How Not to Be a Human Being

There is nothing more fascinating to me than the way people conduct themselves in public and the factors that make us act, or not act, in a particular way. Sometimes we are kind, sometimes we are abrasive and sometimes we are just plain ridiculous. And this Sunday, as my husband T and I enjoyed one of those rare do-whatever-the-hell-we-feel-like days together, ridiculous seemed to be what was on tap.

After our coffee and morning news I convinced T to finally take me to see Revolutionary Road (Revolutionary Road (Movie Tie-in Edition) (Vintage Contemporaries)) by announcing, "You're taking me to see Revolutionary Road at 11:15." As expected he hated it (partially because he was determined to hate it and partially because he actually hated it), I loved it and we had our usual post-movie let's-pretend-we-know-something-about-the-"cinema" discussion.

We had worn our gym clothes to the movie and only had to make a quick pit stop to pick up bottles of water on our way to work out. It was during this pit stop that ridiculous set in. After searching around Duane Reade for five minutes before finding where they had hidden the bottles of water, we worked our way up front and got on line. There was one person checking out and we were next. As people who generally observe the unspoken rules of social-distance we stood two, maybe three feet behind the person checking out as not to press up against her and give her flashbacks of getting grinded by over-age guys who snuck into teen night at a nightclub in the New Jersey town she grew up in (Hunka Bunka anyone?)

As the cashier scanned her items, we stood there, clearly next on line, having abandoned our "intelligent" movie conversation for more important matters like gas. Just as the transaction ahead of us was wrapping up an old woman swooped in, half looked at us and stepped in front of us on line. The girl left and the woman placed her items on the counter and instructed the cashier to check her out.

Utterly confused as to if this was really happening, I looked at T with the same confused face that I looked at my Maid of Honor with when someone farted during our wedding ceremony. My eyes darted between T and the cashier and I lost it (again, in the same way I lost it when the gas was passed under our chuppah). My face turned reddish-purple, my body shook and I couldn't stifle the laughter. Nothing I did could stop the hysterical laughing and I was literally cracking up with tears coming out of my eyes and gasping for breath between "ha-ha's." Between laughs, I gasped to T, "Is this really happening?" and the cashier did all he could to to keep it together and not start cracking up too as he tried to convince grandma that he wasn't over charging her for the cat food. I kept laughing, the cashier counted the pennies that she was paying with and T just stood there dumbfounded.

She was lucky I was having a good day, because normally I am the first person to call someone out when they behave in a manner that defies common courtesy. Just last week, some woman first, told off the person behind the deli-counter, then yelled at me to get out of her way in the grocery store so I turned around and told her, "You need to be nicer to people lady!" To my surprise, she actually responded by yelling back at me, "Yeah, you're right!" Which was basically contradictory since she yelled it at me in a the nastiest tone possible.

But on Sunday, the old broad in Duane Reade lucked out. She finished counting pennies, took her receipt and after cutting us in line with not so much as a glance back, she headed out of the store, but not before knocking down the display of tissues on the counter on her way out. It's a good thing that I can count on my husband to toss in the appropriate snide remark when I'm too busy laughing, because he yelled after her, "Don't worry lady! I got it!" (in reference to the tissues) as she made her way out the door.

I always joke that when I hit my late eighties I'm going to do the following:

1. Eat whatever the hell I want and get really fat.
2. Start smoking a pack of Virginia Slims a day.
3. Set new standards of daily wine consumption.
4. Say and do whatever the hell I want.

Maybe I'll even take up stealing, fart out loud in public and be as cranky as I want to be to "youngsters". I've always planned to do so under the guise of, "I'm old. What do you expect?" I always say this jokingly and truly hope to be healthy, vibrant and attractive (not smelly, wheezing and nasty) until they hammer the nails into my coffin. But after witnessing this woman get away with utterly ridiculous behavior and go about her day like she's entitled to do whatever the hell she wants just for hitting 70, maybe I'll meet myself somewhere in the middle...

P.S. In completely unrelated news, don't forget to get your St. Patty's Day Shirts here.

So Fresh and So Clean

After being away from home for a while, even in the most spectacular of accommodations, I always find myself longing for two things:  My bed and my shower.  So you could imagine what it felt like, after I dragged myself through my building's lobby, barely functioning and bleary eyed last Sunday, only to be greeted with a sign near the elevator letting me and my fellow tenants know that we would be without hot water.

There I stood, stinking of three days of indecency, desperate for a good scrub and steam to sweat out whatever toxins remained in my body, with no hope for either in site.  Although at this point the gym was a distant memory and I was more concerned with getting myself clean than even attempting to work out, it dawned on me that if I could get myself there, I could shower there. From the minute my head hit the pillow it was filled with dreams of a shower.  A shower in my glorious, overpriced-to-everyone-who-signed-up-after-me gym locker room.  I thought of the minty fresh steam room, the spicy cedar sauna and the giant towels piled so high you want to take a running leap and jump into them the way you did a pile of leaves when you were ten.  

Still hungover and looking just slightly better than the guy who lives outside the McDonald's across the street from me (who incidentally is crazy and shouldn't be spoken to - lesson learned the hard way), I threw on some workout clothes and trudged down to my beautiful, glorious health club.  Out of breath from being a non-smoker who smoked enough cigarettes in one weekend (smoking is a law in Vegas and Europe) to suffocate a small village, I spent a good 15 minutes on the Elliptical until I could actually smell myself and knew it was time to step off the machine and into the shower.  (For those of you who don't know, listen up: it is a rule that if you can smell yourself at the gym then everyone around you can smell you too and it's probably ten times worse than you think).

I headed for the shower so fast I think I may have torn off my pants before I even got into the locker room, but I can't be sure or accountable at this point.  I grabbed whatever I remembered to bring from home, which wasn't much (a loofah, face wash and conditioner I think) and sprinted buck naked toward the showers.  Now in any other scenario I would be self-conscious and too embarrassed to run full speed, unstable in flip flops, wearing not so much as pasties, but Manhattan locker rooms are a world unto their own.  I cite the first time I set foot into a women's locker room in NYC and went into sensory overdrive after being greeted by breasts of all ages, bent over 60 year olds and the most precisely styled, yet incredibly full bush resembling an aerial view of Richard Simmons that I had ever seen.  According to "T", the men's locker room isn't much different as he learned when a fully nude man pranced up, got right in his personal space and asked him for the time.

As soon as I hung my towel on the hooks and turned on that perfect stream of just-the-right temperature water and made it rain on myself, I started to think about how awesome showering at the gym is and why I love it so much.  

There are lots of reasons the gym shower is so great.  It's big, someone else cleans it and there are lots of fun products that come out of cool pumps attached to the wall.  These are all great, but the real reason I love showering at the gym has nothing to do with any of these things.  The real reason I love showering at the gym is the fantasy.  

The minute I close the frosted glass door and lather up I am transported to every unrealistic movie locker room scene that ever was.  Suddenly, I am starring in Porky's or Revenge of the nerds.  My mind wanders to a place where I am one of 30 hot women prancing around a locker room, taking an extra extra long shower than stepping out of the stall, forgoing a towel for the more preferred method of air-drying.  As I wash my hair and imagine that the 60 year old in the next stall is actually a dead ringer for Angelina Jolie and that the girls in the other showers are creating beautiful shadow silhouettes on the stall doors. I'm tempted to break into song like it's some locker room musical.  Like by magic, we all at once start singing into hair driers and dancing on the benches.  

Just before I start belting out "We are hot women!" (the imaginary first line to the opening number in the locker room musical going on in my head), I shut the water, towel off, cover up and step out to the realization that I forgot to bring deodorant, moisturizer and undies.  As I ask Sally Loose Skin who's standing next to me to please pass me a Q-tip, I start lusting after my tiny, doorless, cold-water shower in my little apartment just four blocks away.   I put on my clothes, sashay out the door for good measure and head home to sing into the blow dryer alone. Somethings are better kept private.  

Mrs.Movie Phone

One of the best things about living in NYC is the complete and utter acceptability of doing things by yourself.  It's one of the few places where, even on a Saturday night, you can go to a restaurant and see a random (insert man-woman-old lady)  having dinner alone at a table for two and think nothing of it.  No reading materials required, pull up a chair, enjoy your meal and people watch to your heart's content.  

With all of my newly acquired free time, I decided I would take advantage of one of New York's other favorite solo activities.  The movies.  It doesn't hurt that on every Friday, Saturday and Sunday any movie at my local theater is only $6 if you go before noon (that's only $1 more than renting one On-Demand and about $6 less if that On-Demand selection is a porno.)  Can't beat that. 

As I logged onto Fandango last night to check out my options, I thought to myself, "Finally!  Now is my chance to see all the 27 Dresses-Sex and the City-Made of Honor-Other Boelyn Girl crap that I always want to see and that T refuses to!" I pulled up my theater's show times, excitedly scrolled down the page to check out my choices and then my face dropped.  With my choices being Madagascar, Role Models, Zack and Miri Make a Porno, or Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist, I watched my girly day go out the window and unpacked the mini-Kleenex from my purse.  Clearly I wouldn't be needing them.

After a quick trip to RottenTomatoes, I decided that I would go to the 10:50am showing of Role Models, then swiftly switched on my inner neurotic and moved my browser to DietFacts to figure out exactly how I can work a tub of Popcorn into my day.  It took me a good year and a half to stop equating the movies with an all out Salty-Sweet-Crunchy-Chewy binge fest, but I just couldn't imagine this momentous AM-Solo Flight without those delicious,  salt soaked kernels to pop in my mouth one by one in my best effort to make the bag last the entire movie.  Thus, after doing my research, I decided the only way to go was to wake up late, go to the gym, and swap my normally nutrition packed breakfast and lunch for a small movie theater popcorn brunch and a hot chocolate.  Best move I've made all year.

I dressed carefully doing my best NYU Freshman impression by throwing on my skinniest jeans, a pair of Convos and a bright thermal shirt, messed up my hair just right and headed out the door.  I don't know what gets into me, but with each new activity, I get so excited and this time I practically skipped up to the box office to buy my ticket.  I ordered my popcorn, let the girl behind the counter  convince me to get a medium before making her dump it out and change it back to a small and within seconds was climbing the stairs to my favorite seat.  2nd to last row, right smack in the middle.  I scanned the theater and saw 9 other people.  The crowd consisted of about 7 dudes scattered around and one couple fiercely tounging each other down in the front row. Hot.  

Trying to hold out until after the previews, but failing miserably, I began the one-by-one pick a piece of popcorn and put it in your mouth dance which lasted until about 15 minutes into the movie at which point I was grabbing handfuls that were clearly too big to shove into my mouth, but doing my best to get them in there anyway.  The best part was that I had no need to be embarrassed.  I wasn't squeezed into a packed row, so surrounded by people, that I had to watch the angle of my knees as not to disturb the person next to me.  There was no one within 50 seats of me.  I was free to pick up my practically finished bag of popcorn, tilt up my chin and dump every last crumb into my mouth.  Honestly, I could've put my hand down my pants if I wanted to and no one would've been the wiser, but I resisted.  

The movie itself was hysterical.  It was Juvenile, Chauvinist, and every time I laughed at a boob joke, the fact that I was laughing along with the 19 year old two rows in front of me who was still wearing his oversize headphones, made me laugh even louder.  The only bad part was when, inevitably, about 45 minutes into the movie, I had to pee.  Now generally, when I'm there on a Friday night with T, I ask him to watch my bag as I sheepishly apologize to all the people who need to move so I can get to the aisle and run to the bathroom.  But here I was, by myself, a big bottle of water, my jacket and my purse marking my territory.  Should I pick it all up, lug it to the ladies room, have the 9 other people there look at me strangely like I was leaving the theater and then lug it all back?  I started panicking, toying with the option of leaving the bag, jacket and water and just taking my wallet and blackberry with me?  What the hell was I going to do?  

What I did was hold it. Painfully. For the next 50 minutes.  I just didn't see any other options. There was no one to watch my stuff and no one to fill me in on what I missed.  I had no choice.  

2 hours, one bag of popcorn and the longest pee of my life later, I'm back home having enjoyed yet another "social experiment" and chronicling it here.  What's next on my list?  Stay tuned to find out and your suggestions are always welcome.  You say, I'll do it (maybe).