Sorry, Did I Wake You?
I have a cold so it’s been a miserable week. For me the worst part of a cold isn’t the stuffy nose or hacking cough, attractive though they might be, it’s the fact that I can’t sleep at night. Over the years I’ve developed my own regimen for getting through a cold. At night I slurp cough medicine as if it were fine wine and spray some vile stuff in my nose in an attempt to breathe.
But during the day I rely on what I call my little red pills, aka decongestants. They’re the reason for the sleepless nights—when it says “non-drowsy” on the package it means that you can kiss a good night’s sleep good-bye.
Steve thought he would relieve my sleepy crankiness by giving me the National Sleep Foundation’s list of 25 Random Facts About Sleep, to ponder. He should have known better. When I’m sleep deprived l find fault even with Hamlet, (Did Shakespeare really have to kill off everyone on stage for heaven’s sake?!) But magnanimous person that I am I will share with you some of these cheery thoughts. Maybe they’ll put you to sleep.
Man is the only mammal that willingly delays sleep.
Ain’t that the truth? How many times have I been in bed, half asleep, and yet still read one more chapter or watched the end of some ridiculous TV show, or worse, watched some movie that I’ve already seen 20 times? Or decided not to indulge in a nap because there’s some housework to do or someone to call, or yet another list to make. If I had any brains I would enroll in Snoopy’s home-study program on how to successfully nap through a day. His doggy-highness arises in the morning, has a breakfast nosh, barks at a few squirrels then settles down for his midmorning snooze. Afterwards he goes for his walk then sleeps until dinner. After dinner he takes his pre-sleep nap from which I have to wake him so that he can go out before he sleeps through the night. The dog never met a nap he didn’t take. Delay is not in his vocabulary.
We naturally feel tired at two different times of the day: 2:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m.
Okay I’ll buy the 2:00 p.m. slump because I personally find myself face down in a cup of coffee each day at precisely that time, but 2:00 a.m.? Most people are asleep at 2:00 so yes, I would say that asleep equals naturally tired. And if I’m up at 2:00 when I should be asleep of course I’m tired and in a very bad mood. Am I missing something here?
Newborns sleep a total of 10.5 to 18 hours a day on an irregular schedule with periods of one to three hours spent awake.
That fact is in direct correlation with this one:
A new baby typically results in 400-750 hours lost sleep for parents in the first year.
However new parents with babies who sleep 18 hours a day usually get plenty of sleep except, and this is very important, if the kid is getting those 18 hours during the day and boogieing at night. Now if like me you are lucky enough to hit the jackpot with kids who sleep only 2 hours the entire day or night, sleep deprivation becomes an art. Okay, so it only seemed like Lisa and Mariel slept two hours, in reality they probably slept at least four hours. My kids were born with their eyes wide open and refused to shut them until they were 15. As a result of this I can vouch for the next fun fact….
According to a 2008 Sleep in America poll, 36 percent of Americans drive drowsy or fall asleep while driving.
I used to pull up to a red light and tell myself that I had plenty of time to catch a nap, no one would know and I would get a whole three minutes of uninterrupted rest. When you’re in sleep deprivation la-la-land you’ll believe anything you tell yourself.
One of the primary causes of excessive sleepiness among Americans is self-imposed sleep deprivation. Which I believe is tied to--Experts say one of the most alluring sleep distractions is the 24-hour accessibility of the internet.
Or in other words get off the computer, or phone, and stop tweeting, texting and twaddling, just go to sleep you idiot! And while you’re at it sign up for Snoopy’s workshop.
Snoring is the primary cause of sleep disruption for 90 million American adults; 37 million on a regular basis.
And if it’s anything like my house those numbers include both the snorer and the snoree who, on a regular basis when woken up, will whack the snorer up the side of the head.
And the final quote that I need to do more research on:
According to the results of the 2008 Sleep in America poll, 34 percent of respondents reported their employer allowed them to nap during breaks and 16 per cent provided a place to do so.
Where on God’s good earth are these enlightened employers and where do I find them? On second thought they probably do not want their names publicized since every sleep junkie in America will be pounding on their doors begging to be hired. And I for one would bring my pillow.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Sunday, February 21, 2010
A Wonderful Day in the Neighborhood
A Wonderful Day in the Neighborhood
I love cities. I love the messy, vital, constant movement, the color, the busy sweep, the very insanity of so many people living and working together in a small space. The other day I found myself defending my love of cities to a woman who hated them. “I’m a farm girl at heart,” she told me proudly.” While I share her love of the outdoors, I’m no Thoreau. If I stayed at Walden Pond for longer than an afternoon, I’d go nuts.
What makes me crazy is not the people who prefer the suburbs, but the city folks who itch to change their city without understanding how it works. They want it cleaner, safer, greener, all very admirable desires, but in the changing they destroy the very things that make them work. Tampering with a city is like fooling with an eco-system—you never know what damage you will create by introducing new elements.
Jane Jacobs, a housewife from Scranton, a mother of three with no college degree, moved to New York and fell in love with its old neighborhoods. She came to learn how city neighborhoods worked and became a savvy community activist dedicated to preserving them. She wrote The Death and Life of Great American Cities, forever changing our understanding of cities. (from: In 2 visions, a blueprint to a livable city, Anthony Flint, 8/20/09, bostonglobe.com)
Though Jacobs may not have had fancy degrees, fifty years ago she came up against the ultimate PhD-developer-power-broker, Robert Moses, and won. Moses, who single-handedly built the New York we know today - its bridges and roadways, parks and swimming pools, Jones Beach, the UN building, Shea Stadium, and the housing towers that rose up in the era of urban renewal, ended up losing when he came up against Jacobs and the community groups that she formed. His idea of a city cleaned of its grittier elements was a sterile vision that left no room for one important piece--the people who lived there.
This idea of city cleansing began when Congress launched the Federal Urban Redevelopment Program in Title I of the Housing Act of 1949. During the next two decades, planners, mayors, and journalists dreamed up grand
schemes to revitalize the nation’s cities. Architects drew slick glass and steel skyscrapers set in vast, sunny, empty plazas. There are very few people in these drawings.
Jacobs ignored these schemes until they hit home. When she learned that Moses’ plans included destroying her beloved Greenwich Village neighborhood, she began organizing her community. In one of the most quoted passages of American Cities, she described the sidewalk ballet that took place outside her window everyday--the comings and goings of the people who lived and worked there, who came to shop, enjoy themselves and live their lives from dawn till long after dusk. She explained how a safe street is always busy, filled with multi-use buildings and people’s eyes constantly on the street. Anyone who has ever been to areas of downtown Boston dedicated solely to office buildings knows how unsafe they feel at night.
Compare that to the North End where people live above stores, restaurants are open late, and every inch of street is used to its fullest and you can understand the difference between a neighborhood that works and one that is a failure. It is not the shiny, glittery-glass skyscrapers that draw people, but the more homely buildings that welcome strollers at pedestrian levels. We feel safer sitting on a bench on a crowded city sidewalk than in a vast, concrete plaza.
Jacobs advocated low-rise streetscapes like Greenwich Village, but she was not against towers as long as the ground-floor experience was friendly for the pedestrian. She realized that density translates to activity in parks and open space and on the streets and sidewalks. There’s plenty of capacity in downtown Boston for all of this. (In 2 Visions)
So it was with great relief that I read Casey Ross’ article in the February 10 edition of the Boston Globe stating that:
Massachusetts transportation officials have severed ties with the developers of Columbus Center, the latest chapter in one of the most ambitious and controversial projects in Boston’s development history. The state Department of Transportation told the project’s developers they are in default of their 99-year lease, after stalling on plans to build an $800 million complex above the Massachusetts Turnpike that would have united the Back Bay and South End neighborhoods. Because of funding problems, the developers stopped construction on the six-building complex of condominiums, hotel, stores, and parks on a massive deck over the highway.
We’ve learned nothing. We still think that creating an $800 million complex will unite neighborhoods, this time actually building it all in the air. Who will shop in these expensive stores and live in these luxury condominiums? Would people looking for affordable housing in the Back Bay and South End live in this fantasy in the clouds?
Now that these grandiose plans have failed, the city supports the state’s move to reconsider plans for the property.
“Given the economic realities, it makes a lot of sense,’’ said Boston Redevelopment Authority spokeswoman Susan Elsbree.
State Representative Martha Walz said. “Any new public bidding process should require the developer to hew to guidelines established for the property in the 1990s that called for smaller-scale development. They may get some very positive creative ideas.’’ (Ross)
Especially if they leaf through Jacobs’ book. Might I suggest that the developers all be given a copy?
I love cities. I love the messy, vital, constant movement, the color, the busy sweep, the very insanity of so many people living and working together in a small space. The other day I found myself defending my love of cities to a woman who hated them. “I’m a farm girl at heart,” she told me proudly.” While I share her love of the outdoors, I’m no Thoreau. If I stayed at Walden Pond for longer than an afternoon, I’d go nuts.
What makes me crazy is not the people who prefer the suburbs, but the city folks who itch to change their city without understanding how it works. They want it cleaner, safer, greener, all very admirable desires, but in the changing they destroy the very things that make them work. Tampering with a city is like fooling with an eco-system—you never know what damage you will create by introducing new elements.
Jane Jacobs, a housewife from Scranton, a mother of three with no college degree, moved to New York and fell in love with its old neighborhoods. She came to learn how city neighborhoods worked and became a savvy community activist dedicated to preserving them. She wrote The Death and Life of Great American Cities, forever changing our understanding of cities. (from: In 2 visions, a blueprint to a livable city, Anthony Flint, 8/20/09, bostonglobe.com)
Though Jacobs may not have had fancy degrees, fifty years ago she came up against the ultimate PhD-developer-power-broker, Robert Moses, and won. Moses, who single-handedly built the New York we know today - its bridges and roadways, parks and swimming pools, Jones Beach, the UN building, Shea Stadium, and the housing towers that rose up in the era of urban renewal, ended up losing when he came up against Jacobs and the community groups that she formed. His idea of a city cleaned of its grittier elements was a sterile vision that left no room for one important piece--the people who lived there.
This idea of city cleansing began when Congress launched the Federal Urban Redevelopment Program in Title I of the Housing Act of 1949. During the next two decades, planners, mayors, and journalists dreamed up grand
schemes to revitalize the nation’s cities. Architects drew slick glass and steel skyscrapers set in vast, sunny, empty plazas. There are very few people in these drawings.
Jacobs ignored these schemes until they hit home. When she learned that Moses’ plans included destroying her beloved Greenwich Village neighborhood, she began organizing her community. In one of the most quoted passages of American Cities, she described the sidewalk ballet that took place outside her window everyday--the comings and goings of the people who lived and worked there, who came to shop, enjoy themselves and live their lives from dawn till long after dusk. She explained how a safe street is always busy, filled with multi-use buildings and people’s eyes constantly on the street. Anyone who has ever been to areas of downtown Boston dedicated solely to office buildings knows how unsafe they feel at night.
Compare that to the North End where people live above stores, restaurants are open late, and every inch of street is used to its fullest and you can understand the difference between a neighborhood that works and one that is a failure. It is not the shiny, glittery-glass skyscrapers that draw people, but the more homely buildings that welcome strollers at pedestrian levels. We feel safer sitting on a bench on a crowded city sidewalk than in a vast, concrete plaza.
Jacobs advocated low-rise streetscapes like Greenwich Village, but she was not against towers as long as the ground-floor experience was friendly for the pedestrian. She realized that density translates to activity in parks and open space and on the streets and sidewalks. There’s plenty of capacity in downtown Boston for all of this. (In 2 Visions)
So it was with great relief that I read Casey Ross’ article in the February 10 edition of the Boston Globe stating that:
Massachusetts transportation officials have severed ties with the developers of Columbus Center, the latest chapter in one of the most ambitious and controversial projects in Boston’s development history. The state Department of Transportation told the project’s developers they are in default of their 99-year lease, after stalling on plans to build an $800 million complex above the Massachusetts Turnpike that would have united the Back Bay and South End neighborhoods. Because of funding problems, the developers stopped construction on the six-building complex of condominiums, hotel, stores, and parks on a massive deck over the highway.
We’ve learned nothing. We still think that creating an $800 million complex will unite neighborhoods, this time actually building it all in the air. Who will shop in these expensive stores and live in these luxury condominiums? Would people looking for affordable housing in the Back Bay and South End live in this fantasy in the clouds?
Now that these grandiose plans have failed, the city supports the state’s move to reconsider plans for the property.
“Given the economic realities, it makes a lot of sense,’’ said Boston Redevelopment Authority spokeswoman Susan Elsbree.
State Representative Martha Walz said. “Any new public bidding process should require the developer to hew to guidelines established for the property in the 1990s that called for smaller-scale development. They may get some very positive creative ideas.’’ (Ross)
Especially if they leaf through Jacobs’ book. Might I suggest that the developers all be given a copy?
Saturday, February 13, 2010
The Write Stuff
The Write Stuff
I was half an hour early for my lunch date last Saturday so I wandered around the outdoor mall looking for interesting stores. Most of them were the usual chains but then I came upon a paper store and was immediately enticed inside. I love stationery stores—the bright colors, the textures, the designs, and all the writing paraphernalia that accompanies the paper, appeals to my senses. If I could afford it I would write only on thick, hand made paper the color of rich cream and use a fountain pen. But it’s not only the expense that stops me. These days I no longer have the time or reason to write a letter on creamy paper with a feathered quill. I can’t even remember the last letter that I wrote.
I write notes all the time--short, hurried, rush-rush lines that say little except, “I love you.” Occasionally I’ll send a thank you or write a condolence letter but even those are becoming rare. Earlier I sent a condolence note to my friend by entering a few words in an on-line funeral home guest book. I was appalled and relieved at the same time. I hated truncating my sorrow down to a few words on a computer but was happy that I had saved myself the time of card shopping. I’m ashamed of myself and beginning to wonder if I’m still able to pen a hand written letter.
It’s sad because I’m an old-fashioned soul when it comes to electronic communication. I’m not on Facebook, I don’t text and I definitely do not tweet or twitter. I do use e-mail and I confess that I write my columns on a computer. I used to use big, yellow, legal pads to jot down my sentences and ideas. Now when I’m faced with a large piece of paper that needs filling, I wonder where the nearest keyboard is. I’m caught in the limbo of being Microsoft Word literate yet completely backwards at using my thumbs to communicate, and I believe that’s true of many of us.
Even the paper store reflected my generation’s uneasiness in this brave new electronic-writing world. Yes it carried rich, Italian stationary accompanied by jewel-like pens but most of the store was taken up with scrapbooking chatchkes, wrapping paper and ribbons, greeting cards, silly toys and card making supplies. There was more space taken up for card making classes than for the actual paper. It seems that if you don’t feel comfortable handwriting long missives you can re-direct your energy into making the card itself.
Last week I saw my trepidations echoed in a column written by Clif Garboden in the February 7th edition of the Boston Globe. His column was entitled, SWTHDTM? (So What The Heck Does This Mean?) In it he describes his experience with a morning message that his friend sent him:
‘ Roasted rutabagas.’’
The two-word message showed up as a post in my Facebook “news feed’’ one morning. What was I to make of this? Did my friend Melissa, way out in Bend, Oregon, want a recipe? Was she typing in her sleep? Trying her hand at avant garde poetry? So often these days, my immediate reaction to the cryptic snippets of thought that people share online, is equally brief, namely, “What?!!!’’ Sometimes, I answer posts with a simple question, such as, “Sorry, what are you talking about?’’ but I seem to be the only one who’s curious or uncool enough to admit that I just don’t get it.
That would be me, I just don’t get it. I am the epitome of uncool. I am the one with boxes in the attic filled with letters that Steve wrote me when we were separated in college and then again when I was in Israel. He in turn, has boxes of my letters tucked away somewhere. I remember writing them to the melody of a soft candle late at night in Coney Island and then again sitting on the porch of my home in Israel. We filled pages of thick stationery and sent them off, impatiently waiting for an answer. It took at least a week for a letter to come back, assuming that we immediately answered.
There was a luxurious tension in the writing of these letters, a ceremony in the fixing of the stamp and mailing them and the suspense of waiting for the mail everyday. And the delight of receiving and holding and then opening the letter was so unbearably exciting. Each letter was read and re-read and then read again, sighed over, cried over, pored over like a long lost manuscript. How can I ever impart that experience to a generation who, as Garboden wrote,
inspired by Twitter’s 140-character-per-missive limit, are trying to say ever more with even less and creating model discussions for people with short attention spans with nothing useful to say? People typing with their thumbs on a keyboard the size of a playing card. I worry about the consequences of minimalizing the art of conversation to suit a new technology. Judging from Facebook and Twitter exchanges a new language of brevity has emerged that’s proving to be the soul more of confusion than wit.
Twittering may be new and exciting but the message is fleeting. Who is going to remember a tweet 30 years after it was sent? I fear we are being undone by roasted rutabagas.
I was half an hour early for my lunch date last Saturday so I wandered around the outdoor mall looking for interesting stores. Most of them were the usual chains but then I came upon a paper store and was immediately enticed inside. I love stationery stores—the bright colors, the textures, the designs, and all the writing paraphernalia that accompanies the paper, appeals to my senses. If I could afford it I would write only on thick, hand made paper the color of rich cream and use a fountain pen. But it’s not only the expense that stops me. These days I no longer have the time or reason to write a letter on creamy paper with a feathered quill. I can’t even remember the last letter that I wrote.
I write notes all the time--short, hurried, rush-rush lines that say little except, “I love you.” Occasionally I’ll send a thank you or write a condolence letter but even those are becoming rare. Earlier I sent a condolence note to my friend by entering a few words in an on-line funeral home guest book. I was appalled and relieved at the same time. I hated truncating my sorrow down to a few words on a computer but was happy that I had saved myself the time of card shopping. I’m ashamed of myself and beginning to wonder if I’m still able to pen a hand written letter.
It’s sad because I’m an old-fashioned soul when it comes to electronic communication. I’m not on Facebook, I don’t text and I definitely do not tweet or twitter. I do use e-mail and I confess that I write my columns on a computer. I used to use big, yellow, legal pads to jot down my sentences and ideas. Now when I’m faced with a large piece of paper that needs filling, I wonder where the nearest keyboard is. I’m caught in the limbo of being Microsoft Word literate yet completely backwards at using my thumbs to communicate, and I believe that’s true of many of us.
Even the paper store reflected my generation’s uneasiness in this brave new electronic-writing world. Yes it carried rich, Italian stationary accompanied by jewel-like pens but most of the store was taken up with scrapbooking chatchkes, wrapping paper and ribbons, greeting cards, silly toys and card making supplies. There was more space taken up for card making classes than for the actual paper. It seems that if you don’t feel comfortable handwriting long missives you can re-direct your energy into making the card itself.
Last week I saw my trepidations echoed in a column written by Clif Garboden in the February 7th edition of the Boston Globe. His column was entitled, SWTHDTM? (So What The Heck Does This Mean?) In it he describes his experience with a morning message that his friend sent him:
‘ Roasted rutabagas.’’
The two-word message showed up as a post in my Facebook “news feed’’ one morning. What was I to make of this? Did my friend Melissa, way out in Bend, Oregon, want a recipe? Was she typing in her sleep? Trying her hand at avant garde poetry? So often these days, my immediate reaction to the cryptic snippets of thought that people share online, is equally brief, namely, “What?!!!’’ Sometimes, I answer posts with a simple question, such as, “Sorry, what are you talking about?’’ but I seem to be the only one who’s curious or uncool enough to admit that I just don’t get it.
That would be me, I just don’t get it. I am the epitome of uncool. I am the one with boxes in the attic filled with letters that Steve wrote me when we were separated in college and then again when I was in Israel. He in turn, has boxes of my letters tucked away somewhere. I remember writing them to the melody of a soft candle late at night in Coney Island and then again sitting on the porch of my home in Israel. We filled pages of thick stationery and sent them off, impatiently waiting for an answer. It took at least a week for a letter to come back, assuming that we immediately answered.
There was a luxurious tension in the writing of these letters, a ceremony in the fixing of the stamp and mailing them and the suspense of waiting for the mail everyday. And the delight of receiving and holding and then opening the letter was so unbearably exciting. Each letter was read and re-read and then read again, sighed over, cried over, pored over like a long lost manuscript. How can I ever impart that experience to a generation who, as Garboden wrote,
inspired by Twitter’s 140-character-per-missive limit, are trying to say ever more with even less and creating model discussions for people with short attention spans with nothing useful to say? People typing with their thumbs on a keyboard the size of a playing card. I worry about the consequences of minimalizing the art of conversation to suit a new technology. Judging from Facebook and Twitter exchanges a new language of brevity has emerged that’s proving to be the soul more of confusion than wit.
Twittering may be new and exciting but the message is fleeting. Who is going to remember a tweet 30 years after it was sent? I fear we are being undone by roasted rutabagas.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Romance is in the Air
Romance is in the Air
We went out with another couple on Saturday night and they asked us how long we’ve been married. “Thirty-three years,” Steve and I answered almost simultaneously. I saw their eyes widen and realized that my husband and I are probably not the norm when it comes to married couples these days. We’ve been married for a long time and have known each other for even longer. We must look really well preserved because sometimes people ask us if we met in kindergarten.
But as many of you already know we first laid eyes on each other in high school, Sophomore History to be exact. But it wasn’t until our junior year that we really got to know each other, so we were 16 when we met, 17 when we started dating. If anyone out there is doing the math that means we’ve known each other for over 43 years.
I was looking through my desk calendar last week when I noticed something that I had jotted down in red pen. On February 12th I had written, “Our first date” and drawn a heart around the words. How had I never realized that our first date occurred so close to Valentine’s Day?
Every year I look forward to Valentine’s Day. Shatz hates it because he considers it a phony holiday but I get sucked into the hearts, flowers, chocolate and romance even after all these years, or perhaps I should say especially after all these years. There were many years when the girls were little when I turned it into a mother-daughter day, buying them chocolates and cards and making a special dinner for them. And then one year I sent out cards to all my friends thanking them for their friendship, but suddenly these last few years I’m back to romance.
I was actually annoyed that February 14th comes out on a Sunday this year because that means that all the restaurants will be crazy on Saturday night. Shatz and I agreed that we’d rather stay home and have dinner in front of the fireplace. For a few days we thought that Mariel was coming in that week-end but when she realized that the week-end included Valentines Day she elected to stay home. I was kind of relieved because I was really looking forward to a tête-à-tête with my husband. I seem to have a real need for romance lately.
And now that I realize that it’s also the anniversary of our first date, I want it even more. I’m being perverse because as much as I adore my husband, romantic is not the first word that comes to mind when I think of him. He will never whisk me away to a secluded island, or buy me five dozen red roses, or hide a diamond ring in my chocolate mousse. For him love is much more substantial than champagne bubbles. It’s an everyday get-up-in-the-morning-face-life-together- and-fall-into-bed-still-together-at-the-end-of-the-day thing. And I agree with him completely but every now and then a girl needs champagne bubbles. But after our first date I should have suspected that he was no Errol Flynn.
The first hint was the timing of our date—we went out on a Saturday afternoon, not usually a heavily romantic time. Then it turned out that yes, he asked me to a Broadway show, but only because his parents had tickets they couldn’t use. And when his mom told him to ask someone out he originally asked his good friend Charlie. I got an invitation only when Charlie couldn’t make it. So right from the beginning it was clear that this man would not to sweep me off my Keds.
But I accepted happily because I thought he was cute. I spent hours picking out the perfect dress and working on my hairdo and make-up. To his credit, Shatz dressed in a sports jacket and dress slacks though the color of his jacket was blindingly gold. Off we went on our subway ride into Manhattan.
For months we had been really friendly in class, chatting up a storm and for my part, flirting like crazy, so we were anything but strangers. So I couldn’t understand why he refused to take my hand or get too close to me and why our conversation was about as lively as a funeral. I couldn’t figure out what had gotten into my cute guy from English class. Months later he would tell me that he was so nervous that day that he could barely swallow let alone speak. You see I was his first date ever.
The rest of the afternoon didn’t get that much better. The play was wonderful and afterwards our hamburger and fries dinner at Schraftt’s on Fifth Avenue was yummy, but the only time he took my hand was when we crossed the street. Finally when he walked me to my door I decided to take things into my own hands. As he stood there stiffly, wishing me good-night in about as dashing a manner as a leper, I grabbed him and kissed him on the lips. When I let him go he was a little dazed, but there was a definite smile on his face.
So like our first date I‘m going to have to take the initiative when it comes to romance this Valentine’s Day. After all, if it’s champagne I want I’m going to have to supply the bubbles.
We went out with another couple on Saturday night and they asked us how long we’ve been married. “Thirty-three years,” Steve and I answered almost simultaneously. I saw their eyes widen and realized that my husband and I are probably not the norm when it comes to married couples these days. We’ve been married for a long time and have known each other for even longer. We must look really well preserved because sometimes people ask us if we met in kindergarten.
But as many of you already know we first laid eyes on each other in high school, Sophomore History to be exact. But it wasn’t until our junior year that we really got to know each other, so we were 16 when we met, 17 when we started dating. If anyone out there is doing the math that means we’ve known each other for over 43 years.
I was looking through my desk calendar last week when I noticed something that I had jotted down in red pen. On February 12th I had written, “Our first date” and drawn a heart around the words. How had I never realized that our first date occurred so close to Valentine’s Day?
Every year I look forward to Valentine’s Day. Shatz hates it because he considers it a phony holiday but I get sucked into the hearts, flowers, chocolate and romance even after all these years, or perhaps I should say especially after all these years. There were many years when the girls were little when I turned it into a mother-daughter day, buying them chocolates and cards and making a special dinner for them. And then one year I sent out cards to all my friends thanking them for their friendship, but suddenly these last few years I’m back to romance.
I was actually annoyed that February 14th comes out on a Sunday this year because that means that all the restaurants will be crazy on Saturday night. Shatz and I agreed that we’d rather stay home and have dinner in front of the fireplace. For a few days we thought that Mariel was coming in that week-end but when she realized that the week-end included Valentines Day she elected to stay home. I was kind of relieved because I was really looking forward to a tête-à-tête with my husband. I seem to have a real need for romance lately.
And now that I realize that it’s also the anniversary of our first date, I want it even more. I’m being perverse because as much as I adore my husband, romantic is not the first word that comes to mind when I think of him. He will never whisk me away to a secluded island, or buy me five dozen red roses, or hide a diamond ring in my chocolate mousse. For him love is much more substantial than champagne bubbles. It’s an everyday get-up-in-the-morning-face-life-together- and-fall-into-bed-still-together-at-the-end-of-the-day thing. And I agree with him completely but every now and then a girl needs champagne bubbles. But after our first date I should have suspected that he was no Errol Flynn.
The first hint was the timing of our date—we went out on a Saturday afternoon, not usually a heavily romantic time. Then it turned out that yes, he asked me to a Broadway show, but only because his parents had tickets they couldn’t use. And when his mom told him to ask someone out he originally asked his good friend Charlie. I got an invitation only when Charlie couldn’t make it. So right from the beginning it was clear that this man would not to sweep me off my Keds.
But I accepted happily because I thought he was cute. I spent hours picking out the perfect dress and working on my hairdo and make-up. To his credit, Shatz dressed in a sports jacket and dress slacks though the color of his jacket was blindingly gold. Off we went on our subway ride into Manhattan.
For months we had been really friendly in class, chatting up a storm and for my part, flirting like crazy, so we were anything but strangers. So I couldn’t understand why he refused to take my hand or get too close to me and why our conversation was about as lively as a funeral. I couldn’t figure out what had gotten into my cute guy from English class. Months later he would tell me that he was so nervous that day that he could barely swallow let alone speak. You see I was his first date ever.
The rest of the afternoon didn’t get that much better. The play was wonderful and afterwards our hamburger and fries dinner at Schraftt’s on Fifth Avenue was yummy, but the only time he took my hand was when we crossed the street. Finally when he walked me to my door I decided to take things into my own hands. As he stood there stiffly, wishing me good-night in about as dashing a manner as a leper, I grabbed him and kissed him on the lips. When I let him go he was a little dazed, but there was a definite smile on his face.
So like our first date I‘m going to have to take the initiative when it comes to romance this Valentine’s Day. After all, if it’s champagne I want I’m going to have to supply the bubbles.
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