Weekend wear

Today, for the first time in a long time, when I got dressed in the morning I put on something other than jeans.

Being what's known as a curvy girl (although apparently in online datingland that is a euphemism for overweight, so I can't call myself that in a profile), jeans and I don't get along well.  Companies have been trying for years to make jeans that satisfy my kind.  Levi's is the most recent to try to tackle this. Well, they tried a year ago.  Has anyone seen any news of it since? These efforts always fail.  

They're also not that comfortable.  Heavy, rough cotton?  I never, ever travel in jeans -- who wants to sit on an airplane for hours with those heavy seams pressing on you?

What am I to do on weekends, when I refuse to wear pants I'd have to dry clean?  Skirts and dresses end up being too dressy (unless it's really warm and liberated legs are appropriate).  And are not necessarily appropriate to wear when you want to put your feet up.  Khakis are just jeans of a different color.

I've been sick in bed all week, so when I haven't been casual and wearing jeans I'm wearing ... let's call it loungewear. While it's far more comfortable than denim, it's not particularly esteem-building.

But, today, partially in the spirit of hiddur mitzvah, beautifying the mitzvah, I put on nice pants because it's Shabbat.  And, because of these nice pants, which are fairly long and which I would trip over in flat shoes, for the first time in over week I put on shoes with higher heels.

And suddenly ... I felt better.  Healthier.  I felt like myself.

A while ago, I dated a guy who was a lot larger than me.  This was unusual because I tend to be drawn to the shorter types, guys I can see eye-to-eye with.

So he was unusual.  He was an Other.  And, since he was an Other, I was the other Other.  And in that affirming Otherness (oh, go read Hegel already) I suddenly found myself wanting to wear particularly feminine clothes, especially high heels.

I don't normally wear much of a heel because I have been inclined to wear comfortable shoes. I love to walk, either quickly or for long distances or both, which you can't do in heels. During the period when I was playing hockey, every Monday I needed to be nice to my sore body, so that was another day I didn't wear heels.  And my knees were always hurting, and heels made it worse. So there was no reason to own them.

Now, of course, we have the trend of platform heels.  I love it.  The illusion of high heels without having to work as hard.

It was liberating to try out this new side of myself.  Zappos, as always, was my best friend.  A better friend than the guy, of course, but I kept the red patent leather platform heels.  With them, I discovered that required hip-swinging motion that is apparently so alluring in women who wear heels.  It's a requirement because you have to use your whole body to generate momentum because the soles of your feet are not on the ground.  I also learned how not to fall down the stairs -- again, a hip-swinging motion in order to ensure the heel clears the step you're stepping off of.  Kind of like a flutter kick in swimming.

I still haven't worn them outside.  Really, who am I kidding: I have bought their value in Dr. Scholl's gel inserts and still can't walk more than a few feet on hard surfaces with them.

Since then, partly do to the exigencies of pants length, I've purchased more reasonable heels, heels I can walk in, heels that don't require me to think about walking.

I know heels for women have been compared to Chinese foot-binding.  Both create a triangular foot shape; both reduce the length of a footstep and cause our steps to be mincing, thus increasing our vulnerability.

But in that moment this morning, of putting on clothes that were more comfortable and draped better than weekend jeans, of putting on heels and standing tall, I definitely felt more like myself. Call me regressive, but I do like to stand tall when I can also walk well.  My legs are pretty long; my stride is not terribly shortened.

Perhaps I'll just start wearing heels with jeans.

Monday update: I put the red patent leather platform heels on with my jeans.  It's the worse of both worlds: uncomfortable and immobilizing.  The height is fabulous: I'm four inches taller, and I love the perspective.  But they represent exactly why I used to not wear heels: with my mincing steps I don't feel like myself; I don't feel pretty or grounded or mobile.  These may end up being my indoor shoes, dress-up play shoes, like house slippers only sexier.  Good for getting things off high shelves.

The bet's to you, Rabbi.

I just returned from a retreat in northern Marin county, a weekend with people of all ages, organized by my synagogue.  A fun weekend, like being at summer camp again.  The most unexpected delight of the weekend, though, was Candyland Poker.

Our rabbi wanted to learn how to play poker so he could join a rabbis' game he knows about.  So a group of us taught him how to play Texas Hold 'Em.  (A bunch of guys and me.  It was bizarre for me to be the most knowledgeable in the bunch.)  Once we taught him the rules, we realized that without betting it wouldn't really be teaching him poker.  But:

• We had no chips
• It was Shabbat, so we weren't supposed to be gambling with money.

Frustrated at this, the rabbi walked off and came back with a Candyland set from the child care area.  Per his idea, we used the Candyland cards as chips, and the rabbi delighted in each bet.  He was so excited about the Candyland cards that he wanted to value them differently based on color and number of squares, with special value for the "princess" cards: the candy cane princess, the ice cream princess, the gumdrop creature, etc.  We talked him out of it; he insisted, though, that when we bet we turn the Candyland cards face up so that we could at least celebrate the colors and princesses.

There was something infectious about the fun of Candyland cards: if someone bet with a double color or a princess, we trash-talked about it -- "Oh, he must be feeling confident!"

The rabbi also suggested that we play what he called "kibbutz rules."  Since we weren't playing with money, and we didn't have very many Candyland cards, the rule was that if you ran out of Candyland cards after a hand, the person with the biggest stack had to give you half.  (There was a brief discussion of welfare policy: Should we tax all equally, or should donations to the cashless be voluntary from the group?  Were we creating incentives to be lazy?)

The rabbi is fine with us calling him by his first name, but no one did in this scenario: it was too much fun to say, "Bet's to you, Rabbi."

A friend had brought his guitar and played and sang for us.  How many people play poker to live music?

There was a lot of wine involved.  We played for three hours.  By the end, the rabbi was telling people to stop the chitchat and just bet -- he was totally hooked.  (The second night we tried playing using candy from a huge bag as chips, but the phrase, "Pass me a Tootsie-Roll" quickly showed that to be a bad idea, and we returned to the Candyland card model.)

Three of us in the poker group, plus our guitar-playing troubadour, formed the Candyland Poker Band.   During the adults' open mic night, we brought the house down (which had been listening to unbelievably lame jokes) by performing a couple of Beatles songs.  Apparently, I can sing well.

The Candyland poker group is going to reconvene back in civilization.  We may end up using chips and money.  I hope that we can still hang on to the levity we found on Friday night.

Sunday, gloomy Sunday

Things to do on a Sunday afternoon when your mood matches the gray November weather:

• Wrap yourself in a wool shawl.
• Turn football on, then turn it off because you don't care about the teams. Repeat every 10 minutes.
• Drink a cup of tea.
• Read design magazines.
• Pay bills.
• Eat half a bag of chocolate chips. Whoops, they are white chocolate, which means they don't contain whatever in chocolate is supposed to be good for your mood.
• Go online to check the temperature outdoors in case it's actually sunny and warm.

Three hands

With lots of kids around me, I'm always holding someone's little hand. Crossing the street is a treat for me, and I keep wondering how long my niece is going to let me take her hand to do it. Sadly, we grow out of holding hands.

Which means that the weekend has been particularly special, as my hands seem to have become activated, turned on, ignited. In one short day I had three different handholding experiences not with children but with three different adults.

- Hands held in affection
- Hands held to say, "Don't leave, I'll be right with you"
- Hands held to warm another's up.

Right before the last, I was holding R's knitting, showing her how to cast off, and even while showing her just two stitches my hands felt so alive. It's hard to describe -- it's a heart chakra thing -- but when I am living through my hands I am often living at my fullest.

Later in the day, I was sitting on the floor with a happy one-year-old, and she looked at me like she wanted to take my plate. I said to her, "You can't take my plate, but you can take my hand, and I'll help you stand up," and she gave me a look that said, "OK." I put out my hand; she grabbed it and popped up and merrily toddled away.

There is so much caring and connection that comes through the hands.

Dream of the Blue Jersey

It's summer, and I dream of being athletic.

Specifically, I dream of playing hockey.

I dream I'm skating. The other night I dreamed I spoke to a woman who said she played in a league in San Francisco. I was thrilled when she said her league was fun and that it was at Yerba Buena. It all came back to me: where to park, carrying my bag in, the visual of being on the ice. I think maybe I've been back once since I broke my collarbone there.

It's summer, and I can't believe how long it's been since I was athletic. Before I started my current job, I was unemployed, working with a trainer, doing yoga, going to hockey camp. Since then, I keep setting a goal of being active, but it just hasn't happened. I took a break from hockey almost two years ago to recover from an unrelated injury, and I keep telling myself I'm going back. I am going back.

Summer is a great time to return because of the longer days, not having to leave in the dark for a late afternoon game. But I dread the idea of playing in Belmont, the rink where my league has so many games. A rink that is super-small and so poorly insulated that the ice doesn't freeze on warm days. So the puck comes to a dead, stuck stop when it hits a puddle. Where you have to lace your skates loosely because your feet swell as soon as you put them on, where you wish you didn't have to wear shoulder pads or a helmet because it's just too hot.

I miss the smell of the ice. I miss my regular pre- and post-game routines, including hydrating and handwashing before and then afterwards drinking Gatorade, eating a recovery hot dog, and laying out my sweaty gear to dry. I miss carrying my sticks, and I miss the sound and use of hockey tape. (There aren't really a lot of uses for it outside of hockey, unfortunately.) I step over low fences and other objects as often as possible to relive those many exciting times I stepped over the boards to get on the ice. (I do not haul myself over fences and other objects to relive the paralysis of utter exhaustion that accompanies getting off the ice.)

I'm a good hockey player. Not a great player; not even a very good player. Maroon #15 does not have a lot of presence in the record books, or even on the crumpled, damp scoresheets that live in the bottoms of captains' bags. I probably have had one or two penalties, and I can't even remember them. I've had very few goals but a few more assists. I'm most proud of my assists -- I love setting up plays and passing the puck to someone who can do something great with it. I miss freaking out the other team's defense (and surprising myself) with a threading-the-needle pass from behind the net through several players' legs and sticks to the blade of my waiting teammate (who usually has several people hanging off of her and can't get the shot off, but, hey, the pass was pretty). Mostly, I have been a smart teammate who can read a play and know where to be.

If I could, I'd be a full-time coach. People sometimes come up to me and thank me for coaching them, which sends me to the moon, even if I don't remember who they are. I love seeing my former players run a play that I taught them, which more often than not they're doing against my own team (while I'm sitting, helpless, on the bench, knowing they're going to do it).

But I can't just be a coach -- because it's too agonizing. Because no matter how slowly or poorly my body reacts to my brain's quick commands, I need to be physically in the game, not just thinking about it. It's also why I like to play forward positions: playing defense gives me way too much time in my head.

I do love having a two day weekend, not dealing with hydrating and carbo loading and traffic, having Sundays to nap or paint or do whatever else comes up, not being worthless on Monday morning. But I so dream of being on the ice again. I need to find a decent pick-up game. I need to get my skates sharpened. My hockey bag sits in my large powder room near the front door, waiting to be taken out again, falsely announcing to visitors that I am an athlete. I am not ready to retire. I need to be active again.

Monday is the new Sunday

Veterans Day observed: it's a holiday, at least for me, today.

Discussion at the Rockridge Cafe this morning. They handed me the specials menu, with daily specials on one side and weekend specials (including pumpkin waffle) on the other.

Waitress delivers coffee.
Me, holding the menu up and gesturing at the weekend specials side: "Is it the weekend?"
Waitress: "No, it's Monday."
Me: "I understand. But does it count as the weekend?"
Waitress: "No, the weekend ends on Sunday."

It took several rounds of who's-on-first to get her to understand that I wasn't just asking because I didn't know it was Monday or that Monday is not part of the weekend. Expectations of consciousness seem very low in our part of the world at times. And indeed we were able to order a pumpkin waffle from the weekend menu on a Monday.