The Seam-Splitters

I've nicknamed my thighs the seam splitters....
I’ve nicknamed my thighs the seam splitters….

I’ve nick-named my thighs “the seam-splitters.”

Arguably, it’s not a very flattering nickname, and I’m sure you’re wondering why a young woman would want to give such a self-effacing and school-playground-teasing nickname to a part of her body. Or, perhaps you’re saying to me, “common, your thighs aren’t thaaaat big.”

No, really. They are. Just ask my wounded pants…

Right now there are 3 pairs of jeans draped over a wicker armchair in my bedroom, each a victim of the seam-splitters. One pair just returned from a tailor who painstaking reconstructed the upper legs with patches, as if the jean were an ancient, priceless Athenian terra cotta vase. The other two are awaiting the same treatment, though they are more likely destined for the trash.

None of these victims have seen more than a year of action, and yet, despite their youth, there they lay, the stitching along the inner thighs torn asunder, split and worn away — jeans in their prime, fatally maimed in the name of fashion.

I know the distressed/patched/custom look is always chic, but still....
I know the distressed/patched/custom look is always chic, but still….

It’s a fate I prepare myself for every time I go shopping: the jeans I buy will split along the inner thighs.  I’ve come to think of jeans as if they are pantyhose: not quite single use, but I shouldn’t get too attached —  it’s only a matter of time before “tricks of the trade,”  like applied clear nail polish or hairspray fail and the devastating run wins, rendering them unwearable.

I’ve learned to spot all the signs that a tear is pending, that the next wear will probably be my last. If I do find a winning pair, they get set aside as “special occasion” jeans. Sometimes, I just buy two right up front.

In high school, I wrote an essay for my AP English class entitled: I Run on Diesel. I was, of course, referring to the Italian denim brand that finally offered me a cut of jeans that seemed to accommodate what my father so kindly referred to as my “thunder thighs.” If there’s nothing else to take away from this look back on my teen years, its that my battle to find well-fitting, properly-enforced leg-wear has been lifelong…

What is a relatively new phenomenon is acceptance. This is just how I’m built. We all have those body areas that give us grief and make us self conscious. For most of my life, that area was my thighs.  For years, I attacked fitness routines and diets promising trimmer legs. It was a mean twist of irony when, as I got fitter, my legs packed on muscle, so instead of shrinking, they got bigger. When I was a competitive athlete, my thunder thighs were an asset. Now that I’m retired, my main goal at the gym is to keep my thighs in seam-splitting shape.

Jeans, be warned.

I’ve learned to ❤ my thunder thighs, aka “The Seam Splitters”

Considering My Relationship with the Oscars

In case you missed my Red Carpet interview, I wore an emerald-colored gown to the Oscars.

When I was 17, this is what I planned to wear to the Oscars....
When I was 17, this is what I planned to wear to the Oscars….

It was a strapless number, structured through the bodice but draping effortlessly from the hips. There are understated gold embellishments that are really only visible when I move — an effect for the Red Carpet paparazzi. It’s vaguely inspired by Whoppie Goldberg’s spoof of Scarlet O’Hara’s curtain gown….. It’s a knock-out, sure to land me on every best dressed list.

And with an imaginary flash of the photographer’s camera, and an adieu to Ryan Seacrest, the daydream ends and I remember: I was not at the Oscars.

When my friend Annie and I were writing our respective masters’ theses, we’d often procrastinate by conjuring up our Oscar nights. I’d always more or less return to the same scenario — attending on the arm of Gerard Butler in my jewel-toned gown with baubles by Harry Winston.

This year, I went with Bradley Cooper….

Anyway, all of this bring me to the point that, when it comes to the Oscars, all I really care about is the clothes.

It’s been a long time since I’ve watched the Oscars having seen enough of the nominated movies to give any intelligent input about which deserves what. Of course that doesn’t mean I don’t have opinions.

I took it very personally the year Russell Crow lost to Denzel Washington for Best Actor. In fact, I was so miffed that I refused to see any Denzel Washington movie since Training Day, for which he won the award. That’s right, I won’t be seeing Flight anytime soon. (Though, I’ve watched Remember the Titans more times than I care to admit…we all make concessions….)

Every year, there’s a movie nominated for Best Picture that I absolutely refuse to see, under any circumstance.

In 2009, it was Avatar. (still haven’t seen it)

I won't see Lincoln... and it's not just because Daniel Day Lewis looks like he's wearing a Halloween costume...
I won’t see Lincoln… and it’s not just because Daniel Day Lewis looks like he’s wearing a Halloween costume…

In 2013, it’s Lincoln. Don’t ask why… you’ll be here for hours….

Oh, and Les Mis. I won’t see Les Mis. I didn’t like it on Broadway, and I don’t expect to like it on the big screen. Even if Russell is in it… So I’m just not going to watch it.

Ever.

I saw Argo and I loved it.

It wasn’t an extraordinary movie, on par with some of the great films in history, but there was something about it’s understated quality and veracity that made it incredibly watchable, dare I say riveting. I want it to win something.

I wished I’d seen Zero Dark Thirty. I’ll probably catch it when it hits Netflix.

When Katherine Bigelow beat out ex hubby and mega egoist James Cameron in all the important categories with her Hurt Locker (hands down one of the most memorable and powerful movies ever made) I was positively giddy. So, I’m secretly (and with blind prejudice) pulling for her latest film to take home some big awards.

If Ann Hathaway walks home with that Oscar this year, there’s a good chance I’ll throw something at the television.

Unless she’s wearing something fantastic…

For the actors, the Oscars mean a lifetime achievement. For me? It's all about the clothes...
For the actors, the Oscars mean a lifetime achievement. For me? It’s all about the clothes…

 

What to do when You’re an Adult with a Snow Day

Nemo found us.
Nemo found us.

We didn’t know we were looking for him, but Nemo found us and brought with him some friends: snow, sleet, winds, ice, closed offices, and a long weekend.

Booya!

When you’re a kid, snow means endless possibilities all of which allow you to throw off responsibilities, built forts and live in a world of storybook make believe. When you’re an adult, the opportunity to stay out of the office, off the roads, and forgo errands opens the doors to all sorts of “grown-up” activities. Here are a few thoughts about how to spend your snowed-in Nemo weekend.

Turn your living room into a yoga studio

Or a personal gym. For the last year, I’ve been receiving daily (or is it weekly?) emails from Women’s Health and Shape magazine with smart, fast, efficient at home workouts. They’ve been accumulating digital dust in my inbox as have the various resistant bands and kettle bells I’ve collected over the years (in my defense — I do have a gym membership that gets exercised 5 times a week). But the blizzard was a good excuse to see if that 8 minute workout really does the trick… summer abs, here I come, courtesy of Nemo.

Learn how to work your curling iron

I’m infamously terrible at using styling appliances. Even an eyeliner pencil has been turned into a near weapon in my presence. I thought the mastering of a diffuser to dry my curls was monumental. And then for Christmas, a thoughtful friend gave me a curling iron to “help me tame my tresses on opening nights!” I think I thought this was a good idea…. until the 3rd degree burn on my ear and the malfunction that somehow turned the curling iron into a flattening iron. How does that work?

By the time Nemo rolls through, I’ll be a styling pro.

Get crafty. Make your own Valentines!
Get crafty. Make your own Valentines!

Make homemade Valentines

It’s only a few days away, and hallmark isn’t what it used to be, let’s face it. Why not get crafty? Or, there’s always macaroni picture frame if greeting cards ain’t your thang.

Cook a big pot of soup

Or throw together a hearty cassoulet. If home-cooked meals are something you haven’t had a chance to do for a while, there’s no better excuse to make a big pot of some comfort food.

and now for my favorite…. last but not least….

Revert to being an 8 year old

Carelessly, frolic in the snow. Go sledding, build a snowman, make snow angels. Get as close to getting frostbite on your nose and fingertips as you can, and then come inside, shake off the snow, mull some wine or spike your cocoa before curling up in front of the fire, with your blankie.

When all else fails, reconnect with your inner child and go sledding
When all else fails, reconnect with your inner child and go sledding

So, Let’s Hang Out? Considering “The End of Courtship”

“Ok. Let’s do this! Let’s hang out!”

I confess, I was caught completely off-guard. It wasn’t exactly the declaration of affection or attraction or, hell, even interest that I had hoped for from a guy I considered “most likely to be cast as leading man in the movie that is my life.”

"Let's do this!" was more game-time cheer than romance. I wanted romance.
“Let’s do this!” was more game-time cheer than romance. I wanted romance.

“Let’s do this!” was less romance and more pre-game pep-rally.

Were we going to jump off a cliff together? Maybe metaphorically. But if his “I want to hang out with you” was the 21st century equivalent of Mr. Darcy’s “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you,” then we were certainly in for a bumpy ride.

But such are the times we live in….

In all likelihood, you or someone you know shared that NYTimes Sunday Styles piece about dating in the age of texting and social media. About how traditional courtship has been replaced with the flippant one-offs of the hook-up generation.

For the most part, I thought the essay was a gross generalization that painted a bleak picture favoring an ever-increasing divorce rate.

But Alex Williams was on to something — “hanging out” has exited the realm of friendship and infiltrated the realm of courtship, leaving singles (particularly, single women) hoping to make the jump from “gone fishing!” to “got him!” in a perpetual state of confusion.

“Let’s hang out.”

When I was a college student with more male than female friends, this was something I heard fairly often. In those days, it’s meaning was crystal clear: we’re going to keep it casual, keep it low-key, throw on a movie or pull out a deck of cards, open a bottle, maybe some people will join us, and by the way, we’re going to keep it platonic.

Oh! How fast things change!

Imagine my surprise when, a half decade later, a “let’s hang out” has translated into everything from “I’d like to take you to dinner” to “let’s hook-up” to “I’d like this to be serious.”

“Hanging out” as a colloquialism is the new “hooking up” — an appropriately non-committal term that keeps your options open and your morning-after stories vague.

Saying "let's hang out" is like putting on a suit of armor to protect yourself from harm
Saying “let’s hang out” is like putting on a suit of armor to protect yourself from harm

It’s a sort of self-protective statement, one that doesn’t put your heart on the line while still implying an interest in spending time with the other person. A sort of “let’s see if we click as friends” is partially implied — and isn’t the fundamental base of a successful relationship a strong friendship? Isn’t it a good idea to see if you can be friends as well as lovers?

What’s the problem?

More of my 20-something friends are married or in domestic partnerships or engaged than are single. Is Williams’ point, that this behavior might be fostering the kind commitment-phobia that makes it more difficult for people to really develop worthwhile relationships, accurate?

Maybe it is and I just cultivate romantically stable people? (unlikely…. you’ve never met some of the guys I dated…)

Let’s be honest, if you’re an urban singleton, getting a foothold in the industry of your choosing, filling-up your time with friends and social groups, drinking up all your environment has to offer, the notion of keeping it casual when it comes to dating is your best laid plan (pun intended.)

Here’s the problem — it’s the phrase itself.

Instead of "hanging out" consult the thesaurus. Let's phase out that phrase
Instead of “hanging out” consult the thesaurus. Let’s phase out that phrase

“Hang out.” It’s still flippant, casual, an afterthought. If  saying “I want to see you” carries implications of  serious commitment and so you shy away, say you want to “get together” or say you want to do something specific.

We don’t need the guy that says “I want to spend every waking minute with you” (though, when faced with a choice between him and Mr. Let’s Hang Out, Mr. Let’s Hang Out is shown wanting). But it’s nice to feel like we’re more than an addition to a plan.

“Hanging out” leaves lots of things hanging in the air. And frankly, hanging out gets old quick. Before you know it, she/he will be hanging up the towel on this casual courtship and moving on.

 

 

 

 

Hello, 2013. I think we’re going to get along famously: Considering Resolutions

The beautiful Waterford Crystal Ball atop Time Square touched down at midnight, marking the first day of 2013 for those partying in EST. Glass slippers were left on staircases up and down the eastern seaboard. At 12:02AM, ABC cut to commercial and America watched 2 ads for Weight Watcher’s new 360 plan. The second, which featured Jessica Simpson made me reach for another cupcake.

the weight watchers commercial made me reach for another cupcake.... happy new year!
the weight watchers commercial made me reach for another cupcake…. happy new year!

Soon there after, they cued the roll for eHarmony.

So, America, what are your top 2 New Year’s resolutions?

I’ve written about this before — how for the most part, I’ve given up on writing conventional, and arguably sensible New Year’s resolutions. No more “lose 10 pounds” or “find love.” Both of those have gone nowhere in the past (though, in 2012 I did drop a dress size… booya!…. and then, there were those roses….). Instead, I opted for mantras or theme-songs for the year.

My 2011 theme song was “Jump!” by Madonna. My theme poem was “Invictus.” My mantra was “make it work!” I should note, I was unemployed in January 2011.

2012 flew in and before I knew it, it was July. It seems I had forgotten to select a theme song or mantra, but I suppose Keep Calm and Carry On might have been a late-in-the-season pick up.

For 2013? I’ve had some thoughts…

Bubbly is lovely
Bubbly is lovely

Along with several bottle of Veuve Cliquot and Pommery sitting next to my recycle bin, there’s a stack of cheese paper and half torn labels that hint at triple-creme cheeses to suggest that I gave 2012 a graceful, indulgent and highly appropriate send off.

Apparently, the dieing words of John Maynard Keynes were: “I only wish I had drunk more champagne.”

Every New Year’s Eve I am reminded why he was so regretful. Bubbly is lovely.

2013 New Year’s resolution 1: Drink More Champagne.

In the past, I’ve secretly resolved to read more. This has typically started off well in that I used my lunch hour to browse the shelves at bookstores and came home with a stack of classics along with a few recent “notable” publications. 2012 was my most successful year. I read a whole 2 books.

The men in my life keep giving me massive books as gifts. In 2013, I resolve to read them.
The men in my life keep giving me massive books as gifts. In 2013, I resolve to read them.

For 2013, I joined a book club that will meet monthly around potluck wine & cheese parties. This is great because not only does it help me achieve New Year’s resolution 2 (read more books) it also helps me achieve resolutions 3 & 4 (join more clubs and drink more wine, respectively).

I’ve also resolved to do more yoga. The challenge with this one is not in finding the time, but making sure that it doesn’t run into conflicts with resolutions 1 and 4.

Next step: google yoga studios with open bar…..

Can we make that "Forever 27.5" cuz that sounds like me right now
Can we make that “Forever 27.5” cuz that sounds like me right now

Here’s a drink to you, 2012

As 2012 draws to a close, I confess, I’m a little sad. It was a good year. Nay, a great year. The kind of year you look back on and think: “Gee, I hope I have another 2012.”

I got my moment to shine, curating my first NYTimes reviewed exhibit
I got my moment to shine, curating my first NYTimes reviewed exhibit

2012 got off to a rickety start. I was frustrated at work and play. I was suffering from typical mid-winter doldrums, the kind that come with a restlessness that makes you start looking at new job postings or considering applying to culinary school. On January 2nd, I had lunch with a guy I had met online and thought would turn into Mr. Right. He didn’t call me back. Humpf. I was uninspired as January began to click down.

By March, I was singing a different tune. Life was off and running. After a few small-scale successes, I was curating my first marquee exhibition for my organization. I’d see a raise, a promotion, and  a full-page spread in the New York times. There would be failed but funny first dates. The guy that didn’t call me back became a trusted friend.

Old friends made their mark as we planned new adventures. Reunions happened on a grand scale. Close friends got engaged or said their “I-dos” with joy and really delicious wedding cake. Love blossomed under a moonlit canopy and carried through the summer into late autumn, when the changing weather brought with it new prespectives. We closed one chapter and began to write another.

Guadi stole our hearts in Spain
Guadi stole our hearts in Spain

My mother and I packed our suitcases and gallivanted across Europe, embarking on the kind of ramble through five countries that can only be summed up as a trip of lifetime.

A hurricane hit. We were left relatively unscathed, but others were less lucky.

Yes, as it turns out, 2012 was one exciting, raucous ramble from beginning to end. There were some rough patches, some catastrophes, some heartbreak, some unpleasantness that will leave their scars, but all in all, 2012 was a year of highlights for me. I’m lucky, and grateful to be so.

My wish for you, and perhaps my hope for me too, is that 2013 is the kind of year where we’ll all look back and say: “Gee, I hope I have another 2013.”