Tag Archives: coffee

All Ages Show

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Hypnotic trance beats, neon lights at the DJ booth, an unruly crowd at the bar, and me finally trying out some moves beyond child’s pose.  It’s 7am.  I may no longer be checking the “18-34” age box on the mail-in surveys, but who says the fun has to stop?

I hear the groans already.  A middle-aged person at a club sounds as pleasing as a tuna and chocolate sandwich.  Back when I could gleefully check the aforementioned age box, I swore I would know to stop clubbing well before my expiration date.  And what marks the expiration date?  Well, being concerned about the safety of your purse is probably a flag.  Are you standing around trying to guess people’s ages?  Hoping against the odds there is a nice white wine you can order, instead of a shot of Fireball?  And if you don’t know what Fireball is, then that is a very unhidden clue to stay home and keep enjoying “Modern Family.”

But before you get judgy on me, imagining Leona Helmsley squeezed into a bandage dress, trying to avoid getting elbowed in the left eye by a flailing whippersnapper, I give you two words: morning rave.  This is my new mantra.  Forget affirming every morning that I love myself, as well as that mean woman on the Metro who took two seats with her giant backpack.  That only worked when I followed it up with a cherry chocolate scone – then I loved everybody.

Admittedly, I was a little worried when I walked into the spartan club at 7:01 a.m. and couldn’t spot the bathrooms right away.  For a split second, I panicked that I had missed reading about the new trend on retro outhouses.  But once the DJ put his fingers to work, I settled into the beats, and let my anxiety trickle away little by little.  I spotted a group of moms in their yoga pants, dancing protectively in a circle, stopping for the occasional selfie, and then carefully tucking their phones into their bras.  And the slightly overweight youngster, wonderfully uninhibited in his rhythmic gymnastics, unaware he would eventually hurt somebody.  But it was all good.

Maybe it was because I watched the sun from the club’s rooftop, slowly strengthening its rays.  Perhaps the bartender roofied the outstanding iced coffees at the bar.  I don’t care.  Morning Rave.  Close your eyes, and say it with me.

This is 29

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A delicate rose scent wafts through the air.  It dances with the soothing talcum powder smell of little babies.  Spring is wonderful.  Less so is my jog – where I am more enthralled by the fragrances of my shampoo and deodorant, than by the prospect of speeding up.  After a certain age, exercise is not just beneficial, but mandatory – unless you are happy about consistent and unforgiving weight gain.

If creeping pounds are unappealing, and you hate to move about, then eating sensibly is also an option.  I’m not referring to fasting, pureeing bacon sandwiches, or juicing a pineapple with some kerosene, but a reasonable approach to nutrition.  Like eating foods that come naturally in different colors (not tinted in an agricultural salon), in small portions, throughout the day.  Easy and practical.  Until you realize cake is not one of the recommended colors.

So for me, it’s back to sweating.  Each morning, I pry open my eyelids, turn my stiff head to the left and assess the state of the union.  Sufficient light to prevent mugging.  Not enough to necessitate sunblock.  Swaying leaves mean a long-sleeve shirt.   Or maybe pants.  I never get that decision right.  When I feel an agitated ankle tendon I sit up.  Maybe it’s a hamstring; I am not sure I know the difference.  I do know I have to find that disgusting absorbent hairband, as today is not a hair-washing day.

I start to meticulously measure out the water, level out the scoops of finely ground Puerto Rican beans, and warm up the four precise ounces of milk; as the coffee starts to bubble, I reminisce about the morning routines of my youth.  Sleeping in past the last possible minute and then heading into an inappropriately long shower; avoiding clothing dilemmas, by choosing black sweaters over black pants, with black shoes – all to the soundtrack of Ace of Base, which I somehow find the time to insert into the CD player.  Walking two feet out of my apartment directly into an Au Bon Pain/Urban Pain for a large mocha blast, whipped cream please, and a side of whichever muffin looks the largest.  That’s easing into a day.

But life is better now.  Really.  My cholesterol is low.  My heart rate compares to a professional athlete’s, according to my Emergency room visit doctor. I can shamelessly wear a halter top (if I weren’t mortified at the thought).  And I do sleep in until 8 on Sundays.  This is 29, again.

Monday Melancholy

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My heart is racing as soon as I roll my arm over to the nightstand, and pound the phone with my thumb.  Snooze, snooze, snooze, please.  I roll back and close my eyes, while my brain goes from dazed to alert and concerned in seconds.  My chest feels very heavy with an occasional tug every few minutes.  My stomach is chattering loudly.  Another week, same start.  I silently analyze the possible reasons for the discomfort.  Is it last night’s pinot noir, followed by a dark chocolate, gelato laced Napoleon?  Or the dull pain felt since realizing my pets will all pass before me?  Maybe, as the morning talk shows say, the simple lack of sleep has prodded my body into dysfunction.

There isn’t much time for quiet contemplation on a Monday morning, and so I jump out of bed for the morning ablutions.  The sick feeling accompanies me.  It hovers over my hands as I stack papers and shove them into a bag.  It is observant while I open and close the fridge, before ultimately deciding that today needs to be a fasting day of sorts.

Can it be that it is another Monday, and I am still sourcing dull outfits paired with interesting bracelets for a looming staff meeting? That is the most disconcerting thought of all.  I will sit quietly, facing the organizational chart of “committees supervising sub-committees leveraging councils,” and I will take furious notes…about my grocery list.

I grab the requisite house and car keys and rush out of the house, down the steps and into the car. The package in the passenger seat is the one my husband said he needed today; so I awkwardly squeeze back out of the car with the package in one hand and keys in the other.  I am certain I will burst into tears.

I break into a smile instead when I walk up and see my open kitchen door.  My basset labrador (yes, such a thing exists) is standing in the center of the room, tail wagging and face grinning.  My husband is there too – clearly the dog is magical, but not enough to sprout thumbs, or grow four feet taller, and tackle door handles.

Somtimes, a long dog with a fat neck is what takes the edge off.  I turn on the ignition.  Dunkin’ Donuts large French vanilla with cream does not hurt either.  Inner peace comes slowly.