It was my birthday. "So THIS is what forty-five looks like" I thought with an air of disbelief and acceptance. I had just entered the mirrored yoga studio at Retreat with its stark white walls contrasting the all black outfit I'd hoped would camouflage the weight I've amassed on this dancer's body after almost three years of retirement and eight months of island living.
I’d already lived on this picturesque, private hotel resort island for a whole month before even dipping my body into ocean. Crazy, I know! I even taught Pilates classes on the beach every Friday, instructing guests to roll up through their spines, gaze across the ocean and absorb the sea breeze before rolling back to the grounding support of the sand.
I was admittedly jealous of my EX for a few reasons. 1. His spontaneity 2. His fearlessness 3. His damned eyelashes! I tried every drug store brand to fancy department store brand of mascara on the market but nothing could rival the length and volume of his god-given lashes.
As much as I hate to admit it, my lifestyle seems to have become purely pragmatic and devoid of any feminine frill. All traces of girlishness seem to have sadly disappeared. I mean, what happened to the days of perusing NYC boutiques and creatively piecing outfits together as a form of personal expression? What happened to my fascination with glossy magazines to lap up the latest trends in fashion and beauty?
It had admittedly been a long time so maybe my expectations were too high. But it's hard to settle for anything less than ecstasy after knowing what real heat and pure chemistry feels like. The kind that permeates your body and transports your mind far beyone reality and into the ethereal. The kind that has you sweatin' and jonesin' for more.
I kindly and gently pushed my way through the Union Square crowd with a deceptively friendly smile while muttering expletives under my breath at the aimless pedestrians creating sidewalk congestion. I was gonna be pissed if they made me late for yoga!
In a shamefully libidinous call for attention, I chose whorish purple as the color of choice for my mani-pedi at Avanti Nails & Spa. Unfortunately, just two days later, the deep purple proceeded to peel, reducing my allure to cheap slut. Why is it that no matter how hard I try, I look like a hot mess?
Who doesn't wanna walk into a room and be treated like an A-lister? Well, I recently indulged in such super-star treatment at the Ted Gibson Salon. Even I, a mere commoner, didn't have to endure long waits in the reception area reading gossip magazines.
Pilates class was the perfect excuse to schlep downtown and wander around my post break-up 'hood of the Lower East Side. I discovered that it's evolved as much as I have over the past four years. The young, hipster vibe was still there along with the Cake Shop across from my old bedroom window and my emergency spots for uncontrollable cases of single-itis: September Wine & Spirits and Babycakes Bakery.
I've got a confession. I've been wrapped up in a torrid new affair with Redcord. No, it hasn't diminished my deep affection for or loyalty to Pilates. But it definitely scores a close second; just as Idris Elba does to The Rock.
The historic Russian & Turkish Baths on E10th St were a major disappointment for this Indie Girl seeking refuge from the rapid-paced concrete jungle of NYC. It was like a bachelor pad version of a spa that felt purely functional and devoid of any atmosphere or amenities conducive to relaxation and pampering. Nor was there any sense of hospitality; just a stern faced dude in a Kangol who assumed I knew the services, policies and procedures of this old-school facility, chock-full of regulars who already knew the drill.
I rememeber when the reality of separation and divorce from my EX was still a fresh wound that cut so deeply my body went into protective shock. As much as my spirit felt lost and ungrounded, my physical body went numb -- especially my feet. Years later, and after much emotional healing, I finally have the pleasure of inhabiting my body fully again. But with that comes the awareness of the physical pain of being a pavement stomping New Yorker, professional dancer and aerial artist.
"Are you shy?" was the first question she asked me. I had already stripped down to my g-string! "Uh... no?" I replied. "Then take off your panties." I obliged. I had no idea this required full nudity. So, there I was, butt naked under bright lights in a small room with white walls and a mirror. Hmph, so much for confidence. I was on my back with knees pointing east and west on the spa table. My Brazilian bikini wax expert used rubber glove protection as she stroked, stretched and pulled my vajayjay in ways that felt, perhaps, more invasive than my gynocoloist.
It was like reverting back to the womb. Every movement was supported by breath and the cocoon-like embrace of the aerial hammock which allowed for total surrender. It felt safe to relax; one on life's pleasures that I tend to neglect. It compassionately reminded me of my struggle to be fully present in the moment, breathe deeply and give my mind a break from solving the world's problems. My muscles were coerced into relaxation, promising greater ease and freedom of movement.
It happened while lying supine on the Trapeze Table at Re:AB Pilates, a NoHo studio owned by Brooke Siler; the woman behind the brand that boasts a list of celebrity clients, its own Authentic Pilates Certification plus books and videos for Pilates geeks and aficionados. It was my first private Pilates session in years and I was excited about a little one-on-one attention. But what I wasn't prepared for was the life-altering experience that would occur during my 55min session.
Variety is the spice of life. That's why I'm not a "strictly in the bedroom" type of gal. And I'm no prude when it comes to my Pilates classes either. I like to mix it up a bit and get my "scoop" on in new and different spots around the city. So, I slipped on the same matchy-matchy Lululemon attire I had retired since my teaching days and headed to Power Pilates on W23rd St for a Tower Class with Alana.
First impressions can sometimes be misleading and outside appearances certainly lose their value when you find a relationship that just works. That's how I feel about my on-going love affair with Dr. Jeffrey Chen Acupuncture. Dr. Chen's office is an unimpressive looking nook, smack dab in the middle of Chinatown NYC. His spot is completely devoid of pretense or zen-like comfort. In fact, it’s more like a bachelor pad version of a holistic medical office. But the healing work he does using acupuncture and Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) is incomparable and well worth overlooking the facade.
I’ll admit it. I miss playing with balls. So, what’s a sexless Indie Girl to do? Well, I found a spot where I get to play with balls of all sizes while experiencing some physical gratification myself: Yamuna Studio, which is a beautifully branded movement therapy studio located in the West Village right by the Hudson River.
I like to think of myself as being pretty open. In fact, I like a little bondage from time to time. But I also prefer human touch to machines and toys. At Spa Ja, where I treated myself to what I imagined a relaxing Herbal Detox Wrap, human touch was replaced with a high-tech, computer-controlled torture chamber called Oceana 5.
I discovered the most meticulous sculptor of eyebrows at the BeneFit Brow Bar in Bloomingdales, SOHO. Her name is Jady. She waxes, tweezes and trims your eyebrows with the precision and accuracy you’d expect of a plastic surgeon.
