apparently women do as they sit back in a destructively self-critical fashion and second guess their qualifications.

She was offered to head the hedge fund group at Lehman in New York. She did it, despite a tenuous understanding of certain hedge fund basics (trust me on this one). . . And then there was her promotion to CFO. Who knows whether she aggressively pursued the opportunity or was set up to be a scapegoat, but she signed up for it and leaned in, until she fell over.

Ironically, Callan is the most recent female voice to weigh in on the Lean In debate.*** In her own words, she leaned in “very far.” Yes, she certainly did and most of the guys around the conference room that day in 2006 were certainly thrilled she leaned as far as she did.

Yet Penelope digresses . . . Her point is not to tear apart Callan, who has already been eviscerated by the press for several years now. Penelope’s point is that there are ways to engage in one’s career while still preserving one’s dignity and then there are other ways . . .

I have read “Lean In.” It is both well written and researched. I applaud Sandberg for putting her views out there. I equally applaud Slaughter's insightful response. I just have one thought to add: lean in, but please don’t let your breasts spill on to the table while you do it—there may be another female in the conference room and she really doesn’t want to watch you degrade yourself.

*For those of you who have not been following it, the Lean In debate is a reference to the current and very public discussion of the book “Lean In: Women, Work and the Will to Lead,” by Facebook’s COO, Sheryl Sandberg (Knopf, 2013)

**Lean Back, Buddy Boy, by Dan Zevin, http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/17/opinion/sunday/lean-in-buddy-boy.html

The Retro Wife, by Lisa Miller, New York Magazine, March 25, 2013.

How Do You Lean In, If You Don't Have Someone to Lean On, Katharine Weymouth,
http://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/katharine-weymouth-how-do-you-lean-in-when-you-dont-have-someone-to-lean-on/2013/03/22/b117d730-8b24-11e2-b63f-f53fb9f2fcb4_story.html

Yes, You Can, http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/10/books/review/sheryl-sandbergs-lean-in.html?pagewanted=all&_r=0

***Following is a link to a recent interview of Erin Callan on RockCenter: http://www.nbcnews.com/video/rock-center/51187891#51187891 Delete Reply Reply All Forward Move Actions Next Previous

A Man for All Seasons

A man for all seasons.* That’s what every woman wants to have, and every man wants to be . . . right?Well, I found a man for all seasons. As it turns out, they’re all NFL seasons.

My man for all NFL seasons is not an NFL player about whom I fantasize. No, Eli Manning, I don’t care if you have the keys to NYC now and a boyish smirk. No, Tom Brady, you're not for me, even if you could catch AND throw (I suspect you're relieved, Gisele).

No, my man for all NFL seasons is nothing of the sort. He is a man who probably could have been an NFL player given his height, broad shoulders, natural athleticism and unwavering drive, but he’s tackling a more challenging field altogether, as a writer, publisher and globe-trotting adventurer.

My NFL man and I have been texting feverishly about NFL football for over three years now. In fact he was the one who disabused me of my excessively blond and bigoted notion that football was nothing more than an overly-commercialized outlet for wide-bodied male dummies who consume too many carbs. When he eloquently explained the origins of the game at Yale* and the complexities of the strategies required, I realized I had been dismissing this sport too quickly.

We watched the Saints defeat the Lions in New Orleans in early January of this year. It was then I realized I would encounter few men with the same in-depth knowledge and passion for the game complemented by the ability to articulate both. Fortunately for me, his capacity for expression deviates aggressively from any other male football fan I have ever met.

While the average American football-loving male retreats into a man-cave during the NFL season, regressing to monosyllabic words and reverting to college drinking habits, my man becomes an über-communicator, texting and calling more in a single quarter of a game than most men would in an entire fiscal quarter.
He expresses his emotions through his favorite teams, their victories and defeats. The Saints win, he is effusive (heck, who wouldn’t be? Did you see how many records Drew Brees blew through by mid-January??). The Saints lose, he is despondent. In sympathy, I watched the first half of that play-off game against the 49ers too. I thought the Saints might have suffered from an overdose of barbiturates as I watched them play; but, no, they were sober through every single one of those FIVE turnovers. We’re still getting over the Saints’ loss and, for all I know, it will tear us apart, as I ambivalently bask in the glory of the Super Bowl victory of my second favorite team, the Giants.

The NFL season is over. The Giants’ victory parades have concluded. As I reflect, I don’t know what's more disappointing, the Saints’ playoff loss or the loss of my NFL man. I know I have no reason to mourn. After all, the 2012 PGA season has already kicked off, so now I can anticipate highly structured and adrenaline-filled weekends with Luke Donald, Phil Mickelson (who’s really looking good since he lost the man boobs) and Rory McIlroy. But will it be the same?

Frankly, I don’t know what my NFL man does on the off season. I don't know who he texts or whether he texts as often as he texts me. I know when we reconnect, sometime in October when the new season truly gets underway, I will wonder, for a moment, where he’s been.

So, you see, he is not a man for all seasons, but a man for all NFL seasons. That should not belittle his role in any respect. Maybe I am not the woman for all of his seasons either. He tends to summer in Greece, the Ukraine and other Mediterranean spots where I would freckle instantly and have difficulty locating a proper golf course. Maybe I am no better at seasonal flexibility than he is.

So, yes, there will be an estival pause of sorts in our NFL romance and maybe he’ll resurface next season with a girlfriend or wife in tow, yet I firmly believe he will maintain his loyalty, even if only for the NFL season. And for that, I am strangely grateful.


Notes
*If you recall, the man for all seasons is the ultimate man of conscience loved by all family and friends. The play by Robert Bolt is based on the true story of Sir Thomas More who, in the 16th century refused to support King Henry VIII’s divorce from his wife Catherine of Aragon in order to marry a younger gal, Ann Boleyn.
*Walter Camp, who enrolled in Yale College in 1876, is widely considered to be the most influential figure in the development of the American football and is known as the Father of American Football.

Happy Halloween from a Scary Single Female

Like most single women over 40, I don’t need to dress up for Halloween because my existence frightens people enough as is. Most people dress single women up in a variety of stereotypes that are far scarier than stock Halloween costumes for women. Who’s scarier, Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction or a haggard old witch on a broom? Now you see my point.

Every day is Halloween (without the candy), as others invent identities for us that bear little relationship to reality: the ultimate third wheel; the crazy aunt; the obsessed career chick; the frustrated spinster . . .

Having always dreamed of achieving exceptional levels of social and cultural conformity, I find the limited roles available to me troubling. The fact is, society has designed very few characters for an older single female that I am eager to play.

The Third Sexual Wheel. Sometimes marital boredom becomes such that one is pressed to invite others into the fold, to stir a pot a bit that they have difficulty stirring with their own teaspoons (no, I swear that’s just a metaphor). Yep, I have been “invited” (if you call a friend’s husband showing up unannounced and nude in your bedroom an “invitation”) to a threesome under the auspices of a leisurely golf weekend in the country. Unfortunately, threesome is not a game I play.

Crazy Aunt. I think my nieces and nephews genuinely like me, at times, but they have also been raised to recognize that my life is somehow wrong. When I was 36, my 6-year old nephew declared gleefully that I was an old maid. When I turned 40, my 8 year old niece thoughtfully suggested that I was ugly as a witch and should have my nose fixed—you know you can’t take any company for granted when your own niece tells you that you need plastic surgery. I still wonder whether she would have reached the same conclusion were I married and there were someone out there who had managed to like me in a long-term sort of way, despite my unfortunate appearance.

The Husband Stealer. As spinsters, we must be decidedly lonely. Therefore, my married female contemporaries, we must be after your husbands. If my alleged fascination with your husband makes him seem more attractive to you, then great, but, truth be known, I have no designs on him.

Desperate for a Divorcé. He’s a bit broken from a prior marriage and age has tarnished the single girl’s eligibility. So, then, what better a pairing for the 40+ single female than a divorcé looking for a second wind. We may be tabula rasa when it comes to marriage but we weren’t born yesterday. I would rather reread last Sunday’s paper than spend an evening with one of those divorcés who drones on wistfully about his ex-wife, what a great husband he was, and most appallingly, how no wife has ever been more sexually satisfied. Putting aside the crudeness of broaching the subject of physical intimacy on a first date, if a guy has to tell that to a near stranger, could he even possibly believe it himself? Sadly, that too was a true story.

Mrs. Cougar Robinson. As a woman of a certain age, I am not prohibited from speaking with 30 year olds of the male species but there are implications . . . Cougar is the label if you speak with a man 10 years younger than you, even if just to ask the time of day. More than 10 years? Then they start singing “Mrs. Robinson,” even when ironically, you're not married. At this age, the presumption is that I have no, and have never had, any maternal instincts. Mrs. Cougar Robinson is just an unsated animal on the prowl.

Frustrated Nun. Single at this point means you’re either uptight and moralistic or abnormal (and perhaps all of the above). I confess I’ve joked about becoming a nun, but, then I saw the movie Doubt. Now that I appreciate that male priests can indulge in wine and other pleasures every evening while nuns are not permitted to advance beyond skimmed milk, I’m no longer willing to don a habit.

Obsessed Career Psycho. Ms. Career Psycho can be satisfied only through financial and competitive achievement. Even modern cinema still casts her as the ball-buster who can love only her resume and her bank account, like the Chief Risk Officer (played by Demi Moore) of the thinly disguised Lehman Brothers in the recent movie Margin Call. As the aging CEO Jeremy Irons explains her severance arrangement and the fact that hers is the head that must roll before the bank dumps a ton of toxic assets into the market place, she toys with the ring on her finger, her right hand finger. It couldn’t be the left because women like this do not marry or experience the same range on the emotional spectrum as her male counterparts.

At the end of the day, we’re really not that scary or extreme. We’re not trying to seduce your husbands, we don’t bite, and we don’t eat our young (or your young for that matter, because we may not have any). We’re a lot more like you than you think: sometimes we’re happy and sometimes we’re not. We get tired, hungry, lonely, silly, etc, just like you. So just remember, when you see all those ghoulish characters out and about this Halloween, they are probably far scarier than a single female over 40.

The "C" Word

It’s been a few months now that I’ve been wrestling with the “c” word. Every now and then it surfaces in my mind and I shudder. Such an awful word. Such horrible images.

To avoid ambiguity (or innuendo), I am not referring to anything that rhymes with “hunt” . . . The “c” word rhymes with “dancer.”

No sooner had a friend’s father passed away from cancer than my friend Priscilla Worthington* announced she too had cancer. I wish she had given me a heads up—I was somewhat hung over from a Saturday outing when she confided the news at Sunday brunch. I can understand why she was taken aback when I asked if it was malignant (in my muddled state, I had insensitively confused the concepts of “tumor” and “cancer,” which really are profoundly different).

Fortunately, by the end of brunch, like truly hardened NYers, we managed to laugh—hard—about the “c” word. First, most obviously, was the fact that the whole process would lead to weight loss, the obvious goal of any NYC woman. I was envious. Then we analyzed other angles, including the time I would have to take off from work to care for her post-surgery (translate: go to kick-ass resorts in the South or on the West Coast to ensure an optimal climate and maximum pampering for her recuperation).

Of course, I was assuming that (a) anyone in corporate America would give a damn that a colleague’s friend had cancer and (b) she didn’t really have cancer. Wrong on both accounts.

Last week I tried hard to escape the office to visit her in the hospital only to remain trapped in a partner’s office running in circles over something he was too lazy to think through on his own for what must be the firm’s tiniest and most clueless client.

Trapped again the next day, I announced that I had a hard stop, because I was visiting a friend in the hospital who had cancer. He must’ve thought I was playing the “c” card because he immediately countered with the sympathy card (or was that empathy he was aiming for?). He digressed for all of 10 seconds about a family friend who had had cancer before trapping me for another few hours so he could resolve a matter before he left for vacation, thereby eliminating any possibility of my going to the hospital.

He may be a chump who earns little respect at the firm but he’s still senior to me so even the least valuable of his clients and his vacation will always be a priority over any friend or relative of mine with cancer. Ah, the warmth and support of corporate America.

Corporate America cares. It throws money at the problem, buying tables at benefits. It doesn’t matter if it’s solely because of the competitive instinct it incites,* companies support these efforts and they are to be lauded, don’t get me wrong. It’s just a shame that so few support giving time rather than money, which not everyone has to give in the first place.

It’s not until you spend some time up close that you begin to have a sense of what the “c” word is about anyway. You have no idea how fragile and complicated our carcasses can be until you see one that’s wounded and ailing. For example, I thought laughter might help, but post-op, even a slight giggle might upset the flesh that’s been torn apart and sewn back together. Laughter, like many other things, will have to wait.

What shouldn’t have to wait, however, is making the time to sit still and talk, which despite this being one of the most social cities in the world, is something we don’t do as well as we think.

And so, after Priscilla had left the hospital, I spent one evening at her beside. Fortunately, not even nine hours of surgery and a bottle of percocet could make her forget the importance of a glass of pinot grigio—there was a glass of wine in my hands within minutes of my arrival.

To pass the time and distract her, together with her family who were visiting, we reviewed and analyzed exhaustively the most noteworthy dating episodes and incidents from the past six months of our lives, inevitably concluding that NYC-based men are truly a troubled and troublesome breed.

By the time I left Priscilla’s, it was late, past dinnertime. So I slipped into a neighborhood pub on my way home to grab a bite and review the draft of a short story a friend was writing before heading to bed.

I wound up sitting at the bar, stuck between Duane, who kept telling me he loved me because I had agreed to edit a friend’s story (with such a low emotional threshold, I imagine he falls in love at least 4 times a week—how exhausting) and George, who was desperate to tell me about how he’d recently been dissed by a potential suitor. Was he looking for sympathy or did he think this was the best way to recommend himself? I kept my mouth full so I would be excused from any obligation to respond.

Although the sight of Priscilla’s fragility and the signs of the obvious pain she was in (before she slipped another valium) made me flinch, I’d take an evening chatting with her and her family, completely isolated from the hustle and bustle and general chaos outside, over the company of NYC men anytime.
Notes
*Some of you will remember Priscilla from an earlier post: http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2010/11/case-of-priscilla-worthington.html

*If you’ve ever attended a benefit with a corporate group, you know the first thing every one does when they sit down at their $15-20,000 table is open the program and figure out which organizations gave more.

Of Mice and Men . . . and Invisible Suitcases

As I wait for winter to end and for life to begin, I keep returning to the same topic: Why am I still single?

As a girlfriend observed, until I’ve bagged a man, I’ll have no one to kill mice in my apartment. Hmm, not my immediate concern (nor necessarily my measure of a man), but I do appreciate her unusual perspective.

I’m not deluded enough to believe winter would be less depressing if I had someone special. Chances are someone “special” would exacerbate my cabin fever, compete for the remote control, and desecrate the toothpaste tube. Yet these aggravations seem like inconveniences I should be experiencing at this point in life.

Did I miss a turn? Am I wandering along the wrong life path? It’s fine if my path is “less traveled,” but what if my path is deserted and leads to a dark cave inhabited exclusively by trolls and other social pariah?

Despite many promising starts in 2010 (remember: 2.25 boyfriends!), 2011 has disappointed so far. As I approach the end of Q1, I am at a loss to explain Penelope’s poor results. The company’s fundamentals are still quite solid: reasonable looks; athletic; sense of humor; employed, etc. I’ve seen companies with far weaker fundamentals attract strategic partners and double their growth in just a two year period. But I guess I'm not a company listed on the NY Stock Exchange.

There was that one promising encounter in mid-January . . . I was approached by a handsome young man (yes, I still think 45 is “young”) at my local pub. Five minutes of conversation yielded an unprecedented number of coincidences: a former member of my golf club; friends with my college squash buddies; and resident in an apartment across the street from me.

Before long, I was basking in his attention. The late night emails following our impromptu drink didn’t hurt either (“That’s the best time I’ve had in a long time;” “I think you’re beautiful and sweet;” and, “Can I take you to dinner?”).

At last, I had incontrovertible proof that a man was interested in me. And he was a scratch golfer. It seemed too good to be true. And so it was . . .

There was no follow up, despite my accepting his dinner invitation. The acceptance hung out there awkwardly as a testament to our uneven expectations: his, a diversion to perk up his nightcap; and mine, an exciting new beginning to something/anything, which might even culminate in the first real date of 2011.

Most who have analyzed the incident have concluded that Scratch Golfer was not ambivalent about his level of interest in me but was probably married. Married? Only a dog would send emails like that if he had a wife at home! I’m not fool enough to believe men stop being dogs when they marry, but I thought they respected the borders of their marital kennels with a bit more subtlety. Apparently not . . .

With my one lead for 2011 gone, I pondered how I would avoid another decade of eating alone.

At this point in life (long in the tooth but not totally out for the count), people tend to form bonds based on their baggage. I don’t mean by whining over what’s flawed in their past, but by tactfully comparing select life-transforming experiences that felt gut-wrenchingly awful while being experienced.

By way of illustration . . . : a few years ago I invited a girlfriend to join me for drinks with a handsome Swede I’d been spending time with recently. Within three sips, I morphed from the object of his focus to an unnecessary third wheel, as he and my girlfriend swapped notes over their respective divorces. As they discussed the division of marital assets, their eyes lit up in shared understanding. I knew by the way they regaled each other with tales of ceding furniture to their ex-spouses that they were already imagining sharing certain assets with each other. I had nothing to contribute to this exchange. My baggage looked nothing like theirs and was clearly not worthy of discussion.

But what is Penelope’s baggage anyway? I see obtuse career decisions and some low grade anxieties, but that's the stuff of petite French handbags and silk evening purses, nothing like the large suitcases most of my contemporaries are carrying. No divorces, no ex-spouses, no stints in rehab, not even a stalker in my past. Have I been living under a rock?

The thing about baggage is that while we can easily identify others’, our own remains invisible to us. How can I make sure my baggage is neatly tucked underneath the seat (as baggage should be) if I don't even know what mine is?

Whether I like it or not, 20+ years living solitary—while others married, divorced, remarried, became felons or joined a cult—has probably left some scars that others can see and that I’ve never noticed.

Maybe my baggage is not as grand as it should be, but with some luck, maybe I have just enough baggage to meet a kind-hearted man with a large invisible suitcase and a good golf swing.

Being Dumped, On Television

I looked out my window last Saturday and decided it was get-in-touch-with-ex-boyfriends season. I’m not sure whether it was the cloud cover or the temperature that tipped me off, but somehow I just knew.



So, I started to work my way down the list alphabetically. I was striking out. All of the ones in A through C were married with children so getting in touch would be awkward, and probably highly inappropriate from their wives’ perspective. I needed to respect the cardinal rule of intergender friendship for single female adults of this age: thou shalt not remain friends with ex-boyfriends unless they are also single and/or gay (which leads to interpretive challenges when they are heterosexually married AND gay).



A few letters later in the alphabet, I stumbled on the Evil Englishman. We had dated sometime in the 1870s, or so it seems, and he remains single, so he is safe (possibly too safe). Some of you will recall that I had an unremarkable lunch with him a year ago, a lunch that surprised me by how little we had to say to each other.* But, a year later, maybe he had become more interesting, or I had become far less interesting so he would seem more interesting in comparison.



So, I lobbed over a short email to his work address politely asking how 2011 was treating him so far. I immediately received a “Mailer Daemon” message. I scrutinized the error message for signs of obvious falsification. Truth be known, I have drafted false email error messages in the past rather than respond to someone with whom I no longer wished to be in contact. Cowardly? Yes, yet surprisingly effective.



The error message appeared legitimate. But how could he have left the bank he’d been at for 20 years? That bank was his life and he loved those trading screens like they were his next of kin (if he could have married an algorithm, he would have, but I suspect he would’ve been disappointed with their sex life). Only an assassination could explain this, although I recognize that fixed income derivatives traders are so rarely the subject of assassination attempts these days.



I launched a formal investigation and reached out to a friend with a Bloomberg account so she could sleuth discreetly on my behalf. Bloomberg is like Facebook for traders, except that it’s essentially mandatory for those living in “real time,” like traders (lawyers tend to live in “unreal time” where they tell a client they will send a document “shortly,” only to produce it days later . . .).



If the Evil Englishman weren’t on Bloomberg then clearly the assassination theory, no matter how far-fetched, was valid. My friend typed, searched, and found . . . some odd news. Within minutes she was able to pull up a story, which had appeared just 20 minutes earlier, confirming not only that he had left his senior post but that he had learned of his own departure the day prior thereto while listening to a “breaking news” segment on CNBC. Ouch!



We’ve all heard friends’ horror stories about being dumped by voicemail or email, which stings, but being dumped on public television must be devastating, not to mention uncivilized. As far as I know, only Matt Damon has dumped someone on national television (Minnie Driver).



Guys can break up in any medium because, well, they can. They incur no legal liability in doing so. There are no laws that govern these types of transactions. It’s generally a bit tougher for banks to do this, even if an employee is “at will,” because there are reputational concerns at stake as well as potential liabilities to address.



His bank was walking away from a 20 year commitment and couldn’t even muster the decency to alert him in advance. Isn’t this something HR could have done? Maybe that’s why guys tend to break up over email and voicemail nowadays—they have no HR department to do the “in-person” job for them.



Later in the day, a spokesperson for the bank denied the story, but “Business Insider” explained that it would keep the story posted because it had been communicated to them by a “friend from work” of the Evil Englishman, which introduced a new level of indecency. Which is worse, the fact that your employer allows your termination to leak to public television through its own sloppiness before telling you, or the fact that your “work buddy” (who has inevitably been described as “collegial” and a “team player” in his 360 degree review) chose to share this delightful anecdote with the press ? What a swell friend. Left me wondering about my good friends in the corporate world, or is there such a thing . . .



How implausible that a white shoe firm that prided itself on its elitist standards for over 75 years should discard of top talent in such a crass manner. Then I recalled the Evil Englishman confiding in me a decade ago that he thought his bank was “headed to the shitter” (which sounds far less vulgar with a British accent). Had culture in corporate America, even in white shoe firms, decayed so dramatically in just a decade? Were their white shoes now muddied by greed for a quick profit, or had their shoes always been filthy but it was easier to hide a decade ago, when the Internet was still in its infancy and Wall Street press was easier to control?



Notes

* http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2009/11/lunch-report-x-lunch.html

Survey of Winter Blues Management Techniques

Penelope has been somewhat reticent lately (hence the infrequent Lunch Reports)* as she struggles with the increasingly groundhog-day-esque feel of her day-to-day existence. Wake up, dress (yet who cares what wear this time of year), work, lunch (always within the $3 limit), sunset (gone already? Geez), 5 mile run, more work, feed cats, dinner, inhale glass of wine (or several), watch Golf Channel, sleep . . .

Every year, about this time of year, winter stands tall before me, a menacing presence that promises to impose itself for an unbearably long time. It doesn’t matter whether it's 60 degrees out or -6 degrees, because there's still over 8 weeks to go and during that time the weather is sure to fluctuate and frustrate beyond all reason.

And each year I explore new ways to push back the winter and maintain a convincing smile in the dead of winter.*

One year I ran through the winter, in complete denial of the cold and its effects on me. I wound up with walking bronchitis, but, thanks to all those endorphins sloshing around and working themselves into a happy lather, I also got through the winter with cheer and was absurdly fit when spring arrived.

I’ve never understood folks who extol the change of the seasons. I don’t need winter to appreciate summer. The contrast does nothing for me. Summer could last all year long, although I don’t mind the fall and spring stuff that nature tosses in like an annual bonus.

There was the year I golfed my way through winter, booking a trip south every other weekend. My handicap went from a 24 to a 12 but my savings were cut in half as well. By March 1st, I realized I could no longer afford Seasonal Affective Disorder, or my means of coping with it.

The very next year, I dated my way through winter, with the assistance of the Internet, of course (who has a deep enough bench of friends that they can field a new set-up once a week without some cyber assistance??). This was the winter of my real discontent. It produced myriad enduring stories but not a single male who endured beyond a first date.

Yet another year I entertained a scientific approach, enhancing my daily exposure to natural light by leaving my bedroom curtain open.* It helped, until the open curtain introduced my feline roommate to the pigeons perching outside my window at dawn each morning, in turn prompting him to hurl himself at the pigeons to kill them and protect his master from the wicked birds defecating indiscriminately.

No matter how many times he repeated the exercise, sadly, he couldn’t understand that a double window separated him from his prey. Convinced he might suffer brain damage as a result of blunt windowpane trauma, I eventually closed the curtain and returned to the dark.

I continue to explore new techniques for blues management but what should Winter 2011’s project be? What can I entertain, or what can entertain me, so that I forget winter has arrived and won't loosen its grip on me anytime soon?

I’ve already solicited advice from select friends, whose suggestions range from becoming a Christian Scientist (it may make more sense to attend my own church more frequently before switching religions altogether) to rekindling my stale passion for skiing (why pay to be cold when I can stay in NYC and freeze for free?). Now I’d like to put the question to a broader audience.

What can I do to confront those recalcitrant moods and make them yield more gracefully, if not effortlessly? Even the treadmill has become tired of the unrealistic expectations I invest in it each time I step on for another run.

And how will I know if I am successful? Each day I fight harder, but am less certain of any discernible progress. Perhaps my standards are too high, because when I asked a close friend whether I was winning the fight against the blues, she assured me that if I was alive and still able to ask the question, I was winning . . .

So, Penelope is inviting her readers to write in with suggestions for managing the winter blues and to share success stories of overcoming the demons that rule many of our winters.


Penelope

Notes
*For those new to The Lunch Report, please see http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com for back issues.

*See “Happy Meals for Sad People,” http://penelopefrost.blogspot.com/2009/10/lunch-report-happy-meals-for-sad-people.html

*Exposure to natural light is just one of many techniques recommended for managing Seasonal Affective Disorder. See, Avery, DH; Kizer, D; Bolte, MA; Hellekson, C, “Bright Light Therapy of Subsyndromal Seasonal Affective Disorder in the Workplace: Morning vs Afternoon Exposure,” Acta Psychiatrica Scandinavica (2001)

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.