IS YOUR BEDROOM ANOTHER WORKPLACE?

"The bedroom isn't just for sleeping anymore." That's part of a popular commercial that shows furniture that can convert the bedroom to an office, a computer center, an entertainment area (Stereo, TV, VCR, DVD, etc.) In lieu of making love, many modern couples use the bedroom to make more money, by extending their working hours. Papers, disks, files fill the bedroom space while one or both partners spend long hours in front of their computer.

Instead of entertaining each other by holding, stroking, lying quietly together or sharing intimate thoughts and feelings one or both are immersed in a soap opera of the latest sexual exploits of the rich and famous.

Often, the bedroom or even the bed is shared by a beloved pet, either canine or feline, who may be getting most of the petting and hugging. Sex therapists sometimes discover that a pet sleeps between a couple, serving as a barrier between them as an unspoken way of avoiding each other. Small children sometimes serve the same purpose.

What about your bedroom -- does it have a computer, a TV set, a motley assortment of papers and books? Have you settled the issue of king size, queen size, double or separate bed?

Is sex another work activity that takes place in the bedroom?

Separate bedrooms are a luxury of modern life. In the 15th and 16th Century, people lived in general purpose rooms as they still do in some societies (and in studio apartment?) They ate, slept, entertained and worked in the same room. Beds were often collapsible and were set up as needed. Many centuries were required to develop the concept of the bedroom as a private sanctuary. Enjoy it as such -- don't make your bedroom the public, general purpose room of the 15th Century.

Separate bedrooms are a luxury of modern life.

SO YOU THINK YOU CAN DANCE?

Yes, you can!

On a recent trip to Florida, I visited a posh country club, all of whose members appeared to be senior citizens. Many of them have partners, short or long term.

An interesting contrast to the sea of gray hair and stooped shoulders was the club's staff, young and vibrant men and women from around the world. They seemed to have formed a friendly, caring bond with the people they serve.

Many of the club's members are retired people, seeking not only relief from winter's chill but a milieu to make new friends and enjoy activities, both old and new to them.

The dining room had a festive air and an extravagant display of fine food and wine. Of course, there was no way to know how many of these guests needed special diets, preventing them from partaking of the tempting food offered. As they came into the dining room or left it later on, they stopped to greet friends at the tables scattered around the room like hosts at a private party.

Adjacent to the dining room was a lounge. Not everyone settled there after dinner, but I soon identified those who did, as having dancing feet. Couple after couple walked over to one end of the room, where there was a platform. There was music, a three-piece ensemble, a talented, exuberant singer, all of whom seemed to be enjoying themselves as much as the dancers. For me, it was like watching high-quality entertainment. Indeed, these people could dance! They moved to the beat of the music with an expertise that made me speculate that they had taken expensive lessons to become so expert, just as they took lessons to improve their golf game or their bridge skills.

I felt pleasure watching my 90-year-old brother twirling his spirited partner around the dance floor, executing intricate steps with ease and grace. I felt a pang of envy that I did not have a partner to swing to the beat. It was not a wish that I were young again; but a wish that at 94, I could be sharing the pleasure of this experience, rather than being a spectator.

Of course, these privileged people are not free of the fears and anxieties we all have, are heir to. They, too, mourn the loss of their youth and vigor, the death of loved ones, the aches and pains of aging, the woes of the world - but for some shining moments in time, it's "Lets Face the Music and Dance!"

TIS THE SEASON TO BE JOLLY

Anticipating a holiday stirs the imagination and offers welcome relief from our everyday worries. Thinking about the Thanksgiving turkey, that special stuffing, the velvety smoothness of the pumpkin pie, makes our mouths water even before the actual meal is placed before us. Hearing the ringing bells, delighting in the twinkling lights, smelling the spicy tang of the Christmas trees lining the streets, evokes the feelings of pleasures to come...

But often, the reality of the celebration doesn’t live up to the anticipation. There’s fatigue, frustration and disappointment along with the joviality. Anticipation stirs up a fantasy of satisfaction that is often not realized in childhood or in later years.

The idea of going home for the holidays fills our thoughts weeks before the trip is to start. When we get home there is often the realization that everything has changed or nothing as changed. Amid the pleasure of reunion, there is the memory of past hurts, rivalry, the dreams that haven’t been realized. There is often a feeling of depression about time that can’t be relived, the aging clock that can’t be stopped.

When there’s no family, few friends, no plans, the loneliness can be more painful than at any other time. And then there’s the impact of the world around us. It’s Christmas 2008. ‘Tis the season to be jolly. We’re trying to feel the holiday surge, but have you heard much laughter, seen a lot of smiling faces? Most likely you’ve heard tales of woe, disbelief about this corrupt and frightening world.

And all that talk about money, money, money. There’s an old saying that when the Dow goes down the erections go down. Personal relations reflect the tensions and the fears. And then, undercutting our attempts to enjoy the holiday, whatever the circumstances, there is that moment of truth we recall, when we learned there really is not Santa Claus. But then again, there’s always the hope that next year he will appear.

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND TO ALL A GOOD YEAR!

ANOTHER RIDE ON A TIME MACHINE

His name leaped out at me from the obituary column of my morning newspaper. An electric shock vibrated through my body as I read that he was 96 years old at the time of his death. He had been married for 60 years, had children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren and had been a successful business man.

As if I were on a time machine, he and I were on a beautiful lake in the Adirondack Mountains. He was 18 years old and I was 16. We had just finished a long swim and we were slightly out of breath, watching the sun set. I could feel the wetness of my bathing suit, the sand on my feet and on my shoulders.

The majestic mountains surrounding the lake were like walls providing a private space in which the two of us seemed to exist. Private moments were in marked contrast to the busy, noisy action-filled days of our roles as counselors at a summer camp. So we rested quietly, only the singing of birds, breaking the silence.

He turned towards me, as if he wanted to say something. Perhaps it was accidental, because we had never touched each other before, but within a moment we were holding each other, caressing each other. I could feel the droplets of water on our bodies mingling together. A wonderful feeling erupted within me.

A short time later, the summer was over, and I left to begin my freshman year at college in Massachusetts. I never saw him again. For many months, he inhabited my fantasy life. I dreamed that we would be together, sharing the pleasures of new experiences.

And now I read that he was dead. I was 94 years old as I read that notice. But as I traveled on a time machine that morning, we were swimming in the cool waters of a beautiful lake–he was 18, I was 16–both of us joyfully unaware of life’s inevitable stages.

HEAVY PETTING

Tim had visited quite a few times, and we had established some kind of relationship. He had even taken me for a walk once or twice when my lady was tired or maybe just glad of a break from our usual routine. It was a treat for me, because he walked on different streets and didn’t stop to look at shop windows.

But this was different. Tim had moved in! It wasn’t just his physical presence around so much of the time. It was his clothes in her closet, his shoes and socks under her bed, and the new smells that permeated our place.

But it was the situation in the bedroom that disturbed me the most. I had always slept at the foot of my lady’s bed. Sometimes she’d pull me under the covers with her, hug me and shower me with kisses, and even let me stay next to her all night.

I had even discovered that certain situations led to her wanting me close. Sometimes it was because she was sad. I could feel her hot tears wetting my fur, sometimes she was happy and she’d hold me in the air and we would dance to her happy laughter. Sometimes she would ignore me, and I knew then that it was my job to comfort her. I learned how to be pretty good at that.
But since Tim moved in, things were different. True, he had slept over a few times before. I had been polite enough to our guest to let him have complete privacy. But that didn’t mean I was going to give up my proprietary rights.

When they were getting undressed, I jumped on the bed and waited till they got in. My lady would me pet me and kiss me good night and a few times she and Tim played with me under the covers.

But I couldn’t deal with it when I saw how close they got in bed. Often, they looked as if there were struggling, and I would growl and bark and jump on Tim to protect my lady.
At first Tim would laugh; but when I perfected my strategy to separate them, Tim started to pick me up and put me on the floor. Once or twice, he carried me out of the room. My lady would protest and tell Tim.

"He’ll get used to not being #1." But, will I?

ON THE MARCH

This is a story about Joe, not Joe the plumber, who has already faded into obscurity, but Joe, my cousin. He was about 40 at the time of this story–single, a musician and a great favorite in the family. He played the piano at all our parties and never seemed to get tired at meeting requests for our favorite songs.

One day we heard that Joe had been taken to Mt. Sinai Hospital, suffering from stomach pains. My father decided to visit him there. When he entered Joe’s hospital room, Grace, Joe’s sister, was there, glad to see a member of the family.

As a physician, my father was permitted to read a patient’s medical chart, which was attached to the bed, where Joe lay, pale and nervous in a hospital gown.

After reading the chart for some time, my father put it down and said to Joe in a gentle but firm voice –

"Joe, I want you to get dressed. You’re leaving the hospital with me." Joe looked at my father with astonishment.

"Uncle Louis, I love you and respect you, but what are you talking about! My surgery is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. I have one of the best surgeons in the city and the chief of surgery here."

"Joe," my father responded, "if you don’t get dressed, you’re leaving in your hospital gown!
And that is how the story goes ... My father led the parade, Joe followed him in his gown, his sister after him, carrying a beautiful plant she had brought as a gift. As she told it later, "so it wouldn’t be a total loss."

The three of them marched out of hospital. No one noticed them; no one stopped them.

Shortly after, Joe moved to California. He got a job at MGM, a major Hollywood studio, as a musician. He lived in California until his death at the age of 81. He never had abdominal surgery, nor did he suffer any abdominal pain after his march through Mt. Sinai Hospital in his hospital gown.

THE BUTTOCKS--HIGH STYLE!

Men seem to be fascinated with all parts of a women's body, but derrieres and breasts evidently get particular attention--not only from the male sex but from the fashion industry as well. Having practically bared breasts in recent times, attention has now shifted to buttocks. What's so intriguing about that part of a woman's body?

Well, first of all, like breasts, they come in varying sizes and shapes. They seem to vary somewhat from one ethnic group to another, providing variety to the observer. They also sway, move, and swing--providing variety that way as well.

The tight jeans of today's styles help to draw attention to that part of the body, but there is nothing new about that. Previous generations of women emphasized buttocks with heavy padding--and what about the bustle? But we've added the thong, and we all know that the thong is part of our history.

Interest in the buttocks often starts in childhood. It's a part of the body that can't be seen--it is a source of curiosity and sensual pleasure. Toilet training focuses a lot of attention on our rear ends. Children are told it's naughty and not to be tolerated if that part of the body is exposed, but it doesn't prevent them from trying and seeing the reaction.

Women notice men's buttocks too and men's fashions caters to that interest as well with tight jeans and low waistlines even exposing underwear and the "crack." What it all points to is an increasing recognition of the fascination of the human body. What's next? What will happen to fashion if nudity becomes the new new thing!