On Friday, my husband and I spent the day in New York visiting the blessed doctor it took me four years, seven months, 12 days and 14 hours to locate (love you, Dr. Dana, mean it).

It was a great day – aside from the fact that Dr. Dana delivered good news regarding my most recent blood work but not so good news about the state of my adrenal glands (so please, my blessed readers, do NOT stress me out). What made me able to overcome the last part of that sentence, albeit for the day, was that I got to take in approximately 10 straight hours of city energy. And I loved every minute of it.

Now, don’t get me wrong: I love my life – love my husband, my dogs, and my job. It’s great being close to my family, and even the park that’s just steps away from our house here in the suburbs. I can even deal with the fact that I live precariously close to the chain restaurants I used to mock (back when I was a Chicago city snob): Like Applebee’s, Outback Steak House, and Ruby Tuesdays. You name it, I can get to it. Fast. And I guess, in some high-school super-metabolic universe, there’s a lot to be said for that.

But in my middle-aged metabolically-challenged only slight more sophisticated universe, I sure do miss the more cosmopolitan urban environment, where it’s just as easy to find a good Italian joint or place that serves authentic [insert country] cuisine.  Because every once in a while, you may want to go somewhere that doesn’t have an all-you-can-eat salad bar or an oversized menu tucked in plastic.  

And yet, the joy of being in the city, for me, goes beyond just where to eat. Standing amidst the hustle and bustle of 75th and Columbus makes me feel alive in a way I just can’t access here in D-town—which, don’t get me wrong again—is a very quaint and delightful place to live. But on the Upper West Side, there’s just so much to take in. Food notwithstanding, there’s the lights, the crowded streets, the diversity of people. The foreign languages, the traffic, and the colorful and overpriced boutiques, offset by the street vendors with their $5 bangles and pashminas. I even find the occasional siren a bit thrilling. And the people watching? The anything-goes fashion? The don’t-judge-me attitude? It’s like bearing witness to the world’s largest artists’ collective in action.  Why, the piping hot “Nuts for Nuts” is enough to make my heart skip a beat.

It reminds me of how much I miss all the life that happens when you live in a major metropolis. Just writing about it makes me want to pack up my urban tote and get on a plane, or at least New Jersey Transit.

—————————————————————————

Which brings me back to Dr. Dana, who’s got me pegged like a small destroyer in the vintage game of Battleship. And my  darn adrenals, glands so delicate and sensitive to stress. And, in my case, as exhausted as new parents. Overworked, undernourished, and sleep deprived, they continue to wreak much havoc with my hormones. What to do, what to do?

Option A: Sell everything we have and give up this busy and stressful existence for something more primitive, like life on a desert island somewhere close to a Nordstrom’s outlet store.

Option B: Replace my big corporate job for the 10 to 2 shift at Starbucks, stocking new mugs and managing the cash register (but not as a Barista because, frankly, that looks like it can be quite the stress fest).

Option C: Make pretend I’m perfectly okay and simply ignore any and all symptoms of adrenal distress.

Option D: Find a warm and comfortable spot at Philadelphia International Airport, a good wholesale florist who believes in the concept of bartering, and a peach tunic for every day of the week and set up shop in the United Terminal preaching love and peace.

Option E: Have some Ben and Jerry’s Whirled Peace and worry about it tomorrow. (Hey, I like this option!)  

Good solutions or not, big sigh, they’re simply just not possible for Type A personalities like me, that are a) always on a diet and b) washed out by light pastels. So, in lieu of throwing it all away for the life of a Jewish Hari Krishna, the alternatives are this (says Dr. Dana): More natural supplements. Prescription hormones. Gentle forms of yoga and pilates (goodbye Jillian Michaels and P90X Tony—well, I won’t actually miss you…). And, dare I say it: The dreaded meditation.

Now, I must say that many have proposed the notion of meditation to me in recent years. The rationale being that it would be the perfect salve for my somewhat tightly wound personality (okay, I’ll own it). And yet, for some reason, I’ve been resistant to the idea. Why? No clue. Because theoretically, the thought of quieting my mind for any length of time seems utterly delightful.

And yet, what does it say about a person who, in practice, repels the idea of laying still, simply breathing, letting a long cool swath of no-judgement air bathe over her like tropical pixie dust?

I know the sensation, because I did do it once. At some wellness center, in a group, sitting on a bridge chair. And even with my lower back slighty pressed, it was downright dreamy. The trance-like state something I certainly wouldn’t mind replicating. And yet, when I sit down to try, my mind becomes the Indianapolis 500 of bad thoughts–about what I have to do at the office, how mad I am still at my husband’s ex wife, and whether or not I’ll ever be able to fit back into the size 8 Cambio jeans I keep as a vigil to my former self in the back of my closet.  

Say, do you meditate?

(Not to change the subject, but do we really want to start talking about the range of sizes in my closet? Here’s a hint: Think Bloomingdales.) And if so, help me out. I’ll take whatever you’ve got. Give me your best stress-busting advice. And let me know whether your adrenals have been served by the process, or are as tired and pathetic as mine. I’ll look forward to hearing all about it.

In the meantime, as always, until next time!