The Inside Press

Magazines serving the communities of Northern Westchester

Daniel Levitz

My Idea of Beauty at 19 and Now

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Author and his wife Laurie

It was the late 1980’s and a Grateful Dead cover band was playing it hot at a local college bar. Across the room I saw her. A classic Deadhead chick in faded jeans and a tie-dye, covered with a loose peasant blouse. She was balancing a beer in a plastic cup while un-self-consciously bopping to the music. To say she was an enticing vision would be an understated lie. She was just outstanding. At 19, I probably fell in love at least twice a week but this moment stood out. I was not the type to approach a girl in a bar and I may have stared a little too intently but it definitely felt like lightning had struck.

As it turned out I eventually got to know this stunning hippy girl, just a little, and away from that moment in time the magic was gone. She was sweet and cute but there was no connection. In retrospect that moment at the bar, aside from my unwieldy 19-year-old ardor, was a great summation of my understandably naïve take on beauty.

Back then I was limited in my perception of so many things. If I were to consider my opinion of what was beautiful at that time it would now seem dated and superficial. I’ll present here, embarrassing as it may be, what might have been my vision of an ideal evening at that time even if it was, in reality, completely out of reach. I’d pick up my date (picture the hippy chick above but really into me) in my new red Porsche 944 (one of the company’s few failed models), we’d have a fine meal at TGI-Friday’s (who knew mozzarella could be deep-fried!) and then we’d head off to the movies to see the latest John Hughes teen angst flick (to this day I still don’t quite understand Eric Stoltz’s big plan in “Some Kind of Wonderful”). I know. This scenario is not appealing.

Cut to 2019 and the world is spinning wildly out of control and we the people are divided. Social media is pervasive and invasive and we’re clearly, as a society, moving forward into unchartered territory in so many ways. As for me, I’m as immersed in the chaos as anyone else but I endure and now I believe, I have a more credible and learned perspective on the subject of what constitutes beauty.

I can now see beauty in so many things that had been inconceivable to me when I was a younger man. Obviously, watching our children grow and evolve is a no-brainer but is also a profound movement away from inherent pre-kids self-absorption. Having worked for many years, I now recognize the allure of someone doing a job, any job, with commitment, honor and excellence. I’ve been fortunate enough to have unexpected friendships that make life more fulfilling and fun. I’m also lucky to still be able to compete athletically at sports I loved as a child. Not to mention the pleasure of good food be it a bacon and egg on a roll or fresh summer peach.

I can now see beauty in so many things that had been inconceivable to me when I was a younger man.

Undoubtedly, the most consistent and important aspect of beauty I’ve been fortunate to be exposed to is my wife. Laurie is the embodiment of gorgeous both physically and spiritually. I’ve known her a long time and am completely secure in our relationship yet I still have moments where I shake my head and say, “How the hell did I achieve this”? On a typical morning, she’ll get dressed for work and ask me how she looks. This daily exchange has occurred for years. My first instinct is usually to say “beautiful” because that’s the truth. However, I usually choose a more work-setting appropriate adjective. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I look forward to that interaction every day.

Way back, at 19, I had another one of those memorable moments not unlike at the bar with the Deadhead chick. A lovely girl pulled up in a funky orange European car wearing a red-sweater and blue jeans. She had stunning coffee-colored eyes that matched her long hair. My heart fluttered a bit as I caught sight of this beautiful young woman. It was years later that we got to know each other well. Of course, it was Laurie and the lesson I’ve learned is that true beauty can even transcend the naivete of youth.

Snow Days Bring Winter Warmth and Community Bonding

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As my feet came out from under me and I started to fall backwards on the front stoop of my house the first thing I noticed was that time had started moving very slowly. My next thought was that this was not a good situation as I saw my unlaced sneakered feet elevate above the rest of me and found myself twisting slightly as my skull approached the waiting hard-brick top step. I didn’t feel panicked but was aware that there was something ridiculous about braining myself first thing in the morning while still in a bathrobe. Astoundingly, my body landed across the steps, as it would turn out, relatively unharmed. My head was the last body part to land and with acute clarity I felt it connect with the rock-hard surface about as gently as imaginable. As I lay there doing a toes to forehead assessment of any physical damage one thought crept through–I should have used more salt!

There are a myriad of realities to living in the snow-belt that is Westchester County north of 287. Better have all-wheel drive. A generator? Not a bad idea. Plow guy seems expensive and wakes your neighbors at 3 a.m. as they’ve communicated through strongly worded notes taped to your door? It’s still better than you shoveling the large wet snow-filled driveway and unwittingly flirting with your first heart-attack. May it only be mild.

The other big figurative snow-balls to contend with are the incessant snow days. In the past when the phone rang at 5 a.m. it was usually serious business. A health scare or worse. Fortunately, those shock-inducing calls were exceedingly rare. However, present day, anytime there is a hint of snow in the forecast you can expect the phone to ring at that same ungodly hour.

At best a two hour delay. Many of these calls result in full, no school, snow days. Which translates to no school for Bella and a day of professional productivity and otherwise being abruptly obliterated by a robo-call.

One morning early last winter the phone rang early and my wife dutifully answered it. I could tell by her expression that this was not going to be a two-hour delay. Outside the snow was steadily wafting downward and absolutely sticking. Ugh. I can’t recall specifically what I wouldn’t be accomplishing that day but I do remember being irritated that the heaven’s and Board of Education were annihilating my day.

Like any modern middle-aged man of responsibility I took my concerns to social media. The Facebook post went like this:

Like most kids I used to long for snow days which seemed exceedingly rare and elusive. The thought of sled-riding, pick-up snow football and a variety of potential misadventures all while not having to go to school made these days unbearably wonderful. Now, cynical and grizzled from life, I dread snow days like a looming medical procedure. There’s some kind of lesson here but I’m too engaged in my irritation to pursue it.

The comments and likes came quickly from friends, people I barely knew in high school and random acquaintances. The overwhelming theme was that I should stop being a snow-grinch and embrace the situation and the serendipitous opportunity of an unplanned day with my family.

So I did.

Laurie, Bella and I bundled up and headed up the cul-de-sac to see what was happening. It wasn’t crazy cold out nor windy so the little neighborhood hike would be not a frozen bummer. The fluffy snow was accumulating on massive pine trees and looked absolutely beautiful. Like a work of art. If you stood still you could hear the snow coming down relentless but gentle.

I did avoid one persnickety neighbor but after that it was like we walked on to the set of “It’s A Wonderful Life” (the happy part) and I was Jimmy Stewart reveling in the beauty of what’s all around me but often unappreciated.  There are kids sled-riding. The smell of a burning fire-place and smoke rising from an old stone chimney. We’re hugging neighbors and sincerely wondering why we haven’t seen each other for months. I joined a group pushing out a rear-wheel drive car stuck in the snow with gloved high-fives all around once the tires found firm footing.

As we looped back to our yellow house I couldn’t help but think of the contrast of how I felt before the walk and after. Through the simple act of a winter stroll I remembered the feeling of community that something like a snow day elicits. And, the winters here while challenging are most definitely communally persevered. It’s a long haul from start to finish but we all go through it and come out the other side ready for a beautiful spring.

What Keeping a Gratitude Journal Taught Me

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The Dirty Mac Team
Front row (L-R): Barry Kratz, Mark Ametrano, Jon Nissman
Back row (L-R): Charlie Levitz, Jackson Spilka, Eric Kratz, Josh Lurie, The Author Dan Levitz, Len Meshberg
PHOTO COURTESY OF DAN LEVITZ

The assignment sounded easy enough. For one month I would keep a “gratitude” journal where I’d make note of things in my life that I feel grateful about. I’m a relatively positive person and I assumed this would be a walk in the park and now that I mention it, something like a walk in the park is the exact type of thing I should show gratitude towards! This was going to be fun and, perhaps, even enlightening. And then I started the actual journal.

The day I began the journal I was ending a summer trip with a few friends in the great American southwest. We were all going our separate ways and at the airport I found myself sitting alone in the terminal people-watching and taking in the mall-like environment. With the concept of gratitude on my mind, especially after a few days with long-time buddies, I took out the journal to, presumably, write about my good fortune in having these relationships. However, before I could jot down a single thankful syllable I saw something that explicitly made me feel gratitude. My first entry went like this: At this moment I am extremely grateful to not be a mid-western gentleman struggling to eat a slice of airport pizza with a plastic knife and fork.  This journal entry was simple, accurate and pathetically insubstantial. However, my first thought immediately was that I wished my just departed friends had seen this because they’d find it funny too.

A few days later I was with my family in Chinatown about to order a feast in our favorite restaurant there. Charlie was headed back to college the next day and hitting this restaurant pre-departure had become a nice tradition. I knew going in that it would be an admittedly lightweight no-brainer for me to write about my gratitude towards the remarkable crab/pork soup dumplings we were imminently going to devour. Yet after perusing the menu and making our choices, like the proverbial light bulb, a moment I was grateful to experience occurred: After ordering what we sincerely believed, was a reasonable amount of food the waiter looked me in the eye, paused and simply said “too much food.” I told him that we knew what we were doing and to please carry on. This humorous moment immediately made me think of my father, a great gourmand, and how proud he would have been of his very hungry family. What a sweet moment!

Later that night, journal in hand, I was thinking about the evening and considering how it was just filled with things I am thankful for. Just the mere fact of the four of us being together was now a special thing. Not even to mention my daughter’s stunning inner and outer beauty, my gorgeous wife’s remarkable intelligence along with my son’s ongoing evolution as a scholar and compassionate human being. However, the journal entry I ended up with was: Charlie drove us to Chinatown this evening and he was incredibly proud of his well-executed, under pressure, Manhattan parallel park. I re-read this entry and admittedly it may sound slight in the context of an exploration of personal gratitude. However, I felt fulfilled, grateful even, noting that my boy has embraced the ability to find beauty, meaning and humor in the mundane acts of daily existence.

Upon reviewing my journal entries, I was initially disappointed in how flimsy they seemed. I never considered myself shallow but there sure seemed to be a lot of entries that involved food, humor and way too many about playing softball on the newly crowned New Castle “B” league Champions, The Dirty Mac! OK, perhaps that one is just a tad shallow. So, I reviewed every journal entry and quickly realized, with some relief, that upon closer examination all the entries, even softball, were connected to those things one would assume they’d be thankful for: Family, health, love, relationships, etc.

I whole-heartedly recommend keeping a gratitude journal even if it’s a finite endeavor. A daily pause to consider what we are grateful for can be insightful and somehow just feels appropriate in these trying times.

Learning to Love My Dad Bod

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So apparently having a Dad Bod is now a “thing.” You can certainly Google the term or drop it in a conversation. Most likely someone will chuckle and refer to a loved one who can be described as such. A Dad Bod, essentially, is a physique of middle-age that can been described as masculine, reasonably muscular and slightly overweight. What is intriguing and, counter-intuitive, are the positive connotations almost universally associated with this common and easy to achieve body type. Putting aside years of denial, I’m prepared to admit to having a Dad Bod but also to realizing that the concept is some kind of odd societal rationalization that is in reality just vaguely insulting to men and women.

Personally, I’ve had my weight fluctuate over the years for many reasons. I can say, first hand, that being too thin or too heavy can be really unpleasant. Of course, I’d like to be as fit-looking as possible but eventually one realizes that certain physical ideals may never be fully achieved. For me, probably the best personal state of my body is to be a few pounds heavier than I’d actually like to be. Aesthetically, believe me, this is not a thrilling state of existence but with maturity (Ha!) I’ve realized that the way I look is secondary to being as healthy a person as I can reasonably manage. What’s particularly galling about the Dad Bod movement is that while I’m strenuously trying to accept myself, it somehow makes this effort more difficult by making me feel slightly patronized by an entire culture.

I’d love to be writing this as an exotically rare middle-aged Dad with wash-board abs, 20:20 vision and a fast metabolism but I most definitely have to check none-of-the-above on those. From that super-fit perspective, I imagine it would be so easy to be enthusiastically supportive about the Dad Bod thing precisely because I wouldn’t be stuck in one. However, living in this body, as I must, I refuse to smile politely if someone wants to essentially say that the very same body I am regularly struggling to learn to accept is now, (drumroll please) objectively attractive. I just don’t buy it. There is some kind of passive-aggressive condescension connected with the embracing of Dad Bods.

As for the female members of our culture, I can only imagine how they must feel about the acceptance and celebration of Dad Bods. It’s something of a cliché but I’ve heard women confirm the difficulty in dealing with their own aging process in comparison to men. You know, men become more distinguished, the lines on their face only add character, etc. This is a societal reality. Look at movie stars. Clooney & Pitt will be leading men for decades to come because they’re perceived as only getting better looking as they age. Leading ladies of the movies hit the age of 40 and abruptly must decide between character parts, plastic surgery or professional oblivion.

Why is there no female version of the Dad Bod? The closest thing I can think of is Mom Jeans and that association is quite the opposite of the now sexy Dad Bod. Why are we, culturally, not prepared to embrace women with a female version of the Dad Bod as universally attractive? Obviously, in 2018, there’s still a lot of work to be done on gender roles in society. If Dad Bods are, presumably, built upon men who have worked hard professionally and, perhaps, parented as well, then why aren’t women afforded the same leeway in how their bodies evolve? Especially considering how child-birth can affect one’s physical being. It just doesn’t seem fair.

I suppose what really irks me with the whole Dad Bod phenomenon is the reality of analyzing someone’s physical appearance and imparting a judgement upon that particular bodily state. There is an impermanence of one’s physicality that is just a fact of human existence. I question why we assume that being kind about chubby Dads is any more appropriate than telling a woman she looks sexy or criticizing someone for being too fat or thin.

Don’t get me wrong. I know attaching the Dad Bod moniker to a middle-aged gentleman is essentially a way of saying we love you just the way you are. That’s a great lesson. We should all learn to love acceptingly as best we can. However, as a reluctant member of the Dad Bod club, I implore you to think about what you are actually saying when you label your slightly corpulent loved one as such. Might I suggest a karaoke dedication of Billy Joel’s “Just The Way You Are” instead? Just not Dad Bod. Please.

From Sump Pumps to Sandwiches: My Adjustment to Suburban Living

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As we were planning our move to Chappaqua from the city back in 2003 all the big questions had been addressed. Roaring Brook would have 19 or 20 kids in Charlie’s first grade class as opposed to the 27 in his Manhattan kindergarten. We’d convert our oil-burning furnace to natural gas because a knowledgeable source told us to. Bella’s crib would fit in a wonderfully proportionally manner in her new bedroom as opposed to the glorified walk-in closet that was her room in the apartment. And, Laurie would be able to walk to the train which was only a half mile away. With these issues addressed I was able to focus on something that I’d been mildly dreading. How and where would I be able to equal the bacon and egg on a roll with ketchup sandwich I’d treat myself to on mornings of happiness and optimism?

You see, pre-move, when I’d walk into the Korean deli on our block I’d make eye contact with the grill-man and before I could grab a self-serve regular coffee the eggs would be cracked, sizzling and within minutes I’d be enjoying the perfect urban New York sandwich. So, over those initial weeks I got the lay of the land breakfast-wise and from there was able to go on with my life. As it turns out, there were a number of local fine bacon and egg on a roll with ketchup sandwiches sampled and each one a little different. One local deli offered a solid and tasty effort aesthetically notable for the fact that they don’t cut the roll in half. Another put forth a hearty two egg affair with lovely fresh bread and egg yolk just runny enough to make the sandwich delicious yet manageable. The bagel store offered an extremely hearty sandwich, which was elevated by the meticulously crisped bacon. Much to my delight, the local delis up here were most definitely on their game.


Other elements of adjusting to life in Chappaqua were a little more jolting. We quickly realized that the 10-minute walk to the train was not exactly safe, nor even doable with snow on the ground, due to a lack of sidewalks on Quaker Road. I investigated alternative routes but realized that the fading dream of living a pedestrian lifestyle like our previous one would not be easy to accomplish. Happily, a number of years into our residency here sidewalks were installed near our house and this game changer of an infrastructure project most definitely opened up the possibility of, once again, being an active daily pedestrian. Ironically, years of driving everywhere, a situation I preached against when I was an urbanite, had become quite comfortable and the conversion to shoes back on concrete would take another mental adjustment.

Getting used to living in this countrified suburb took some time and a steep learning curve. The first house thing encounter was like a slap in the face. I knew intellectually that house-living meant you can’t call the Super when there’s a dripping faucet. Cut to me wading in ankle-deep water in our basement barely being able to pronounce “sump-pump” let alone having any idea of what the hell it even was. A more pressing issue was how exactly to make the damn thing function properly and clear the water out of our suddenly disgusting water logged basement. Now, a veteran homeowner, I’m essentially “Mr. Sump Pump” with a high-end, self installed bad-boy keeping the basement fastidiously dry. And, don’t get me started on my back-up sump-pump because I’ll happily chew your ear off on why having a second one is simply a must.

We’ve been here now for 15 years and It’s gone fast. Of course there’s been physical changes in the community from the aforementioned sidewalks to changing businesses to new athletic fields and so on. For us the changes have been the simple and huge developments that are universal yet unique to any family and probably somewhat indefinable. It’s the concrete things like a good bacon and egg on a roll with ketchup sandwich that hopefully remain constant. If not, there’s always another deli.