Welcoming the New Year - 5775

September 27, 2014 – Welcoming the New Year - 5775

L’shana tova! – Happy New Year!  According to the Jewish calendar, the year is 5775.  I celebrated Rosh Hashanah in the usual fashion – festive holiday meal (thanks to my friend Cheri and her extended family), services at Beth El, and the traditional apple and honey for a sweet new year.  

  

This year, the Jewish New Year coincided with Orly Day, a private holiday that Elliott and I observe.  Orly Day, which falls on September 25, is our annual celebration of the day we met at Orly Airport in Paris.  It’s hard to believe that was 31 years ago.  We marked the occasion with a special dinner at one of our favorite local restaurants, 2941.  Despite the gloomy, drizzly weather, we enjoyed the beauty of the restaurant’s park-like setting.  Elliott was very pleased with his lamb duo (chops and tenderloin) accompanied by roasted cauliflower and robust Romesco sauce.  I was equally delighted with an appetizer of peeky-toe crab with butternut squash and Granny Smith apple and a main course of moist grilled swordfish with matsutake mushrooms on a bed of tender French lentils in a mustardy vinaigrette.  For dessert, we shared a chocolate brioche with caramelized pears, crème anglaise and toasted almond ice cream.  

Elliott - ready to dig into the lamb duo at 2941

You would think that this kind of eating would help Elliott put on a few pounds, but his weight continues to fall and he’s becoming weaker.  In addition, his back has been bothering him more frequently in the past couple of weeks.  I suspect his work tearing apart the old downstairs floor is contributing to the problem.  At least he has agreed to hire someone to take over the job.  We were out earlier today looking for tile, and we hope to begin the installation in a couple of weeks.  Before October is over, the downstairs will have a new look. 

Speaking of new looks, I decided to update my look for the new year.  Perhaps I was inspired by some old photos that I came across during the downstairs cleanup.  These pictures dated back about 10 or 12 years to a time when I had a short hairstyle.  Elliott says the shorter hair makes me look younger.  I pondered his words as I sat in class at George Mason University last week.  I hate to tell him, but if I want to blend in on campus, I’d need either a facial piercing or a tattoo, or preferably both.  Don’t worry, Elliott, I’m not ready for that yet.

However, in recent weeks, I’ve been considering a number of rejuvenating procedures.  It’s impossible to escape the consistent media barrage to maintain a youthful appearance.  Every night I hear on TV that those unsightly varicose veins are a disease that gets worse if left untreated.  I haven’t made an appointment with a vascular surgeon yet, but I’m thinking that getting rid of the spider veins on my legs would be a relatively minor procedure.  And of course, all the magazine ads tell me that my facial wrinkles (I don’t notice them when I take a quick glance in the mirror but they are quite obvious in photos) could be eliminated, at least temporarily, with Botox, or Restalyne, or some other miracle treatment.  When I examine my image more closely, I see that my neck now has lines, my eyelids seem to droop, and my cheeks could use plumping up.  Is it time for a Lifestyle Lift? 

Even my hands betray my advanced years.  My dermatologist assured me that a couple of laser sessions could take care of the age spots.   And let’s not forget the teeth.  When I visited the dentist last month to be fitted for a sleep apnea dental appliance, he suggested Invisalign braces and professional whitening.  Finally, there’s the ENT specialist who offered to reshape my nose while correcting my deviated septum. 

So far, I’ve rejected all of these options.  It’s not that I object to looking younger, but (1) I’d spend a fortune; (2) I wouldn’t necessarily be any happier than I am now; and (3) it could easily start a never-ending cycle of cosmetic improvement.  However, there is one concession to altering my looks that is not negotiable, i.e. my monthly visits to the salon to have my hair restored to its earlier natural color.  Elliott insists that I’d look fine if my hair color matched his, but I can’t imagine myself a gray-haired granny at any time in the foreseeable future.  Maybe when I’m 80 – or maybe not even then.