What Metropolitan Diary Doesn't Know Won't Kill It

Shockingly, I motivated to go for a long run in the park yesterday. It was so beautiful out that even this ridiculously dark and energy-sucking apartment couldn't keep me inside. So I was doing my slow trot through Prospect Park, breathing in the fresh, warm air, when I realized that I was running at pretty much exactly the same pace as a young woman and man. I didn't get the sense that they were a couple (more on that later), or even good friends. More like acquaintances. Or two new Friendsters (god help them). The guy, who had a heavy Southern accent, was giving what amounted to a lecture on expensive clothes. The woman could only grunt in agreement, maybe from the running, but more likely because the guy wouldn't let her get a word in edgewise. After discussing the finer points of Prada and "D&G," he mentioned John Varvatos' new skincare line. This somehow lead to a story about one day last summer when he was hiking. Apparently, a wayward branch scraped his skin causing an uncomfortable rash. I believe he used the word "venom" to describe what power the branch had to result in such a nasty outbreak. Somehow he was able to find a fine department store near the brush he was hiking through and, no doubt sweating just-so through his Dolce & Gabbana cargo shorts, all the way to the La Mer counter. There he asked for the finest cream to treat this unsightly scrape and was given what he called their "best broth." In a turn of events not seen since the sighting of the Virgin Mary at Lourdes, his arm skin became so smooth he "couldn't stop touching it." Here, the woman was able to speak: "Wow" she said. And the conversation continued:

Pretentious Guy: "You've never felt anything this soft before."
Tolerant Woman: "Really. What was it like?"
Pretentious Guy: "Have you ever felt Astroglide?"

(At this point, the entire park fell silent. Even the crickets that would normally have been audible at such an embarassing remark were too shocked to chirp.)

Tolerant Woman: "Umm...wha?"
Pretentious Guy: "You know, Astroglide. Lube? Never mind. Let's just say it was soft."

Potato Chip: The Love That Dare Not Speak It's Name (Tour de Lay-Off, Day 26)

Like just about every woman in her 30s who lives in New York, I take pretty good care of my body. I'm a "pescetarian" (aka a so-called vegetarian who eats fish, aka a phony vegetarian), I exercise regularly, I floss...most of the time. But the other day at the supermarket where I went at around 3pm (just because I could), the bag of "Natural" sea-salted potato chips virtually screamed my name. I tried to fight it's siren call with a lingering trip down the produce aisle when suddenly my brain short-circuited with the fantasy of a crispy, salty, greasy bite of delicious-ness. Ignoring the pinch of my sweatpant waistband, I sprinted past the fruits and greens nearly taking out an elderly woman with a cat on her head (it was probably a hat, but things look different when you're traveling at the speed of light). I hurdled over boxes of whole-grain cereals and pushed past containers of non-fat milk. And there before me, nestled in the bosom of the Krispy Korner, were the silky smooth bags I had been looking for all my life. Sure, I thought I knew love before. There was that grilled salmon one hot summer night (or maybe it was the whole bottle of red wine that I drank along with the salmon?). And that organic greens salad at the five star Zagat-rated "raw food" restaurant (In truth, this was a love probably based on the fact that the salad cost more than my college tuition thereby justifying my blind adoration or burning the whole place down in retribution). Tantalizing and cute in it's little "Stay-Fresh Sac" with it's $1.99 price tag, this bag of potato chips was the real deal. I wasted no time with the niceties of a first time greeting. Fearing I might ravage the bag right there in the aisle, I grabbed it and shoved it in my basket (you know what I mean) and made for the checkout aisle. Since no one except the woman with the cat on her head (It was, in fact, a cat, or maybe a hat she had made out of a cat), I fought my lust while Cat Head slowly emptied her cart of one head of cabbage and enough Entemann's cakes to give all of five boroughs a coronary. Finally it was my turn. Money changed hands and I was out the door. I dashed through the parking lot salivating at the thought of all the things I could do with my chip bag. I'll spare you the details, but every minute was pure heaven. There might never be another bag like it. Indeed, there WILL never be another bag like it.

Next time: Butter, Oh How I Love Thee

Sweatsuit: A Love Story (Tour de Lay-Off, Day 24)

So the holidays, even the Canadian ones, are long over and I am exactly 23 days past the first official day of my lay-off. After three weeks of post-employment adrenaline which kept me going as I attempted to fire up my new cookie business, volunteer for Covenant House, take up the new crossword craze Sodoku, jog, weightlift, read, laugh, love, I am proud to say that as of today, January 24th, a day Pat Kiernan of New York 1 announced is roundly considered to be the WORST day of the entire year, my sweatsuit and I are doing fine. We're a little addled from so much togetherness time, but I'm certain we'll work it out. There's just something about the dull grey, faded university letters, missing waistband string, soft cotton replete with the smell of your own inertia that's so comforting you could hardly picture yourself parting from it. Not to mention the various and sundry marks of snacks enjoyed in front of midday television. I can look at my thigh and say "I remember when I ate that chocolate bar" or at my chest, just below the collar of my sweatshirt, and laugh out loud as the memories of that bowl of pasta enjoyed at 11am while Ellen did her funky cold medina dance come flooding back to me like so many bounced checks. In all honesty, there are no bounced checks. For now, I'm living off my severance, a fact that still makes my blood pressure go up about twenty points. The sound of my own voice justifying my "down time" is starting to grate a bit everytime I speak to someone about what I'm doing now. I mean, I was/am a motivated person. I worked for ten years in a business that can make you old long before your time. I dare say I worked enough hours to be a millionaire now if I worked on Wall Street. But no, I was a lowly TV producer; one of many in a city that prides itself on being more beautiful, making more money, never sleeping and taking much better vacations than you (read: me) ever will. Hence, I've got a nice chunk of savings and a severance package that will last me for a few months. I've also got a whole lot of self-doubt as I contemplate what I want to do with my life for the first time since the day after graduation when my illustrious television career began. An interesting conundrum to consider at the ripe old age of 32 and 4 months. I believe this conundrum is known in the common parlance as "Being A Loser." I feel like I'm getting a sense of what the lepers of olde felt like. I wonder if they used the expression "I'm in transition" as much as I find myself using it.

Question of the day: Why do people judge us by our jobs?

This is the kind of question that I believe my father would answer "Are you kidding?" He was always exceptionally good at telling it like it is.

Until tomorrow, I will return to listening to Antony and The Johnsons mournful album and the cookies in the oven that I now call my livelihood.