A valuable cab ride

I never, but never, wear rings. When H and I decided to get married, there was no engagement ring, no jewelry exchanged at all (and let me just say now, with my aversion to everyday bling, I wouldn't have had it any other way.) So when he shoved that platinum band onto my left ring finger over a year and a half ago, that band that's supposed to represent our lifelong commitment to making sure all those versions of us remain supple and durable enough to thrive through years of real living, I remember being incredibly aware of the ring for weeks after. It was always there. It was uncomfortable. It felt itchy. I would sometimes take it off at work, set it carefully to the side for awhile, and sigh with relief. I'm used to it now, but old habits die hard - H and I both have apparently taken to fidgeting with our rings in moments when our hands are unoccupied but our fingers are anxious for play. I myself have been known to twirl mine around my ring finger, even to take it off, slide it on my other fingers, and every once in awhile (yes, I realize I have the habits of a ten year old), give it a good spin on a hard surface.

We went out for a date night for the history books this weekend - there was fancy dining with wine (at Bistro St. Tropez yet again), and there was a cozy, white-table clothed jazz club after, with a few rounds of cocktails. When we left, I was a little bit more than a little bit tipsy. In the cab on the way home, I remember distinctly playing with my ring and losing grip on it. I found it with a sigh of relief in my lap. I shook my head and scolded myself. Put your ring on, dummy, and stop playing with it! Not even a minute later, though, it was back off my finger and somewhere - somewhere, somewhere lost in the car. We looked. We stuck our hands down into the seat cushions. We felt under the front seats, under the floor padding. My hands have been in cab crevices that you probably wouldn't even want to imagine. The cab driver, most fortunately, was really very nice - he pulled over, got out a flashlight and helped us look. We managed to lift up the ENTIRE seat at one point (who knew that you could do that in any car?), and low and behold, there it was, gleaming in the glare of his flashlight. We laughed, thanked him profusely, gave him double what we owed him, and walked the rest of the way home. And today, I'm back to playing. I sometimes wonder if I'm just a storm drain, or a gutter, or a picturesque mountain overlook away from having to buy a new wedding ring. At least, for now, I know where it might be next time it flies out of my hand in a cab.

The hot of it

When I was in the fourth grade, someone from some non-profit organization came to talk to us about environmental conservation, and give us the very fervent hope that all children seem to be given at some point or another that all was not lost, that by encouraging our parents to recycle more and with efforts to conserve water, we, too, could save the environment safely from our own suburban homes, one little step at a time. I went home that night and put little clinging plastic reminders on our bathroom mirror that declared "Take shorter showers!" and "Conserve water!" with tiny cartoon icons of faucets and steam. I didn't think too hard about the message, but I thought their slick material was totally cool (they stuck to the mirror without being sticky!). For the next few years, my sister and my parents never let me live it down. If anybody needed to take shorter showers, they said, it was me. I turned on the faucet and was lost to the world for the next twenty minutes. I sang. I talked to myself. I examined my fingernails and scrubbed in between my toes.

When we moved to Philadelphia and got settled into our apartment, we noted to ourselves, then to each other, then to our neighbors, how the water wasn't quite hot enough. It got worse over the two and a half years we've lived here until a lukewarm shower was just about all that we could hope for. In the middle of winter, let me tell you, I could be in and out of that bathtub in less than five minutes. I even considered making a special trip to the gym for the sole purpose of a hot shower. But, somewhere along the way, several weeks ago, H put his foot down and decided to call the landlord. He should know about it, he said. If we need a new water heater, then we need a new water heater, he said. But, it turned out, the problem was much simpler than that. Embarrassingly simpler. Two and a half years of less than desirable showers were remedied with a wrench and a quick one-two on some knob or other. The plumber said to call him back if the problem wasn't fixed. There has been no need. Oh, the heat! The steam! The soothing flow of piping hot water on your body at the end of a long day! It's back in my life, and I have to admit, I missed it. Now my showers are creeping back again to real events. Twenty minute events, off-pitch show-tune medleys included. I'm sorry I've let you down, fourth-grade guest speaker, but I'll just have to find some other way to save the environment. My showers are just too precious.

A meaner snow

Well, we're getting pummeled again, but this time is different. The first two snows were light and frothy - snowflakes that didn't stick to your coat and landed ever so tenderly in heaps that dusted up and swirled cheerfully at the slightest breeze. But now it's back, and it's not as friendly. It's heavier, wetter, and all around meaner. The breeze turned into a biting wind, and the snow is really showing us who's boss. We thought you would be fun for awhile, we thought we'd just have a winter fling. We welcomed you, spent time with you and bonded with you just enough, but apparently you've gotten emotionally attached - you came back again, grumpier and needier, showing us your teeth.

As stir crazy as I get spending all day indoors, our quick trip outside today soaked through even to the sweater under my giant spaceman coat (I believe that's its proper name), and I was ready to curl back up on the couch with a hot cup of tea. We're relieved that no new neighbors have moved in across from us (yes, that apartment is still vacant), as we strip down, shed our winter gear, dripping all over the place, to the driest of our layers. Everyone is home today, everything is canceled, and even the chain drugstores are shut up with handwritten notes on the door - You can't really expect us to staff this place in this mess, can you now? We've spent a good bit of time standing side-by-side at the windows in our apartment, watching people sludge through the streets and neighbors scraping the sidewalks, seeing other heads at the windows across the way, watching the power lines anxiously as they get weighted down with icy snow. We're all a bit smug about having the day off, but really, staying indoors is the only possible way. There's just no moving in this stuff.

Snow in Philadelphia

Perhaps it was the panic-stricken, frantic hours that held us in a tense freeze last time a major snow rolled in, but this snow fall felt calmer, more relaxed but also quieter - the neighbors didn't seem nearly so breathless and eager for contact this time (or did we just not leave our house long enough to notice?).

We stayed in for most of the day yesterday, avoiding the dreary grey sky and the drift - billowing thick and blurry, piling up outside our window as we watched in wide-eyed excitement.

But we had our moments in it, too - Friday night, after celebrating a friend's birthday with a warm, softly-lit dinner, we headed home in the few inches that had accumulated since our meal began, through a high-rise parking lot. While the lights overhead flickered on every now and then, sensing our movements, and amidst peeks outside by a furrowed-browed security guard, we balled up chunks of snow, stealthily running around poles and behind cars, trying our best to catch each other in moments of distraction. It was a snowball fight for the records: full of joyful screaching, sopping coats and gloves, and unabashed, irreverent clawing and stomping on the pristine stuff. We even lost a cell phone during the mischief (recovered only because the ringer was set on loud -- we called it over and over and over again, and finally found it, buried in white and nestled in a bush). And today, we walked in the sun, marched through snow up to our knees, built a proper snowman (snow lady, more precisely, complete with a hat), and made a few angels before coming home to cups of dark tea and hot winter chili.

This is, really, the only proper way to do a snowy weekend.

Inappropriate eye contact

I attended a small, interactive session at a conference this summer, and giggled a little bit when someone nudged me and pointed to their computer screen - another poor soul in the room was twittering about how the speaker, who was, ironically, speaking on the art of good public speaking skills, needed to be told a thing or two about inappropriate eye contact. It's true - he lumbered around the room slowly, trolling for victims, and stopping directly in front of some poor onlooker who happened to shift their eyes upward at the exact wrong moment, when he would catch them and hold them in a death stare as he spoke directly to them for at least 20 seconds. I was one such victim, to my recollection, a couple of times during the talk. Engaging your audience just gets creepy when you seem to be trying your hardest to pretend, however briefly, that you and a single attendee are the only people left in the universe, and that communicating directly to them the next five bullet points of your powerpoint just might save you from certain destruction. It was that intense.

Looking someone directly in the eye is an act of intimacy that just feels mortifyingly inappropriate at certain times. Every once in awhile in a gym class, we'll be doing something terribly embarrassing, like laying on our backs with our legs spread apart, or plowing over so that our feet come over our head and touch the floor behind us. In these moments, the last thing you want to do is look someone in the eye. It's just not the time. Yet, it happens. There you are, facing me, with your legs flailed up and spread-eagled, raising your chin in a crunch, whincing and grunting, and we're just not paying attention to where our eyes are falling. We look away as quickly as we can. Let's pretend it didn't happen, okay? We'll be casually friendly after class and forget the whole incident. We were both vulnerable, and it was a mistake. Don't read into it. Just keep crunching, and make a mental note to always, always keep your eyes on the ceiling in compromising positions.