Lets Go...

Howdy, y'all, I'm an American.

Well, I must be close, anyway. Admittedly, I haven't filled out any forms, taken any tests, or pledged allegiance to anything, but after last week's ice hockey game, I'm surely more American than not.

I watched avidly, from what even I recognised as a very good seat in Madison Square Garden, as the New York Rangers and the New Jersey Devils played a pre-season game, getting all warmed up and ready for the real games shortly coming their way. Mostly, this seemed to involve preparing for all the fights they will be having. I was a bit taken aback at the fighting, particularly the one in which they actually removed gloves and sticks in order to fight. I mean, they prepared for the fight. During the game, when tradition would demand that they were, you know, playing. And the referees (all four of them) didn't use this time to intervene, but just kind of chilled while they had it out, stepping in only once they were on the ground. But hey. Apparently that's the way it rolls (slides?) in this game. The crowd loved it, anyway. So much so I did have to wonder whether it was, in fact, just a little staged for their benefit. H1 reassures me that it's not, that that's just the way hockey plays out. I'm not sure whether I find this more or less disturbing than if it were an act.

But anyway! We're not here to talk about the fighting. We're not even here to talk about the hockey, believe it or not. We're here to talk about the atmosphere. Make that Atmosphere, with a capital A.

It was all around us, in the bleeping sounds, flashing lights, and red white and blue everything. We joined in wholeheartedly, for the most part, beginning the evening in a diner across the way, drinking Coke from a novelty cup, standing up and clapping when our team scored, standing up and clapping when our team nearly scored, standing up and clapping when there was a fight, standing up and clapping when there was nearly a fight*...

You get the picture. There was lots of standing up and clapping. We put on our best American and joined in eagerly with it. Not just the cheering, either, but all of it - because trust me, there was a lot of 'it'. Snacks, beer, people, giant foam hands with pointing fingers. All the ingredients for a good genuine experience. I'll admit, certain parts we rejected, mainly due to practicality winning out over emotion**. We joined in the chanting, as they were pretty easy to pick up (er, I can't really remember any of them any more, but I can assure you it got no more complicated than 'Lets Go Rangers') but didn't partake in the national anthem - it would feel wrong singing another country's anthems, and also, we didn't know the words. Ahem.

Yup, we both spent months in the States, working at summer camps, where the national anthem was sung all the time, but had no idea of the words. Which isn't really such a big deal, because we don't sing it. I actually felt really guilty about this, having no idea whether this was okay or whether I was committing a huge faux pas, but thankfully (for me) it didn't seem to be quite the big deal I had thought it was. The guilt lasted only as long as it took for funny sounds to be heard over the singing. We looked around, startled, to see half the crowd standing straight and tall and proud, hands over their hearts, tears in their eyes, and the other half...cheering.

Whooping. "Lets go Rangers!" they roared, as the singing went on and on (it's quite a long anthem, isn't it? Not that I have a problem with this, or anything. After all, the US is a much bigger place than New Zealand - it only makes sense that they would have more to sing about) temporarily calming down as the crowd sat down as one, only to start up again as play commenced.

It was rowdy and it was fun. Surprisingly fun. Even though I didn't get quite as involved as seemed to be the norm (still got that adopted English reserve going on, it doesn't dissipate all that quickly) I could definitely understand why people do, and why they love it so much. The atmosphere sweeps you up and makes you one of them, and before you know it, you're on the verge of buying a giant foam hand with pointing finger, just so you can take a little bit of it home with you***.

*We didn't actually clap for either of the latter two, still being a little bit startled by it (you can take the girl out of New Zealand, but...)

**Yes, we kind of wanted a giant foam hand with pointing finger, but where would you put such a thing afterwards? The decor of our place is minimal, shall we say. It's not really a 'giant foam hand with pointing finger' type of apartment.

***No, we didn't buy it. We came to our senses at the last minute. I'm grateful for this. Now.

Cor, She's Fit

New York is full of really fit women.

I don't mean 'fit' like the English say it (although that statement would also be sadly true, and the title may have misled you (I just liked the way it sounded)) but you know, fitness fit. They work out. They can run fast, jump high, bend themselves into funny positions. That sort of fit.

I think I may have implied once or twice before that fitness is not something that comes naturally to me. Like any New Zealand kid, I grew up swimming and boating and climbing trees and riding bikes, but I was never what you would call a sporty type. I was more than happy to do things I considered fun, but the minute you introduced any element of competition, or even organisation, into the mix, I went to pieces. I used to be so jealous of the kids who didn't have to do the cross country run because they had asthma. I wish I had that debilitating, occasionally life-threatening illness!, I would think. I used to vaguely daydream about pinching someone's inhaler and passing it off as my own, waving it around like a trophy that you got before you had to compete. I never did though, as I was smart enough to realise this would be fairly devastating for the child whose inhaler it was, and also, I did not like getting in trouble. I had two brothers who could get in trouble enough for all three of us.

Once the inglorious days of forced activity had passed me I relaxed into living my life the way I wanted to, managing to keep my fitness levels at a respectable level (yes, on the low end of respectable, but respectable nonetheless) through an active job, lots of walking, lots of rollerblading, and always lots of those long hot New Zealand summers on the beach, where you couldn't avoid fitness even if you tried.

This worked for me for a good few years, until two things happened: I moved to London and - irony of ironies - was diagnosed with a debilitating, occasionally life-threatening disease (whichever deity answered my prayers had a hearing problem. And was also a supreme procrastinator). In London, fitness isn't just something that hangs invisibly in the air, the way it does in New Zealand. You have to think about it. So I got used to thinking about it, and then my health fell off a cliff, crash landing at the bottom in a crumpled, injured heap, leaving me unable to even walk up a flight of stairs without feeling woozy and breathless.

When you're sick like that, you don't realise at the time. It's only after a crack team of nurses and doctors, all of them amazing, caring, thoughtful, and kind, move in and pull a few strings to get you standing on your own two feet again, that you understand you really weren't doing so well. And when that happens, you want to use those two feet as much as you can. So, I started running. I started doing yoga. I started ballet classes. Whether I was good at them or not was irrelevant (thankfully. That's all I'll say about that - draw your own conclusions). They made me happy and they made me feel good and they made me so thankful that I could do them.

And I thought I was doing really well.

Then I moved to New York. Where every woman you see appears to have the fitness level of a trained assassin. Despite all this newfound activity, I did not have the fitness level of a trained assassin. I barely had the fitness level of a trained seal. And oddly, even though I hate competition, I'm actually quite a competitive person, and so...

Can you see where this is going?

Yes, I joined a gym. The pinnacle of organised activity. Just the sort of place I should hate.

But I don't. That's the weird thing, the result that is surprising us all. I go frequently, and I enjoy my time there. I'm not completely sure what's driving me - whether it's my competitive spirit or my desire to have people whisper, "Wow, she looks just like a trained assassin," to each other as I walk by - but I have my suspicions. I'm afraid it's even less noble than that.

I'm getting married at the end of the year (cue groan - but hear me out, this is different, I promise). We all know that lots of women, when they get married, decide to drop a few kilos. I'm not one of them. Some women, surely, when they get married, decide to gain a few kilos (not that I've ever heard of any women, anywhere, who aim for this - but there must be some, right?). I'm certainly not one of them. No, my aim is to stay the exact same size.

That shouldn't actually be a hard thing. I'm always the same size. My weight really doesn't fluctuate. Theoretically, it should require no effort at all.

Thing is though, my dress was delivered into my hot little hands the other day, and it fits perfectly. Amazingly. Like it was made for me.

A good thing, no doubt, but it does mean I now have three and a half months in which to stay just the same. Something which should be easy, but in my mind, has taken on the vibe of a Herculean task. Now that I have to think about it, not changing at all has become a worrying problem. And so, I am throwing myself into the gym, treadmilling and cross-training and weight-lifting frenetically, happy and safe in the knowledge that if the unthinkable does happen and I end up losing a little bit of weight...

I can just stop.

Yep, that's it, that's my motivation. I sweat in order for nothing to happen. And I love it. Whoever would have thought?

Feeling the Fear and...Opting Out

After successfully ticking off most of the elements on our list of 'Things We Require For a Happy Life' (nice apartment, comfortable furniture, supermarket that sells almost normal food, a good sushi place) H1 and I are nearly completely settled in New York. Just a couple of things to go. Hairdresser is one of them, but seeing as I'm too traumatised to think about going anywhere near anyone wielding a pair of scissors for the next few months, it's a low priority. Of more importance is - friends.

Yes, H1 and I are many things to each other, but we both have gaps in our lives that the other can't fill. H1's is a 'watching cars go round and round while drinking beer' shaped gap. Mine is a 'talking absolute rubbish about clothes and trash TV for hours' sort of gap.

So, this month, now that everyone's settled down a little after the rush and buzz of summer, now that we've begun to feel like we actually do live here, now that my hair has calmed down a little, seemed the perfect month to start. After the virtual financial and moral bankruptcy that was left after a couple of friends visited New York a week or two ago, we decided to start with a small scale search for people who liked the same stuff as us.

Which is how, last night, I found myself in an Italian restaurant near Union Square, enjoying dinner amid a group of 12 like minded women who were also members of this particular NYC book club.

It was a good night. A fantastic night, in fact. It was wonderful being with people similar to me, getting to know them, and talking about the things I like to talk about (it would seem there is a whole world of trash TV I haven't even touched upon yet). It ticked all my boxes for what I want from a night out this month, being (relatively) restrained, and amazingly low cost, thanks to the 'unlimited free wine with dinner' deal they had going on. We ate, we drank, we laughed, and we chatted about everything. Even the book a little bit.

And then we moved on to talking about fashion and suchlike. NYC Fashion Week is on at the moment, so it was to be expected really, although our conversation was a little more base than that. We somehow ended up on the topic of things on which people in New York will judge you (ok, for people read women, we all know they're the judges).

And freaking hell. That's all I can say. Let me just hasten to explain that I had noticed the level of grooming amongst New York women is rather higher than it is for those in London, and certainly higher than what is required of New Zealand women, and I had upped my game accordingly. I thought I had, anyway. Turns out I had no idea.

Teeth.

Nails (fingers and toes).

Shoes.

Handbags*.

Hair**.

And finally - your coat.

There are other things too, which apparently go without saying. For example, not only is it possible to get every hair on your body ripped out with hot wax, it's expected. You may have hair on top of your head, and eyelashes. Eyebrows at a pinch. But everything else must go, no ifs or buts!

Thankfully, I can be distinctly 'whatever' about most of that, being lucky enough to have H1, a man who grew up in a country where women do have arm hair. That's not what gets me though. What gets me is - your coat?

Really?

Even though I can't imagine ever being cold again, I am vaguely aware in the back of my mind that at same stage the temperatures will drop, and I will be colder than I ever have been before. Keeping in mind I love snowboarding and have spent time in the middle of a Swedish winter, that's saying something. And at that stage, I will probably decide it's a good idea to add more warm layers, topped off with a coat. I just didn't realise it would become something upon which I would be judged.

I guess this is not the year I turn my duvet into a coat, after all.

Don't get me wrong. I love fashion, I like painting my nails, I like having my hair done (sometimes. Cue black look). I just think one shouldn't be judged on it. When there are so many things upon which one can be judged, far more important things, should you really have to worry about where you bought your coat?

But I doubt I'm going to be the one to change years of learned behaviour amongst New York women. At some stage, I will have to get over it. I think it may take a while, though. Therefore, this month, you will find me passing my time in a restrained and budget-conscious way, on the floor of my closet, rocking back and forth while making an agonised keening sound, surrounded by nail polishes and a duvet. My very own version of The September Issue, if you like.

*Incidentally, in NYC these are often called pocketbooks, a word which makes absolutely no sense whatsoever if you think about it. H1 and I spent a merry fifteen minutes laughing at the name and devising our own versions, culminating in 'condomtoe' (pantyhose, obviously).

**Bugger.