Lazy Sunday

It's been a lazy Sunday afternoon. I threw in a load of wash, had a lunch of leftovers, took a walk with friends, checked my email, and started the New York Times Sunday Crossword Puzzle. There's no real reason why Sunday should feel different from other days, since I don't work in an office during the week, yet it does. It's a time to sleep late, putter around, and generally relax.

Somehow Saturday doesn't have the laid-back feeling of Sunday. On Saturday, I'm more likely to run errands, do my exercises, and entertain or go out with friends in the evening. I think of Saturday as a high-energy fun day. On Sundays, I like to slow down. 

My Sundays had a slow feel even when I was in high school. There might have been homework I'd left until the last minute, but there was also time to lie on my bed daydreaming about my latest crush, wondering if I'd see him between classes on Monday. If I wasn't fantasizing about boys I was on the phone with my girlfriends talking about them. Sunday was a day of possibilities, filled with the delicious anticipation of the week to come.

Later, when I was in law school, Sunday afternoon might find me napping. I'm normally not a person who naps, but law school was intense. Just thinking about the workload was enough to make me drowsy. On Sunday, the whole afternoon stretched out before me and my quiet bedroom beckoned. School work could wait until evening. Those Sunday afternoon naps were special. I've rarely taken them before or since, but they seemed the height of luxury at the time.

Today I didn't lie on my bed daydreaming or luxuriate in a nap, but I did slow down the pace and take time to appreciate the company of my friends and the beauty of a Miami sunset. I've had a nice lazy Sunday.

If the Shoe Fits

As some of you may remember, I recently spent an inordinate amount of time shopping for an evening dress (see "Shopping for 'The One' "). The good news is, I finally found a lovely dress at an amazing price. The bad news is that now I have to find shoes to go with it.

Those of you with adorable Carrie Bradshaw feet, just made for Manolo Blahnik shoes, will probably find this post incomprehensible or merely boring. Why, you might ask, do I not head to the nearest mall and buy myself a cute little pair of strappy sandals? The answer, sadly, is that my feet are not the Manolo Blahnik type. I've been blessed (or, some might say, cursed) with very narrow heels but wide forefeet. Basically, impossible to fit.

I'm not complaining, exactly. Despite their limitations, my feet have served me well. I love to walk and they've carried me for many a mile. But when it's time to shop for dressy shoes, I face a daunting challenge. Thankfully, the Internet exists to help me meet it. Enter Zappos, Nordstrom, and other online shoe retailers. They not only carry a huge selection in varying widths, but they feature generous shipping policies.

I started my shoe search with Zappos, since I've had good luck with them in the past. During an earlier shoe quest, I called a Zappos customer service rep with a question about a particular style and she suggested I simply order the shoes I wanted in the two sizes I thought might fit, then return the pair that didn't work, or both pairs, if neither fit properly. This time, I found a pair of sandals in just the metallic color I was looking for, so I ordered them in an 8 and an 8 1/2. When I chose standard shipping, I was informed there would be no charge. Pleased, I submitted my order.

A short while later, an email arrived telling me that Zappos valued my business so much they were upgrading my shipping status to priority. The shoes arrived the following day. So far, so good. Then I tried them on. The size 8 pair fit, in the sense that I could get my feet into them. But as far as actually walking, that was another story. The size 8 1/2 pair was altogether too big. Both pairs would have to go back. Zappos made it easy. I merely had to slap on a return label and drop the box off at my nearest UPS Store.

Next, I tried DSW online. I knew I could return the shoes to the nearest store if they didn't work out. They didn't. The clerk at the store couldn't have been nicer about the return. A petite young woman, she clearly loved shoes and enthusiastically told me there were some great styles available on clearance. She seemed totally mystified when I mentioned that I was hard to fit. Ah, innocence.

After that failure, I really intended to give the local mall a try. Maybe I would get lucky. But yesterday evening, too late for hitting the brick and mortar stores, I decided to go virtual once more and check out the Nordstrom online shoe site. I found a cute pair of sandals with a reasonably low heel, available in a C width. If I bought two pairs, the price would qualify me for free shipping! Since I would need to try both the 8 and 8 1/2, as usual, I couldn't resist the allure of one more online order. 

If this doesn't work out, I'm not sure what I'll do next. The dress is floor-length. If worse comes to worst, I can always go barefoot and no one will be the wiser.

Organic, Sustainable . . . Walmart?

Sounds like an oxymoron, right? But Walmart has apparently made big changes in its produce department. Corby Kummer, food writer for The Atlantic Monthly, visited a Walmart for the first time in a decade and was amazed by the transformation. You can read about his impressions in an article in the current issue of The Atlantic, "The Great Grocery Smackdown."  Make sure to check out the video that accompanies the article—if I didn't know better, I would have thought I was viewing a Whole Foods or other high-end market.

As Kummer points out, Walmart's new emphasis on sustainable agriculture and organic produce is good news for local farmers and consumers alike in areas which typically have poor produce choices. Kummer is not naive. He knows Walmart is not acting purely out of altruism. His point is that offering healthy fruits and vegetables may benefit both the company and the populations it serves. Kummer concludes his article with the following—"I’m convinced that if it wants to, a ruthlessly well-run mechanism can bring fruits and vegetables back to land where they once flourished, and deliver them to the people who need them most."

Weather Obsessed

We live in a weather-obsessed culture, which has been fueled by our ever-increasing access to weather data—we can check our local radar at any given moment and can find current weather conditions anywhere on the globe. The Weather Channel provides constant local updates and goes into crisis mode during any type of storm. But there's another factor that has contributed to our weather obsession—our mobility. Once we've actually lived in another place, with a different climate, we think about ourselves differently in relation to our local weather.

Long before I lived in northern California, I knew it had a warmer and dryer climate than Long Island, where I grew up, but it wasn't something I cared about. During my childhood, I regarded New York's climate as a given. My mind and body accepted the rhythm of the four seasons. I loved the changing weather. Summer seemed special in part because it had to end. During fall, I enjoyed walks home from school, with the crisp red, orange, and yellow leaves crunching underfoot. Winter meant skating at outdoor ice rinks and on local ponds, the quiet after a snowstorm, and soft mohair sweaters. And I couldn't imagine life without the miracle of spring, a time of rebirth and renewal, of love and longing.

At college, I became enchanted with the climate of western Massachusetts. There, the seasons were more sharply delineated—summer sultry and green, fall magnificent with mountains dressed in brilliant autumn hues, winter majestic and awe-inspiring. Spring fever never seemed so poignant and wonderful as during those college years, when the yearnings of adolescence were fed by the soft greens of budding trees and the scent of lilacs in the air.

When I was 23, I moved to northern California. At first, I found the climate bland and boring. The leaves never really fell off the trees, though the oak leaves turned brownish and a few of them drifted to the ground during December and January. Other plants stayed in bloom year-round, so when "spring" arrived in February, it passed largely unnoticed. There was a dry season and a wet season, which didn't feel natural to me. My body rhythms weren't attuned to them. And the air seemed harsh and dry. When I sat in the California sun, I developed a rash.

After a year, I returned to the East Coast for a year, then came back to California. This time, I felt more comfortable with the climate. I loved the smell of the eucalyptus trees and the sight of the fog bank looming over the Coastal Range. I still missed the four seasons, but I began to find compensations—no snow and ice to contend with while driving, the clarity of the dry air and the beauty of the sky after a rainstorm. In short, I began to feel at home in California. My mind and body adapted.

After about five years, I moved back east, with a two-year stopover in Chicago, where I experienced a return to winter with a vengeance. My stay in the windy city coincided with the most severe winter in Chicago's recorded history, which set records for both snow and cold. From there, I settled in Boston, which seemed balmy by comparison. I still loved the New England summers, the gorgeous falls, the delicate and beautiful spring, and even the cold and snowy winters. But I didn't regard them as inevitable anymore. I knew viscerally that I had options.

Over the years, this awareness, coupled with the length of New England winters, made me receptive to spending winter in a warmer place. Now I live in Florida during the coldest months and have adapted yet again. I love the softness of the air here and the lushness of the foliage. But I still look forward to returning to Massachusetts in time to see the daffodils bloom.

I haven't done a scientific study, but it's my impression that those who haven't ever lived in a climate without winter accept and savor winter more than those of us who have experienced the alternative. So, the more mobile we are as a society, the more people will object to climate conditions they once would have embraced. Add to that the availability of instant information to remind us that when it's inclement where we are, it's beautiful somewhere else, and it's easy to see why so many of us become obsessed with the weather.

Flying Above the Clouds

You know the feeling when you take off in overcast weather? The plane climbs up through the clouds. At first you can see the ground below, then the clouds surround the plane and you are flying blind, in the midst of soft gray, hoping the pilot's instruments are guiding him well. Then comes the wonderful moment when the plane bursts through the clouds into pristine blue sky and blazing sunlight. At that point, you are truly above it all, in a rarefied atmosphere, viewing the stunning cloud carpet from on high.

Rarefied is the operative word here because, in reality, you couldn't survive in this crystal clear environment, where the air is frigid and the oxygen thin. Still, it's a beautiful sight to behold, one I never tire of, and the memory of this experience has come to me at times of crisis, when I'm reminded of what's truly important.

There's nothing like a life-threatening illness to put things into perspective. Little problems fall away and the focus returns to what matters—love of family, of friends, of the wider world. The fog of everyday life clears and its little irritations seem irrelevant. Though born out of a sobering realization of mortality, the clarity that comes with that realization can be bracing and exhilarating.

In the fortunate event that the crisis passes and health is restored, that heightened awareness often lingers for a while, then inevitably slips away, like an airplane descending back into the clouds, coming down to earth. It's hard to hold on to the experience of sun shining down on a glorious blue sky over a white cloud carpet. But when I catch myself sweating the small stuff, I try to put myself there, to remind myself that life is short and I should treasure each moment.

The Etiquette of Arrival

When it comes to arriving at places, I have a split personality. I love to get to the airport early, with plenty of time to go through security and relax at the gate. For business or doctors appointments, I feel it's important to be on time, if not slightly early. But when it comes to social occasions, I'm all for arriving fashionably late, or at the very least not early. There can be no greater social faux pas than arriving early for a party.

I could never convince my father of this, however. He liked to arrive early, even for social occasions, much to the chagrin of my mother, who preferred to make a later entrance. It was difficult to thwart my father's desire to get going. He would stand by the door with his coat on, impatiently calling for us to hurry up. When we arrived at our destination before the appointed time, which often happened, he seemed oblivious to our mortification. He liked the comfort of knowing we had made it there safe and sound.

By the time I was a teenager, my mother and I and my two younger sisters had worked out a tacit plan to prevent early arrival. While my father stood by the front door, one or another of us would call to him from the upstairs bedrooms where we were dressing. "I'm almost ready," we might say, soothingly, or "I'll be down in a sec." Finally, in an attempt to show he was serious about leaving, my father would go out to the driveway and start the car, where he'd sit, engine running, until we finally emerged. Usually, we had stalled long enough to avoid arriving before the appointed time.

I still go to great lengths to avoid arriving early at social gatherings. Recently, I prevailed on E. to sit in the car for fifteen minutes, so we wouldn't ring the bell early for a dinner party. And I've been known to circle the block or even take a scenic detour in order to avoid showing up before my host expects me. In all other matters of arrival, though, I've inherited my father's anxious nature and find it comforting to arrive early. This even extends to some social situations—I don't like to be late for restaurant reservations and when a friend is driving me to the movies or the theater, I try to be ready for pickup early.

So, rest assured, I won't keep you waiting if we're going to the movies together. But, if you ever invite me to dinner, don't worry—I won't show up while you're still in the shower.

Bizarro Restaurant Universe

Yesterday evening, E. and I and two friends had tickets for a concert at 8 pm. Our friends suggested we have dinner beforehand at a nearby restaurant, one of very few within walking distance of the concert hall. They hadn't been there before, but it seemed promising, with an appealing menu, creative-sounding cocktails, and rave reviews from diners on the Zagat and Urban Spoon websites. If only our experience had lived up to the reviewers' hype.

We arrived at the restaurant shortly after 6 pm, so we wouldn't have to rush to make the performance. Our first impression was great—we liked the colorful artwork and stylish bar. A number of tables were already occupied, a good sign at such an early hour. In retrospect, it might have been better for us had we been the only ones there.

We were seated and given menus. As we chatted, activity swirled around us, but no one approached our table. After about ten minutes, a busboy came over to ask if we'd like some water while we waited for the waiter to take our drink orders. Tap water would be fine, we said. The water arrived, then nothing happened for at least ten more minutes. Wait staff traversed the floor, but no one made eye contact with us. I flagged down a passing waiter and asked him to get our waiter. He said he would. No one came.

We looked around the room. We saw people younger than us and older, more chic than us and stodgier. We could find no obvious explanation for our waiter's inattentiveness. For that matter, the staff may have been studiously ignoring any number of other tables. It was hard to tell. Eventually, we caught the eye of the manager. He apologized for the delay and took our drink orders.

Finally, our waiter sauntered over to our table. He, too, apologized, but he sounded totally indifferent. We explained that we needed to leave by 7:30 in order to walk back to the concert hall in time for the performance. He assured us that would be no problem. No problem for him, that is. We finally received our entrees at 7:20. I quickly shoveled down the food, which was not bad, if I'd only had a little more time to enjoy it.

We wondered what had happened to make such a well-reviewed place perform so badly. We noticed that there seemed to be a surplus of busboys. At one point, we heard one busboy teaching another how to set the table. When a different busboy finally served us our meals, he seemed so nervous that his hands were literally shaking. Had half the staff quit the day before, resulting in too few waiters and a bunch of newly-hired busboys?

I prefer to believe that we entered a bizarro restaurant universe, where the aim was alienation of the customer. By that measure, our dinner was a complete success.