“I’ve been livin’ a little too rich.”
This is what my friend Eugene says when it’s time to get the net. Time to trade the Prosecco for a sparkling water. Time to order the fish and not the pasta. Time to drag your butt back into the gym, but not in February. Oh, no, that will not be happening this month.
February is my birthday month, as it is for Eugene and a goodly number of my friends, and the celebrations have begun and are ongoing in all of their delicious and ever-so-slightly-excessive glory. So far, I am partaking in the sampling of the many great restaurants that Los Angeles has to offer, with nary a nod to the possible consequences. The pasta is being toasted with a glass of the good stuff, and dessert (two selections, four spoons, of course … we are somewhat civilized) has been ordered every time.
As I get older and have an ever-firmer grasp on the fickleness of fate and the fleeting nature of time, I am more inclined to abandon caution and just go with the flow. I will find my way back to the gym and the food-combining and the double bouts of daily cardio sometime soon. Really, I will … for sure I will. I’m gonna get that net any day now.
Maybe March or April, but not before then. Nope. Not gonna do it. It’s February.
My pal Russell is a food and spirits guy, owner of the beautiful Watermark in Asbury Park, and he is on a mission. We have been out every night seeing what is on the menu around town.
So far:
The incredible french fries at Olivetti, followed by a stellar jack-fruit taco at Gracias Madre.
The crab cakes and famous grilled vegetable salad at The Ivy. Drinks at Granville. The cod and eggplant at Grandmaster Records. Mussels and a crazy good cheeseburger at Petit Trois. I cannot remember what all at Toca Madera, but there were moans of delight at the table which continued during the walk home. We are traveling on foot whenever possible to offset our boisterous appetites with a wink at exercise.
Next up: an early birthday meal with Michael, then dinner on the actual day of Russell’s entrance onto the scene. This will be followed by an evening at The Bungalows for Jeff’s birthday and then delicious Delilah’s for mine. My sisters will be there. My nephews will join the next night for take-out and a game of Liverpool. Our pals and relatives will fall in with us at various points in the course of this month-long bacchanal.
We are–most of us–of a certain age and have more time to enjoy life, and we are fixing to do just that. We have dutifully trudged on treadmills and hefted weights and exerted ourselves in Yoga and Pilates and–not me, never me–but some of us have subjected ourselves to the damnable, dreaded CrossFit. We’ve repeatedly been up the “hill”, which in our parlance is a famous hike in L.A at a park called Runyon Canyon. We still do these things, just not with the same intensity.
My pal Eric is a traveler par excellence. One does not pass up a chance to take a trip with him. His knowledge of architecture, history, art history, and culinary offerings in any given locale is remarkable. He knows where the hidden gems are … the diner that was established 100 years ago. The newly minted French place which has already earned a star. The hole-in-the-wall cocktail lounge known for its inventive quaffs. He will take any detour, head right off the beaten path in search of an experience. To dine with him is to revel in the new on some occasions and venerate the old on others. Each bite is to be savored, every sip appreciated, and–mind you–dessert is NOT to be ignored.
He sets out on various journeys throughout the year, pausing only to take two non-consecutive months to reset. One time it will be no carbs, another maybe Keto, often a foray onto Weight Watchers. Balance.
My career as a perfectionist in a constant state of dissatisfaction with myself has waned considerably, but my inner critic still pipes up. She will not be silenced by any amount of satisfaction. She still casts aspersions and calls me names:
“You keep this up, you are gonna be fat! Fat, fat, water rat!” the nasty, old voice sneers.
“Maybe, but I kinda doubt it, so pipe down. Did you not notice that right now we are on a walk?” I reply.
“Doesn’t count after french fries.”
“Does too! It especially counts after french fries!”
“You look old,” she will snipe, having caught a glance at my face in the bathroom mirror.
“Bite me! I am old,” I reply, trying not to let her get to me.
(Though I confess that I have taught myself to avoid clicking on the harsh overhead light in there. The glare from that light will put the whuppin’ on you, happy life or no.)
So okay I am old, older … oldish. That’s a great bit of luck right there, and I plan to show my appreciation by celebrating. I intend to honor this blessing by being as free and comfortable as possible in this skin I get to wear. To be unabashedly, unapologetically, deliciously alive.
Last I looked, Eugene was on his third birthday dinner. He will eventually get the net, but for now he is livin’ a bit too rich and grinning in every photo from ear to ear.
Happy birthday, pals!!!
On we go …
Happy Birthday!
happy birthday Beth! Agree January and February are my winter solstice! Colorado is suppose to get ❄️❄️tonight so that usually means banana or pumpkin bread in the morning! laura