Requiem for a Dream

A long time ago in south Brooklyn, my sister suffered a nasty playground accident which left a twisted purple scar on her knee.  At the age of eight her misery was compounded by the dreadful realization that this blemish would disqualify her from the Miss America Pageant one day. 

Whether or not that dream was realistic (or the aforementioned injury would have, in fact, prevented her entry into that competition) is beside the point. What I should’ve learned that day is that there is nothing more painful than the death of a dream.

Our hopes and dreams are treasured commodities here in the good ol’ USA. We pride ourselves on the fact that any little boy or girl has the privilege of imagining his or her future as President. Again, the realities of economic, gender and race disparity have little to do with this aspiration either. It is our right as born and bred Americans to harbor this dream and any other we choose to have.

I never dreamed of being President or Miss America.  My fantasies were smaller and more intimate. For a while there, I wanted to marry the baseball pitcher, Tom Seaver. As I grew older I continued to love and admire him but moved on romantically to other idols. My dream didn't die, but merely faded away.

But there were other dreams that I never knew I had, never would put a voice to because they were just too…expected. Like most other girls I knew, I played house with my dolls, and spent endless hours picking out names, choosing whether I’d have a boy and a girl, two girls or a houseful of children.  

When I think about this era, I also remember playing The Game of Life – the board game which took you and your plastic car on journey through the milestones of a lifetime. If you landed on a particular square you could marry, receive a child or two or six, get a degree or job etc.  At end of the game you got points and wound up at “Millionaire Acres” or the poor house. Each time we played this game, my greatest – and most secret – fear was not to end up bankrupt but childless.

And, ironically, in the real game of life, that’s exactly what happened.

I didn't find my true love until I was nearly 41 years old. And I’m not the kind of woman who would settle for anything less than my soul mate: a man who was responsible, kind, patient and loving enough to share my home, my finances, my problems and my victories for the rest of my life. I also was not interested in the overwhelming responsibility of single motherhood.  And, to be honest, there wasn't a slew of men in and out of my life who could’ve even been potential fathers even if I had chosen that path. There was me, lots of parties, crazy adventures, and, eventually, years of soul-searching, self-exploration and redemption.  

When I did meet my husband we knew almost immediately that we were going to spend our lives together and wanted to add a child of our own to that equation. At our ages, we wasted no time and started trying after just a few months of dating.  For the first six months or so we just stopped using protection and were surprised it didn't work.  

Then I bought all kinds of books, paid strict attention to the calendar, took my temperature, drank herbal concoctions and employed an acupuncturist – all in a vain attempt to forestall the inevitable medical interventions.  

But when all else failed, I got over my fear and distrust of western medicine and we booked an appointment with a fertility specialist. I can remember so clearly -- and with blistering resentment -- the doctor rubbing his hands together and uttering those promising words, “let’s get you pregnant!” as if it was as easy as firing up a grill for a backyard barbecue.   I was nearly 43 by then. And, what he failed to disclose was that even with all that modern medical science had to offer, my chances of conceiving a child with my own eggs was one in thirty. But I had insurance, so off we went.

I can remember the low points like scenes out of a movie that play over and over in my head. My poor husband laboring to produce a semen sample on the hottest July day in a century, and rushing to the lab in Chinatown before the 30-minute window slammed shut. We argued the entire sweaty trudge there, had a blowout fight outside the office and parted ways for the rest of the morning. And, of course, that’s the sample they lost.  

I also recall, the moment the doctor informed me in his clinical manner that I had uterine polyps, would have to suspend treatment and have surgery. Now it was time to get over my fear of hospitals.  

And there were the two full rounds of IVF: the multiple shots every day which left my belly scabby and swollen, the thrice weekly early morning probes and blood tests at the clinic, the egg retrievals, the implantations, and the two weeks of waiting.  Each time I instinctively knew I wasn't pregnant but held out hope anyway. Hearing the news felt like a condemnation, a pronouncement of my failure as a woman.   

Although the doctor was eager to keep trying (and getting paid), a friend who worked in his lab was honest. He told us that we were dealing with the law of diminishing returns. In the first round I had produced 14 eggs of which three were viable. In this second round I had produced 11 and only one was viable – and that poor little egg had stopped dividing after two days of fertilization. My body had run out of reproductive materials at age 43.  Further attempts would be futile and take a huge toll on my emotional health and our finances (roughly $2,500 out of pocket each round,) all while putting me at a greater risk for cancer in the future.  

Well-meaning friends would also give me that “I knew someone who got pregnant once they stopped trying” bullshit. Or “you could adopt” they offered, surrounded by progeny bearing their resemblance.  I politely explained that my dream was to have a child that was part me and part my husband.  For this and other more practical reasons, adoption was off the table. Well, except for the beautiful border collie that we treat like our son.

So I laid my dream to rest. I had true love and a rewarding career.  I lived an exciting, fulfilling life in the greatest city in the world with cherished family and fabulous friends. But I wouldn’t give birth to a child of my own.  I could live with that, right?

But, to my surprise the dream wouldn’t die. Instead it hid in some dark corner of my brain, creeping out whenever “that time of the month” approaches. ”Maybe this time?” it whispers to me.  I still run baby names around in my head. I still wonder what he or she would’ve looked like. I know she’d be funny, I know he’d be sweet. I know he or she would have short legs.  

The thing is, when I look at my life today, it’s not that I miss taking care of a child. No, in fact, I feel that I’ve been spared many sleepless nights and early mornings, schooling dramas, trying to fit in with younger parents whose modern child-rearing philosophies are so foreign to me, and the inevitable heartaches that would accompany any teenager who’d inherit mine and my husband’s more unfortunate traits.  

No, it isn’t that particular loss that continues to haunt me. It has taken me these many years to realize the particular flavor of my grief.  As I quickly approach menopause, it is the death of the dream that causes so much pain.  I know now that very soon, the dream will be forced to come out of its shadowy hiding place and give up the ghost. It can’t pretend to be on life support anymore. 

To lose a dream is to come face to face with the cold hard truth that we don’t write the script of our lives.  For a dreamer – and control freak – like me, that’s an awfully scary prospect. And for an American, well, it just seems criminal not to get whatever we dreamed of as children.   But I guess it’s just part of growing up, and perhaps, another step in the healing. Or, perhaps not.  We’ll just have to see. 

Trust Me

When I was 21 years old, I was sitting next to a 40-something diplomat in the bar of the American Embassy in Belgrade (former Yugoslavia.) While we drank our gin and tonics, he leaned in and whispered in my ear, “trust me…” Whatever advice followed fell upon deaf ears because I already knew at that relatively young age to never trust anyone who starts their sentence with “trust me.”

Perhaps it’s because I’m a jaded native New Yorker that I learned to distrust humanity. Or perhaps I’m just human. I don’t know. But I do know that it is not the most comfortable position to be in.  I was reminded of that today as two burly men – neither of whom shared my race – came to re-install my repaired air conditioner in my bedroom. The office said they’d be there between 12  noon and 1 pm so, of course, they came at 11:15 as I was exiting the shower and Steve and Rollo were out on one of their endless adventures along the Hudson.

Steve – also a native New Yorker, and former law enforcement professional – had cautioned me (for the hundredth time) that if they came when he wasn't there to watch them every moment.  So I threw on some clothes and let them in and followed them into my bedroom. It’s not that I feared that I’d be raped at any second, but that thought rested somewhere in the back of my brain just a tad behind what I wanted for breakfast. I did actively worry about any jewelry that might be lying around and quickly slipped on my engagement ring and wedding band. 

The Price of My Distrust

My misgivings do have a pseudo realistic root. A few years ago, I noticed a chunky gold necklace (purchased in the 90s when the price of gold per ounce was much, much cheaper) missing some time after our window washers had serviced us. I will never know if one of them grabbed it off my dresser as he exited or if it’s in some crevice of my apartment I somehow missed in my dozens of frenzied searches.  Further, I have a friend whose engagement ring was stolen by California Closet installers who sent her on an errand to buy some screws or something. And of course, there’s my former kitchen renovation contractor – possibly still serving time for grand theft auto – who stole cash from my wallet on not one, but two separate occasions before Steve and I gave him the heave ho .  So I feel slightly justified in my continued suspicion that this is how repair and service people may supplement their income.

The air conditioner repairmen were in and out in a matter of minutes and I watched them vigilantly every second. And every second I felt guilty and queasy about it. I even had the urge to sputter out something like, “I want to see what you guys are doing so I understand how to repair my unit,”  But I knew that it sounded like baloney – which it was, of course -- and it would just shine a brighter light on my lack of faith.  I desperately wanted them to understand that it wasn't their ethnicity, gender, or their socio-economic status that was the cause of my distrust – but was that the truth?

As a child growing up in the 70s I witnessed the civil rights movement with awe and confusion. I literally couldn't understand racism. Why, I thought, would anyone care about the color of another person’s skin? Today, I see that there are countless facets – economic, cultural, social justice , historical -- to the issue and this makes my heart heavy.  I fight against the urge to buy into any stereotype and I usually win.  I embrace friendships with people of all genders, sexual orientation/identification, colors, ages, religions, and backgrounds. But by the time I was an adventurous 21 year old drinking in a foreign city, I had witnessed violence, been the victim of crime and deceit, and allowed my kind heart to be broken by unreliable, selfish people close to me. My heart was no longer pure. 

I sometimes wish I could crawl into my idealistic five-year old skin and live there instead of in the world in which I remember to lock my doors as we drive through the south Bronx instead of the Upper East Side. But on the flip side, I don’t want to lose any more necklaces that are too expensive to replace.  

I do believe that any stranger in my home would make me feel equally uneasy, whether they were a hulking foreign man or a tiny old woman.  Although the tiny old woman would probably not be able to rape me…so…maybe that last statement is false.

this to me says, "go ahead, take it."

You see what lack of trust does? I don’t even trust what I write.  So what’s a women, a New Yorker and a die-hard liberal to do?  Do my smiles and gratitude for a job well-done make up for watching workmen like a prison guard? Would I be a more relaxed happier person if I let my handbag hang from a chair in an outdoor café like some unsuspecting tourist?  I think not.

I do know that any time I feel like I've been ripped off – whether it’s perpetrated by my health insurance company or a Roman cab driver --  my self-esteem plummets and it takes months to forgive myself.  The most recent time involved our fast-talking, flattery-spewing condo manager who temporarily convinced us not to proceed with our claim against the condo for our broken floors. When I took my rage against myself for being duped into complicity to therapy, my therapist asked, “well, Karen, what’s the alternative? Would you rather not be a gentle, soft, trusting human being?”  I answered, honestly, “Yes. I’d rather not.”  Sad, but for this New Yorker, true.  

My Top Ten New York City Pet Peeves

I've wanted to write this post since I started a blog but thought it was too negative and catty. But then I realized that if I shared these simmering resentments with you, perhaps it could help alleviate the burden I feel to actually correct my fellow travelers (thus risking bodily harm.) So here goes:

#1 People Who Block the Subway Doors: I don’t get it, I really don’t get it. A 250 lb man stands smack dab in front of the doors on the platform waiting for them to open, while a dozen or so passengers must find a pinhole to squeeze by him to exit the train. This annoying process also makes the exiting/entering process twice as long as it should be. Haven’t they figured it out yet?

Then there are the self-centered geniuses who get on the train but stop as soon as they pass the threshold, not stepping one more foot in, thereby blocking all who are boarding after him/her (but we don’t exist, do we?) I’m telling you, I’m on the verge of doing something more than nudging and glaring. So help me God.

#2 Walking and Texting: Heads up baby, this is New York. On a good day we all need our wits about us as we navigate through crowds, traffic, rats, skateboarders and parked strollers. It’s no time to be absorbed in the latest text from that dude you met at the Governor’s Ball. As Ron Burgundy says, “you gotta keep your head on a swivel when you’re in a vicious cock fight.” If you bump into me you’re going to get checked like a NHL rookie.

#3 Brunch: Why would I stand and wait to get into a crowded noisy restaurant to eat eggs or French toast? I basically don’t leave my house on Sundays and I’m not going to do it just to waste $45 on a meal I can easily make myself.

#4 Oblivious Tourists: You know, the ones on the subways and streets who talk really loud in their hayseed accents about all the crazy things they are seeing as if we are just monkeys in the zoo and we don’t understand what they’re saying. Oh, and then they take photos of themselves on the train and don’t care if you’re accidentally in the shot. I don’t want to wind up in some photo album in the Ozarks, thank you.

#5-7 WardrobeViolations

#5 FreeWheeling: This is a term that my husband and I came up with that describes a woman who blatantly struts down the streets without a bra. Come summer, you see them swinging along all the time. Some are just slutty, others don’t realize that they are far beyond the age of it looking anything but insane.  

#6 Snip that Stich: Here’s a little known fact everyone should know: that cross stitch on the vent of your suit jacket/coat and on the slit of your skirt needs to be cut – it is not decorative. It was sewn to keep the garment in correct shape while being shipped to the store.  If I see one more stitched slit on the subway platform I’m slicing it off myself.

#7 Wellies: Enough with the big rubber boots – especially in the summer with a sundress, skirt or shorts. Are you really expecting a Nor’easter to come through Manhattan on

your way to work that you must wear knee high rubber insulated boots? If it’s June and it’s raining, carry a nice umbrella and stash an extra pair of shoes in your bag (or leave one under your desk.) A grown woman shouldn’t look like Paddington Bear.

#8 Half-Assed Littering: Sure I hate all littering but there’s something even more infuriating about someone deliberately placing their empty Snapple in a flower planter or some kind of upended pipe. Sure, it’s a kind of receptacle, but it’s not a garbage can. Then there are those who gently place their Big Mac wrapper or empty Doritos bag under the subway seat. As if to believe that when their refuse is out of sight it is somehow magically gone. Here’s the truth: it’s not. It’s now the job of a subway worker to get to your crap before the rats make a snack of it.

#9 Shakespeare in the Park: I’ve seen Shakespeare in the Hamptons and in Stratford Ontario but never in my own city because it is a herculean effort just to get tickets.  I’m too old and too busy to get to the Public Theater by 8am on a random weekday and wait three hours for a free ticket. It’s just not that hard in other cities. But everything in NYC is just too competitive, restricted, limited and exhausting. That goes for the fireworks, the parades, concerts and any other free event—if you somehow manage to get there, you spend your entire time fighting for (or defending) your space and dealing with many of the Pet Peeves listed above. I’d rather pay.

#10 311: This non-emergency number was a brilliant idea. But unfortunately it is staffed by NYC government employees. Steve and I have called 311 on numerous occasions: to report a cracked and dangerous sidewalk and a hazardous traffic condition, to try to find out how to remove a family of goslings who were stuck in a pipe (heartbreaking), to make a  noise complaint, to ask questions about property tax, to find out who maintains city dog runs, and probably others I don’t recall. To date we have gotten ZERO responses to any of these concerns – ZERO. Hey NYC: I can live with perilous crosswalks and loud neighbors but you have the death of several baby geese on your head.

The Six Things I Have to "Un-Learn" Each Day

What a fool I’ve been. I have been laboring under the misapprehension that life is about learning and growing. But today as I struggled to bring myself to the onerous task of doing yoga in my very own living room, I realized that life is just a series of unlearning what was wired into us as children.

Perhaps this isn’t your truth. Maybe you’re Hillary Clinton and were told by your parents that “you could do anything!” and you grew up fearless, determined, motivated and ambitious.  Hillary and I did not share a similar upbringing.  I understand now that my parents did the best they could but I find myself on a lifelong quest to undo the programming, dispel the myths and basically rewire myself in order to live a happy healthy life. Here are six examples of what I need to learn to unlearn:

1-      Food makes you happy – Ok, this is a biggie that I know many of my friends suffer from. In my family, it wasn’t so much chicken or pasta that was cause for celebration but more like cookies, cake, ice cream, chips and popcorn. They were the reward for just living life, the soothing touch for injuries great and small, the center of any gathering, and the cure for boredom.  

It’s been a lifelong struggle to un-do that message.  Sure, food is to be savored but it is not a replacement for love.  And, so I must learn that it is more important to get your nutrients from food than any thrill. Oh, and eat when you’re hungry and don’t when you’re not. Revolutionary, huh?

2-      Exercise is drudgery -  Unfortunately, I didn’t come from a Kennedy-esque clan who delighted in playing touch football with each other.  I dabbled in sports from time to time, like ice skating and tennis, but when I got bored I quit.  Other people were athletes, not us was the message, I received and so exercise for fitness sake seemed like drudgery, another chore in life’s long list of chores.

The funny thing is, I actually like some exercise. Yes, I do get bored, but instead of quitting I try to move on to something else. Once boxing became old hat, I tried boot camp. After a few months of Zumba I started Bollywood dancing. It doesn’t always feel great, but it sure feels amazing after. But I still must get over that hump of my own attitude first.

3-      Work is punishment -Despite the fact that I come from Protestant stock, I wasn't raised with the Protestant work ethic.  My mother saw her first role as mother and feared that work would take her away from us. My dad’s work did steal him from us (among some other distractions.) So I had both those messages to overcome. So, for many years my attitude was, “well you should just be happy to have me on staff.”  

Again, like exercise there are parts of work I definitely enjoy – chief among them is writing. I also like cleaning, organizing, planning and strategizing. But I still don’t like getting up early and going to an office (ie away from home.)

4-     Isolation is safety – Oh boy, this is also one I fight on a daily basis. When bad things happened at school my mother let us stay home the next day and avoid the people responsible. In fact, I loved to avoid other people more than just anything as a child. I had secret spots all over the apartment where I played alone for hours with my dolls. And that is where I want to go today when I’m feeling anxious, angry or in grief. Instead of dolls I pick up my i-pad and play endless games of Sudoku, Solitaire, Scrabble and Tetris.

The problem is that I end up feeling crappier – and even less equipped to handle people  - than when the day began. What works to get me out of a slump is antithetical to almost everything I was taught: exercise, help another, get out into the sunshine, be productive and eat well – in other words, total reprogramming.

5-     Asking for help is bothering people – Well, this one did probably come down from my Puritan ancestors. Afraid of rejection or hostility, neither of my parents asked for help much. Pride and insecurity didn’t improve the situation either.  So things were left unfixed, or undone or unaccomplished because of it.  Or, in the worst case scenario, we all just white knuckled through the unknown.

It took me decades to realize that if I enjoyed sharing my knowledge, time and stuff that maybe others wouldn’t mind either – in fact, maybe they would get something out of helping me. And so, slowly I began reaching out. The key word is slowly, because it still does not come naturally to me, like speaking French to the tourists in my neighborhood. It might not turn out well every time, but I’m trying.

6-      The world is a scary place – The funny thing is that despite the fact that this was clearly the message telegraphed to me on a daily basis I mostly ignored it as a young person. I acted in school plays, went away to a college where I knew no one and even spent a semester in eastern Europe well before the age of ATMs, cellphones and Skype.

But as I grow older, that original programming is threatens to take over. I’m afraid to leave my doggie for more than eight hours; I’m timid about working the medical profession to build my practice; I dread the prospect of moving even though I know it would be better to have more space.  The cure? I guess it’s to do it anyway. But I haven’t done those three things or even have a plan to do so. So, perhaps you all can tell me a way to overcome that one.

I really didn’t think I’d spend so much time undoing all the thoughts in my head and fighting against what sometimes feel is my nature.  But that is what life is about. Well, that and creating, laughing, loving others and fostering a warm, welcoming home. Thankfully, I don’t have to “undo” those things I’ve learned!

Have a beautiful weekend. 

What's Wrong with "The List"

There’s been a lot of talk about women making lists of the qualities they seek in a man.  The media was buzzing recently about a leaked copy of Taylor Swift’s list, which supposedly required that any future suitor be at her level of fame and success, among other desired attributes.  The various pundits then discussed what was on their list such as physical appearance, jobs, habits, and of course, a sense of humor (the universal option.)

This concept is not new. When I was somewhat young and single – in fact, the last single woman in my circle of college pals – one of them suggested I compile such a list so I could “put it out to the universe.” Heck, I had tried Match.com, 8-minute dating, blind dates and singles parties why not a list. So I sat with my ruled notebook and wrote down what I thought I wanted in a mate.

At the top of the list was smart, followed by well-educated, read the New York Times daily (which I didn’t do, by the way), successful, and had a great sense of humor. There were other things on the list about dressing well, being interested in politics – you know, the important stuff.  I was basically searching for a more advanced, more masculine version of me. Yikes.

A few months after sketching out my perfect boyfriend/husband, a man came into my life that had many – if not all – of these qualities. We began to get to know each other and developed quite an intense emotional attachment. The only problem was he was married and…oh…he was moving to a foreign country. As I like to say in those days: he couldn’t have been less available if he were in a coma. 

I spent several months in torment about this “relationship” which my friends didn’t approve of (even though it never became physical.)  But I was lonely and I had asked the universe for this guy, after all. Again my well-meaning friends counselled me that “if I didn’t clear space in my heart the, right guy wouldn’t show up.”  So I forced myself to stop IMing with the married man and cried for a few nights.

At that point, in my sorrow and loneliness, I looked back at the original list and was amazed. Nowhere on it did it ask for my perfect man to be single, available and live in New York -- kind of essential qualities if you ask me.  So I tore it up. Take that Universe!

About two years later when I did meet and fall deeply in love with my future husband, I thought of that list again and laughed. He didn’t read the New York Times – in fact, he read the Daily News (blech!) His education was not stellar – it took him 25 years to obtain his college degree from four different schools (give him an A+ for persistence though!). His  wardrobe style was (and is, to a certain extent) to try to blend in with the scenery. He didn’t have a job (at that time); And he hadn’t voted in a dozen years.  He does, of course, have a wonderful sense of humor.

Because I never had a mate before I had no idea what I required. I didn’t need a “new and improved” version of myself – God, no! Two type A’s can’t live with each other for long without civil war erupting. On a day-to-day basis it doesn’t matter at all how someone dresses or what they read (although, I did eventually show him the light when it came to the News, and helped him find his proper size at least.) His job and hobbies don’t really add up to much either. What does matter is his kindness, his patience, his loyalty and his principles – which are unrivalled among men, and have gotten me through the rough times. It helps that we’re both late sleepers, like TV, dessert and dogs because that makes up a big part of our days.  And, what I never expected to be important is our attitude toward money. We’re both pretty conservative (I wouldn’t exactly call it “cheap” but…) We eschew luxury items and frequent taxi trips. We love getting a bargain at Costco and Marshalls.  And we do a lot of google research before we buy anything new. I never knew that this was the stuff that would allow us to live in peace and harmony most , but it is.

A partner is not a house, nor a new handbag or any other big ticket purchase for which we can set a list of “deal-breakers.” So here’s my advice: tell the universe to send you the person best-equipped to love you and take care of you. And if you’re lucky and that person is presented to you, be open. He may not look or sound like your imagined Prince Charming. But that’s ok. In fact, it’s better than ok. “There is more on heaven and earth than is dreamt of in your philosophy,” said the immortal bard, Shakespeare. And that is the problem with the “list.” 

Five Great Reasons to Stay Home on Memorial Day Weekend

As I write this piece, I am happily, sloppily at home in my workout gear (actually post workout this time, instead of "workout hopeful".) I am not stuck in traffic or having an anxiety attack about the weather forecast or busily packing and unpacking. 

Yes, I'm aware it's the Friday of Memorial Day Weekend: the unofficial start of the Summer Season. And, yes, I'm opting to stay at home. And if you are bummed about your boring plans, feeling left out because no invited you to the "party of the season" or frustrated because you need to stay in the city for work or family, I'm here to tell you my five top reasons why you are going to have a great time at home:

1. No Traffic = More Time to Play
As I said before, you avoid traffic. Unless you leave in the middle of the night, you are bound to hit massive traffic jams this week regardless of the direction you head. Just getting out of Manhattan could take two hours. So you arrive at the beach, the mountains, Atlantic City -- wherever --  tired, dirty and cranky. So you've already lost Friday and forget about Monday too. If you stay at home, you have all four glorious days to enjoy. Even if you work a full day on Friday, you're super psyched about the time off, and you're probably not working much because the boss is gone already.

2. The Apocalypse Fantasy Weekend
I don't mean to be morbid, but if you're anything like me, you may harbor rather sick fantasy of being one of the lone survivors of the apocalypse and having the entire city to yourself. Well, staying in Manhattan on a holiday weekend allows you to get a sneak peak of what that would be like. Want to go to that hot new restaurant? No reservation, no problem. On a weekend like this, chances are you can stroll right in. Take in that show at the MOMA without the crowds and lines. Stroll down the Hudson River promenade with your border collie without dogging hordes of skaterborders and oblivious double-stroller i-phone-checking moms. The city is all yours for a few days - so go for it!

3. Keep your Vanity
In my heyday I'd head down to the Jersey Shore for a big beach bonanza on Memorial Day. But that moment would come where I'd have to don a bathing suit for the first time in the season...argh. With very little previous sun exposure, my skin in the month of May is the color of spoiled milk. So I'd lay on the beach self-consciously desperate for a quick tan. Of course, I'd wind up getting massively burned. That's no way to kick off summer. At home, I can wander around in my shorts and a T-shirt picking up some sun in my lonely city without anyone staring. Perhaps if it warms up, I can even go on my roof and get a tan. After all we all know my neighbors will be out of town so there'll be no one to gawk. Bring on the glow!

4. Rest
It's been a long hard winter. Why not rest up on this 3-day'er and get primed for a busy, exciting summer. Sleep in for a few days, take some naps, sit by the river and watch the boats go by -- even better, sit in a park and watch the sailors in for Fleet Week!

5. Opting out = No Envy or Disapppointment
As a New Yorker you know that even if you're having a great time, someone is having a better, fancier, more special time. If you're rubbing elbows with Sarah Jessica Parker at a book fair in Rhinebeck, your best friend is taking a selfie with Beyonce at a black-tie gala in the Hamptons. You can't win. All this build-up for the "first weekend of the summer!!!" will eventually let you down. And the eventual comparisons with your coworkers and neighbors will make you feel "less than." So opt out. Be above it. On Tuesday just say, "oh I can't be bothered with all that Memorial Day nonsense year after year."  Because in New York, jaded always wins no matter what. 

So stop checking weather.com, quit debating about whether to take your wedges or strappy sandals. Put on come flip flops and join me in having a fun, spontaneous free and easy holiday. 

Happy Memorial Day!

The Dreaded Backslide

As many of you know, last year I revolutionized the way I ate (whole foods, smaller portions, healthier meals, fewer desserts,) adopted new habits like mindful eating, and started a fitness regimen which included aerobic exercise (walking) and strength training. I wound up losing 34 pounds, felt great and had to buy a totally new wardrobe (kind of a good news/bad news situation.)

My Old "Before" Shot

Last October, I decided I was at my ideal weight, so I stopped weighing, measuring and logging my food. But I was scared. I knew how to gain weight (clearly) and I now knew how to lose weight, but maintaining this new size was uncharted territory. How much more would I be able to eat without gaining back any of the pounds I worked so hard to lose? Could I have pizza and dessert more often...if so how frequently? 

Suddenly -- out of nowhere -- the holiday season came like a hurricane. Never in my life had I been invited to so many parties and gatherings, all testing my new resolve. I did ok, but I definitely ate more than I had during my "dieting" period. But I was too chicken to get on the scale and see what had happened to my body. My weekly weigh-ins were exciting when I was on the downward path, but now...? I just couldn't face the truth. 

Then in January I hit a bit of an emotional slump. I decided (against everything I knew) that the pressure to exercise each day was hurting me so I jettisoned that healthy habit -- one which most likely could have addressed my depression -- like a burning lunar module. 

My Old "After" shot

And slowly my old habits crept in: larger portions, using more butter than I know is wise, having not just one but TWO desserts each night (I often crave a salty snack like chips after a cupcake) and mindlessly nibbling while I cook. When I finally summoned the courage to weigh myself some time in the late winter, I had gained back about five pounds.  I wasn't surprised, but I was disappointed. But not disappointed enough to reach a bottom.

I told myself that things would need to change. I added back in my strength training (as the walking always continued thanks to my Border Collie, Rollo,) but not with same consistency. But that was the only concession. Even though I knew how I was able to lose the weight, I couldn't find the willingness to go back to those habits again -- habits that never felt oppressive, oddly.

So my unhealthy behavior continued. And I basically kept quiet, only telling a few people close to me -- and probably not telling the whole story. The funny thing is, now that I'm a health coach, I know better and perhaps that made me more unwilling to admit defeat and ask for help. 

Two weeks ago, before a one-week vacation at the beach with my family, I got serious and I weighed myself again -- now I was up to a seven-pound weight gain. I needed this dose of reality to try to stem the temptations I would encounter living with my Mom (who offers candy every five minutes) and in close proximity to the best ice cream in the state.  Did this self knowledge work? Well, no because I took no other action but that.  I am up another pound and a half. I have gained back nearly 25% of what I lost. It isn't so much the number that scares me, but how insidious and fast the backslide can happen.

My New "Before"

So today is my Day One:  the day that I am officially surrendering and starting over. I started my day with "BollyBlast" a new workout I record from the TV show on the Veria network. I measured out the ingredients in my breakfast and recorded them in MyFitness Pal (the app that changed my life.) And I am telling the whole world that I backslid. 

Perhaps, this can be your day one too. I would love the company, support and encouragement as I try to drop those extra eight or nine (maybe ten) pounds. Although, I'm eager to lose this unwelcome fat, I have given myself no timeline, because what's most important is that I re-adopt the habits that made me feel my absolute best. 

And, I am comforting myself with the knowledge that now I can better empathize with my health coaching clients that have experience a backslide, too. Very humbling.

Best, Karen

As always, for more information on health coaching and healthy eating visit  Wellbeings With Karen Azeez