Musing in the 'burbs...

Looking out at the tarmac, I feel the tears welling in my eyes. No matter how many times I promise myself, it’s always the same.

One moment I am settling in my seat, checking to see I am buckled up, making sure to have enough reading materials in the mesh bag they always have- regardless of airline- in front of you, and then the next moment, the tears are forcing out of my eyes. Some uncontrollable force inside those tear sockets, as I call them since I’ve never been good at biology to name exact body parts, they have a thing about exerting their energy to push those tears out. I sense the energy behind my eyelids trying to push them back in, but they’re forceful. I know that. I just release the tears; let them slalom through my rounded cheeks. I feel the full heat from the release; I invisibly track the trace of the salty lines on my cheeks. As hot as they come out, the colder they get from the air pressure valves that are above my head in the overhead cabin. I reach slowly over to the rounded knob of the air vent, and turn it counter clockwise to shut it off. I always wonder why anyone would like forced air hit their face violently like that. It’s so uncool.

I push my head in the soft pillow of the seat. The coolness of the gray leather seatback touches the skin on the back of my neck, and I shift to cover my neck with enough of my hair to shield it from getting goose bumps. Although I usually love the contact of fresh, cool leather with my bare skin, this is not one of those times. I cringe at the thought of numerous human skins that made contact with the same seatback as I have. Pushing back these thoughts in a small, irrelevant compartment in my brain, I carve out a small indent, small enough to fit my head into the crook; I bury my head right into it. I notice that this particular seatback is not as worn, perhaps we’re on a newer plane, and I feel annoyed. This means a long flight of uneasy rest, constant shifting of my head to find the right spot to get some resemblance of sleep or rest.

I shift my body a little in my seat to accommodate my now twisted position, I think to myself if I’m going to have to leave this place with a major backache. I almost yearn for my bed, for my pillows. I think of those little kids who bring their pillow with them onboard, and for a second I envy them. That had never been my thing. And those neck pillows keep your head up so artificially that when you take them off, your head always bobbles like a newborn’s, the muscles forget their jobs, leaving you in a discombobulated state. And I don’t like that.

I settle in a spot that makes me semi-comfortable and I close my eyes. With the closing of my lids, the tears get an expected push down my cheeks. Not again. I try to make a picture of happy times, although this is one of them, and I cringe at the thought that I cannot visualize any. My eyes search through the images in my head, almost like going through an entire playlist to locate your favorite song. It’s frustrating. Almost involuntarily, I shake my head left and right, as if that’s going to be any help, to find that one comfortable moment of time that will help me dry up- or at least calm- my tears. I know it’s going to get worse. Just wait until the plane starts moving.

I focus on my breathing. One, two, three, exhale. One, two, three, exhale. I try to echo the words of the yoga instructor in my head- find you chi. I inhale once more, absorbing all the fake air into my lungs. The fakeness is unbearable, so unnatural. My nose twists, all crinkly and uncomfortable. There’s almost a metallic taste lining my mouth, I roll my tongue around my teeth, feeling the discomfort. This air is also surrounding my lungs, something that cannot be good for me or for anyone for that matter. I exhale quickly, now taking short breaths. I come back to the chi. I twist my stomach on the inside to feel the very tip of my ribs. I think they’re my ribs, I cannot tell. What I find there is not surprising. A sudden twinge of pain returns when I think of years of unforgotten unfairness, a deep desire to belong, and an even deeper yearning to be an unconditional part of something. Someplace. Someone.

Back to the Local Library...

I admit: I had not borrowed from a public library for my own personal reading in a long time. So long that- not counting my college library experience- I can trace my public library borrowing back to my high school years.

See, I am a book consumer- I indulge in buying my books, getting that "fresh" smell when you crack it open, the softness of the pages, the richness of the graphics. Often with a pencil in hand, I write all over my books- in the margins to document my dialogue, in between words that are intriguing, under sentences that I plan to use at one point,... Usually, I do go back to my favorites, not to reread the entire book but to locate my markings. Oh, and I love buying them in 'bulk', usually 4-5 at a time, after a careful research.

At the end of June this year, I did a quick calculation, and realized that the money I spent on books rivaled our grocery budget. And this is when I became frugal.

I went through my filing cabinet to locate that membership card that I had signed up for about a year ago. I knew it'd come in handy one day. I went to the Westchester Public Library website, registered, and started searching around. Some books I found my local libraries had available, others I put on hold.

With a plan on hand and a list in purse, I drove to my first local library. Disappointed that it's undergoing a major renovation, I quickly made my way to the "New Releases" and located my book, and coyly approached the library lady (I used to be one in college!) and showed my card. All went well. Then, I drove to another nearby library, and that's where I lost myself in shelves, shelves full of books. Though no longer fresh smelling, the books were still appealing, preserving their allure of newness. Equipped with four books by the end of the day, I drove home happily. When hubby came home that night, I boasted about how much I 'saved' that day by borrowing my books, instead of purchasing them. He was impressed.

Now into my second month of using the public library, I am feeling content about saving the money I would've spent otherwise. So, you can imagine, I was not the least bit surprised to hear about Queens Library's release:

"Public library usage is expected to rise dramatically in the coming months. Traditionally, people turn to public libraries during hard economic times for free entertainment, free after-school child care, to help with employment, for free access to the public use computers and to help them save money by doing things themselves, such as home and auto repairs. Queens Library saw a 16 percent jump in circulation and attendance immediately following Sept. 11, for instance."

About the pencil in hand? Well, it's still in my hand, but now I jot down my notes on any paper that I can find. That is, until I find the 'perfect' notebook companion to my books...

Mini Ski Trip

What a glorious week this has been! One of the best perks of being a teacher is getting a week off here and there without having to put in a request for vacation. Since hubby was in the midst of business reviews and preparing for his business trip next week, we decided to take a mini ski trip and stay locally during the week.

Having lived in New York for such a long time, I was wondering why I have never been to Hunter Mountain. I have some wild theories- limited snow, limited trails, driving the extra hour to hit Vermont slopes,... In any case, I had such an amazing time, now I cannot wait to go back (perhaps- next year?) for a two/three-day excursion!

We left our home in lower-Westchester and reached Hunter in a matter of two hours. The drive was painless- although, I was a just a happy passenger on the front seat, munching on my sinfully delicious toasted whole wheat bagel with butter & honey and sipping my skinny latte. I cannot ignore to mention: Starbucks did it again- what marketing geniuses! The skinny latte tastes similar to my usual tall skim latte but has a nutty flavor. I just found out that I could've gotten it in many flavors, including my all-time faves vanilla and hazelnut, but also cinnamon dolce and mocha. Yumm!

After a nice windy drive over the Kaatskills, debating how "Plattekill" should be pronounced in a phonetically correct way, hubby and I reached the town of Tannersville at a reasonable morning hour, and headed straight over to a rental shop to get my equipment. I've been a renter for a long time- have ski equipment commitment issues- and I was quite surprised to rent boots, skis and poles under $30! What a bargain! While I was trying to squeeze my feet into the boots (the most comfortable ones I've rented by FAR), hubby went right across the street over to the Forester Lodge, where we decided to stay, to get our discount passes for the day.

We hit the slopes before lunchtime and decided to go our own ways on the trails- no double-diamonds for me, thank you. I skied on the "Hunter One" side of the mountain, and I was pleasantly surprised how well-groomed the trails were. With that said, I don't know if I can say the same about the fellow skiers- no, I don't mean they were not well-groomed or anything, but a little more reckless than I had anticipated. I had some funny moments and some scary ones- I think the man who decided to take his skis off while waiting for the lift topped my list! Who really does that, I don't know, but I was among the unhappy skiers behind him. Quite frankly, the lines are already long enough, you really don't want to wait the extra time for something as silly as this one!

I think the best part of Hunter came after the slopes closed: The Happy Hour. When we reached the main lodge by 4:30 PM, there were many happy skiers who looked like they spent a happy hour or two already! I felt that we were late (such novices)- and not quite fashionably, either. With our hat-hair and red noses, we joined in the crowd singing along to the band du-jour and stomping in our ski boots. The Heineken Girls were among us pouring drinks left and right- and usually very mindful of beer calories, I did not mind the calories from my Amstel Light the least bit. After all, I earned them!

After the band's final set, we left for our room at the Forester Lodge to get ready for the evening. Nothing too fancy (or, anything related to fancy, for that matter), our room had a very utilitarian setting, but AMAZING views of the mountain! We toasted to the fireworks from our very front-row seats by our porch. Glorious!

Scouring the local papers, we located O'Neill's Public House as our evening destination. Being responsible adults, we took a cab (driven by a very bitter driver) and reached the restaurant/bar. The food was really nothing to write home- or here- about but what's worth mentioning is the after-dinner entertainment. We secured pretty decent spots at the bar and waited for that evening's band- the Amish Outlaws. And what a wild surprise! I don't know when it's the last time I heard a band cover Bell Biv DeVoe's "That Girl is Poison" and Johnny Cash's "Walk The Line"!!! What a treat! I hear they're going to be at Rambling House in Woodlawn a day before St. Patrick's, on March 16th- I cannot wait to see them there!

We wrapped up our evening by early Sunday morning, headed back to our humble room at Forester in the same exact cab with the same exact cab driver who seemed happier this time. Needless to say, we did not hit the slopes until mid-morning after a hearty (and free!) breakfast of eggs and toast...

Now I realize why Hunter is so popular- it's a quick ride from points around New York City and has a pretty decent apres-ski activities. I would do it all over again, but maybe this time, a little less novice in my ways...