Same Sex Saunas, safe?

Today I was at the gym, working on my Gwen Stefani abs because let's face it: after last nights No Doubt concert I realized if she can have those abs at 40 after two kids, I need them by October when I'll be turning 25...shit just got real.

After my intensive sweat session I decided to go into the steam room, to sweat out my toxins and replenish my stomach flatness. I'm a fan of the same sex sauna and steam room because then I don't have to worry about, 1. wearing clothing and 2. creepy men looking at me. Much to my delight I found the steam room placed by the showers in the women's locker room and without a second thought I stripped down, grabbed a towel and proceeded into the eucolyptus scented fog.

Four other women sat on the risers already, but for some reason all of them were clothed. Refusing to feel awkward about my natural state of nakedness, I walked in, laid down my towel and sat down among these clothed women. I was in there barely five minutes when I noticed that one of the women would not stop staring at me, every time I looked away and looked back there were her eyes, not afraid to meet mine. I started getting self conscious, was I weird for going into a same sex steam room in the nude? But no, they were the odd ones, fully clothed while sweat clung to their garments; I was free, sweat dripping onto the towel I laid underneath me.

So after a good ten minutes of this thirty something woman giving me the stink eye I decided to stare back... because after all, if I want to be judged at the gym I can always go to a spin class, I don't need judgment when I'm wearing my most vulnerable outfit. Her eyes met mine and with little hesitation she said to me, "I'm sorry, I can't stop staring at your boobs." I instinctively looked down at my boobs, there they were, like they always are and so not knowing what else to do me and my boobs got up and walked out.

If I wanted boob commentary I could get it elsewhere thank you very much. Now my safe place from judgment has been robbed from me, my same sex steam room haven to sweat out toxins has itself become toxic. But now I can't help but laugh about it, because really, what were all those women hiding underneath it all?

Self-Help: Because I'm Helpless...

So today at the gym I was reading one of those fitness magazines when I came across an article that read "Cake, It's Just Not That Into You." Reading on I found that cake is one of the worst choices you can choose when chosing a dessert option because it is sky high in sugar, calories, and carbs but it doesn't fill you up, no no, instead it causes you to become hungry again sooner.

Not only do you get hungry, but you get hungry for sweets so essentially when eating cake you crave more cake...sound familiar? I could carry that over to other areas of my life...

So great, now they tell me. After years of cake being my number one dessert, the only reason I stay at wedding receptions so long, the only reason I attend many birthday parties...and now I learn that it just isn't that into me. Sure I know desserts in general are bad for me, but cake tops my list, so why does that have to be the worst for me?

A few days back I was talking to my friend Kait over dinner when she posed the question, "If you could dedicate your life to one food what would it be?" Naturally, I responded with chocolate, though cake would be tied for first in that food fight. "Yea, but it'll fuck you over," she responded and then I realized that a lot of things I grow to love fuck me over.
So why do I have to pick up a fitness magazine or a self help book and have everyone tell me the things I'm crazy about "just aren't that into me?" I get it, I get it, but to be honest, I'm not gonna give up the cake; it may not be into me, but I'm all about it.

You Just Know, The Way You Know About a Good Melon

So, since forever I have loved the movie "When Harry Met Sally," and if it is true that men and women cannot in fact be just friends, then I'm afraid I have lost 90% of my friendship circle. The part I love the most about that film is how they interview 'couples' who have been together a long time and they all seem to fit together like an old worn pair of tennis shoes. There is one couple in particular that I've always thought about: the woman that says she knew her husband was"the one" because she just knew, "the way you know about a good melon."

This makes me panic, because I can't seem to master picking out a good melon, and it may be carrying over to the men I pick. Yesterday, I was at Whole Foods, and since summer has arrived it seemed the perfect time to pick a melon of the honeydew or cantaloupe nature. The problem is, how can you ever really tell what a good melon looks like?

I've heard all the tips: smell it, knock on it and listen, look it over, shake it. But after doing all these things it seems I still do not have an eye for the perfect melon. I got my honeydew home, cut it open, and much to my dismay it was the perfect amount of unripe for my liking. I guess I'll just have to keep trying, to keep knocking on melons and cutting them open and maybe one of these days I'll find the perfect balance of sweetness and summer that I'm looking for in a melon, much like that lovely lady in "When Harry Met Sally" spoke of. And when I find that perfect melon maybe I'll be able to enjoy it like Meg Ryan enjoyed her salad in that infamous diner scene.

Watch that movie again, it only gets better with age. And if you're like me, keep buying pre-cut melon, that way you can already see what's inside, an advantage that we have only for melon, not so much for the men. The problem is I always think I know what's inside, but alas when I get to the core and scoop out the seeds there I am eating my semi-sweet or semi-mushy melon thinking: huh, maybe I'll just stick to strawberries...but then where's the fun in that? ;)

Sunday Boyfriend

So, yesterday I was at the park on Myrtle street with the child (yes, I am a nanny to a 2 and a half year old) and next to me sitting on the bench was another nanny jabbering away on her Blackberry while the children she watched fought for her attention. When I got bored of watching small children run around, as I do every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, I tuned into her conversation just as it started to get interesting.

"You know, and I told him, I'm only looking for a Sunday boyfriend right now. So it's either that, or nothing at all." She said to someone on the other side of the phone line. And as I pondered what the term "Sunday boyfriend" could possibly mean, she went on to explain the same to her perplexed friend.

"I just don't have time for a boyfriend, I want someone to hang out with all day on Sundays and then go home to their own place on Sunday night, then see them again the next week."

And I couldn't help but wonder: is sex and the Sunday boyfriend replacing church and family game night? And if so, where can I find myself one of these Sunday only boyfriends?

I discussed this idea with several of my friends and came to the conclusion that many women love the idea of the Sunday boyfriend: he's consistent yet still spontaneous, something to look forward to while still maintaining your Friday night routine, and after a long hard week is over and before a long hard new week begins there he is, at your apartment, fulfilling all your needs in just a days time.

For me personally the Sunday boyfriend wouldn't work out. Even God needed a day of rest and my Sundays are my time, though that's not the only reason this wouldn't be a good fit for me. Kind of like my holey ex-boyfriend jeans, I like to wear them more than once a week. They are comfortable and my love for them on Sunday remains the same on Thursday: passionate and unconditional.