becky sarwate

I am getting really good at finding disturbing pictures to put up on this thing, aren’t I? I know it’s been awhile since Jen and I engaged in a “My End or Yours?” debate, and frankly we all miss Jen’s individual posts. Jon and Kate have been up to nothing but trouble since this rant, and I for one would like an update. But Jen’s plate is full so all you get is me! Nah!

A few days after Jesika passed away, I had one of many emotional phone calls with Kevin, and we were talking about the Herculean task he had to endure of sorting through some of his and Jesika’s old things. In the process, he discovered the remainder of a gift certificate he had given Jesika late last year. It was redeemable at this rather posh spa in the West Loop, on Jackson Street. During our conversation, Kevin said he wanted me to have the certificate, and to make sure I used it.

Initially, I felt morbid, maybe even amoral taking it, as if I were somehow profiting from the death of someone I missed so much. But Kevin wisely told me not to be silly. He assured me it would be a shame to waste, and that he certainly wasn’t going to use it. Now I think Jen and I have told y’all before that we love spa treatments. So after the idea settled, I started to like it. Jesika’s final gift to me.

And it was her final gift in so many ways. One more chance to have a heavenly giggle at Boop for example. I signed up for an aromatherapy oil shoulder, neck and back massage – thirty minutes. Sounds lovely doesn’t it? Um, did someone switch my masseuse with an angry chiropractor? Because the harmless small Asian fellow who guided me to the soft, warm massage table bore no resemblance to the relentless torturer who attempted to crack my chakras right along with my ribs for the next 30 minutes. Now granted, I was very sore from my latest kettle bell circuit with trainer Rob the day before. I had also just come from my Friday Pilates class. I am pretty tightly wound to begin with, but all the more so in the last month. The tremendous uncertainty in my world apparently has my muscles locked up tighter than Fort Knox. And Daniel the masseuse had the wince-inducing key.

There were quite seriously a few moments when I considered asking him to cease the massage altogether. It hurt that badly. Trust me, if I were keeping any military secrets, Daniel the masochistic masseuse would have wrenched them sucessfully. I have had a few trips to the table before, and they felt nothing like this. But then a funny thing began to happen. When he would finish pulverizing and, literally, readjusting a particular muscle group, I felt better than I had in a long while – much better in fact. I started to ease into it, gritting my teeth (or grinding my braces) and willing the pain.

At the end, my sensai told me I was a “tough cookie,” and that it took him only 30 minutes to break my strained-to-snapping-point neck, shoulder and back muscles. He said folks in similiar conditions usually need 45 minutes or longer to let go. He asked me if anything particularly stressful was happening in my life. Well sir, you may be a ligament magician, but I already have a therapist. He served me a nice plate of fresh fruit and a glass of water, even chatted with me while I imbibed. Then I paid the bill and left.

Does this story, from beginning to end, strike anybody but me as odd? As I said, I have had massages before, but besides the initial squirms of pain, I can’t say there was anything offensive about it, per say. It was just…weird. And therein lies my old friend Jesika. She would have throughly enjoyed every bit of having contributed to such an odd, yet satisfying encounter. Thank you Jesika for sending me a painful, bizarre, but quite humorous life episode, and for giving me something else to write about today. I still wish you were here. I always will.

I like to make a good fuss, throw some bluster around now and again, just to let the world know I am watching, trying to keep it and its denizens honest. But I have been preoccupied lately with travels, grief and career movements, so some of the little things that irritate I have allowed to pass without the benefit of a good cleansing editorial. Well no more Ms. Nice Boop!

Many of you might wonder why I bother to allow myself to become enraged by the likes of my TV set in the first place. There are, after all, so many urgent and serious things going on, and perhaps Boop, your first mistake might be in letting anything like unscripted entertainment ruin your week? And while we’re at it, um, who cares? Well I do, and in order to fully account for my enthusiasm for reality television, allow me to plagiarize my own email, sent to my friends Tim and Diane yesterday, as we debated the merits of Patti Blagojevich’s contestantship on the upcoming NBC summer show, “I’m a Celebrity…Get me Outta Here!”

“I will lay my cards out on the table. I love a lot of reality TV. I am a voyeur and am fascinated by the depths of humanity many people will plumb in the name of money and fame, no matter how slight or inauspicious. This is why I relish the idea of Blago or Patti on a reality TV show. They are a cautionary tale about political figures who wallow in the mire of their own bombast. I am beyond excited because it appears they have learned nothing from their fall from grace and are willing to pimp themselves out for as long as possible. Call my eagerness for this show my study in culutral anthropology. But seriously, the other castmates are promising too: Janice Dicksinson, Heidi and Spencer, Sanjaya. The premise of the show is that they are dropped in the jungle and America gets to devise tortures for them as it plays out on national TV. I know what I said before about Americans being dumb, ignorant sheep, but this opportunity is Christmas in July people! It’s sick, admittedly. But people enjoy plenty of other sick things too, like watching people beat the shit out of each other, so I feel no shame.”

And there you have it. My story is that I enjoy the world of reality television for the human character examination it offers, and I am sticking to it. However, the purpose of this post is not to defend my trashy adoration for this type of entertianment. No sir. My rage is pointedly directed at two shows who produced their season finales this week, ABC’s Dancing with the Stars, and Fox’s ratings stalwart, American Idol.

Both of these programs contain an at-home audience voting element, as you are likely aware. The philsophy is that by letting the people choose, the winners of these talent competitions will be representative of the nation, the entire nation, not just the 12 year old girls who beg their parents to allow them to dial in multiple times with their spanking new Cricket phones.

Overall, I am a great believer and champion of the democratic process, a belief strengthened by America’s “getting it right” during last Fall’s presidential election. So this week, I gamely assumed my position on the couch and prepared to witness the foregone conclusion of Gilles’ walking away with the Mirrorball trophy on DWTS. Likewise, I sat with a box of kleenex next to me as I prepared to weep the tears of joy I knew would come once Adam was finally announced the winner of AI. But instead, my loyal season viewership was rewarded with…

Shawn and Kris? To quote Kyle’s Mom on South Park: “Wha, wha, what?”

Shawn, 17 and spunky, an Olympic medalist in gymnastics, was no doubt without talent. But compared to the tour de force of smoldering sexiness and raw skill that was Gilles? No, I say! Likewise, Kris Allen is 23, adorable and may have a future in music. But are we to believe he was more deserving than the Freddy Mercury channeling rock God that is Adam Lambert? As Whitney Houston once memorably uttered on another classic reality gem, Being Bobby Brown, “Hell to the naw!”

What happened America? We thirty, forty, fifty and other somethings watch TV too. Why do we let the young tweens make our decisions for us? Is there some sort of social shame attached to picking up the phone and spending $1.99 to protect what is right? There must be, because I didn’t vote either. Curses!

I have been disappointed with the outcome of Dancing with the Stars before, and may be so again, but I am willing to give it another chance next season, because 50% of the final decision comes from the scores of judges Bruno, Carrie and Len. I am aware that the audience for DWTS skews older, so I am willing to write off this hideous injustice as a fluke unless I am proven wrong in the Fall. But AI? we are done. I mean it this time.

It was bad enough in Season 5 when I had to wave goodbye to the far superior Chris Daughtry and Elliot Yamin in favor of Katherine McPhee and Taylor Hicks. Seriously? Does anyone know if those yahoos are even still breathing? To go back a couple seasons earlier, I was incensed with Ruben over Clay, the criminally early exit of Jennifer Hudson, and two seasons ago, the ageist dismissal of Melinda Doolittle. I had threatened to remove American Idol from my DVR schedule before, only to return sheepishly later. I will not do so this time. Do you hear me Eddie? No Adam Lambert as Idol, no Boop as viewer.

Since Thursday, April 16th, I have put on 6 pounds. I am typically very mindful of my exercise and diet habits. Jen was gifted with the metabolism and body type of our father, which allows her to pop out children after a 9 month diet of cheesesticks and couch surfing, only to regain her original figure approximately 10 days after bearing her fruit. I am not so lucky. I take after the pear-shaped, bottom heavy body type of our mother. Unfortunately, this means that if I experience a bad few days – no time for exercise and food consumed with abandon, I am going to pack on a few.

I left for Israel about a month ago, and freely admit that I “let myself go” while with my friends. It’s a constant struggle to balance my routines and neuroses with allowing myself to enjoy new experiences fully. So I put it all aside for the nine days I traveled, working out sparsely and sampling the cuisine everywhere I went, without too much worry about my waistline. It was a happy time. But then I came home to the news that Jesika had passed, and I am not too disingenuous to declare that I embarked on three full weeks of emotional eating. My exercise schedule was back on track, but every bit of sweat I poured forth was almost immediately undone by late night cookies, Indian food buffets, and the like. I had felt pretty good about myself while swimming in the Mediterranean Sea. But all of the sudden, on top of grieving for my friend and worrying about the next phase of career, I had a nice case of self-loathing and poor body image to add as the cherries on top of my sundae of misery.

I was sort of getting fed up with myself last week, but after a weekend spent gorging on carne asada at my friend Wyatt’s BBQ (coupled with a dessert feast of vanilla coconut cupcakes), I decided to put my foot down. I met my trainer, Rob, on Monday, who I see twice a week. He has been on me about my diet for awhile. Not because he thinks I am overweight; because I whine about not being able to shed those last 5 pounds (which have now become 10) without the discipline required to ignore all four desserts when I finish my Indian buffet lunch with Eddie. I told Rob I was ill with this cycle of hard work followed by guilt, and was ready to put myself back on the path to summertime hotness.

Goodbye garbage food, hello low carb/high protein meal plan. It isn’t easy, but I am determined. And I remain as serious about reaching new fitness heights. On Tuesday morning, I was up with the sun at 5:30 AM. Weeks ago, my good friend Diane had sent me a coupon for a free workout at this studio called the Bar Method, located at Belmont and Sheffield on the North Side. The class focuses on micro movements, influenced by ballet. I do some light ballet in my own home workout programs, so figured it would be tough, but certainly doable for a fitness maestro such as myself.

I have long known, especially in my case, that arrogance leads to a heavy fall. Yesterday morning was no different. I reported to the Bar Method at 6:45 AM, bottle of Gatorade G2 in hand, ready to sweat. All of my classmates were women, of all ages, shapes and sizes, and I felt my confidence build. I was given a tour of the studio and its amenities, which were both comfortable and lush. I actually began to wonder if this little session was going to be enough for me.

I entered Studio A promptly at 7:00 AM, and immediately began to panic. There was no light warmup. We went immediately into some intense sets with varying handweights. The instructor was about 5’1″ to my 5’8″, and probably weighed 95 pounds with dumbells tied around her ankles. She demonstrated each and every move with utmost grace. I have never felt such a clod in my life as I huffed and puffed, wheezed and collapsed red faced at the end of each pose. How in the world can such tiny movements cause my arms and legs to tremble like a detoxing crackhead? The only thing that kept me from bursting into tears of pain was looking around the room to see most of the other women writhing in the same agony.

As I told Eddie about the experience that night, he assumed I would never return, because to the logical male mind, it is easy to wonder why anyone would choose this form of torture again. I told him I couldn’t wait until next time. The extra 6 pounds I am carrying: you have been put on notice. Don’t eff with the Bar Method.