The Inside Press

Magazines serving the communities of Northern Westchester

Daniel Levitz

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.

The Wasabi Incident and other Tales of Aging Parents

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(L-R): Lorraine, Dan (the author) and Martin Levitz

Interacting with aging parents, for those of us firmly entrenched in middle age, can be pleasant, painful, humorous, bittersweet, inspiring, odd….and, please, feel free to insert your own adjectives. I don’t believe that there is a universal approach nor experience regarding older parents, however, I do feel that participating in a conversation about that last stage of life with them is a significant endeavor.

Lately I’ve been talking to friends about experiences with their aging parents. A close pal from high school told me that he was having the difficult conversation with his octogenarian father about possibly moving into an assisted living facility. Apparently the conversation was non-conclusive and resulted in what will forever be known as “The Wasabi Incident.” As my friend related, “We took Dad to visit the assisted living building for a tour. Didn’t go well. He pretty much shut down the sales guy telling him he was only there because we made him go and he has no intention of moving. He was happy later though because he got to eat dinner there for free. Sigh. Surprisingly still hungry, we then took Dad to a sushi restaurant and he ordered California rolls. Not sure if he realized what he was ordering. When the food came he immediately reached out with his fingers, grabbed the blob of wasabi and started to stuff it in his mouth. I yelled for him to stop and he only ate some but was definitely surprised by the spiciness of it. He’s mostly okay but does weird stuff like that once in a while”.

My friend’s Dad, as I’ve known him, is a bright, decent, no nonsense kind of guy.

I wish “The Wasabi Incident” could provide answers concerning his state of mind. However, all it raises are short-term questions like what the hell was he doing and, more daunting existential queries about the universally shared reality that with inevitable relentless urgency it is all going to end. For everyone.

Another buddy shared a story about when his father passed. They’d had a volatile relationship going back to his childhood and while always connected, there remained tension. His Dad had learned that he was terminally ill and requested a meeting with his son. My friend was certain that this farewell of sorts would be the moment where they could finally express their true good feelings for one another despite their bumpy history. They sat in his Father’s yard and drank wine on a crisp autumn afternoon. The Father looked into the son’s eyes and hesitated while the son prepared for some kind of emotional revelation. What followed was quite simply a non-negotiable list of people the Father vehemently forbid from attending his funeral. Not exactly what my friend was expecting but he laughs about it now as it was certainly consistent with his Father and, in retrospect, was most definitely a farewell.

My Dad died in 2013 at the age of 89. Martin was the kind of person who really took pleasure in life. He was passionate about collecting art, eating great and abundant meals, New York Yankees baseball and of course his wife of 66 years, my Mom. The last year of his life was difficult because most of these things were taken away from him because of his health. All except my Mom who took care of him in a heroic and remarkably devoted manner. Despite pleas from everyone to get help she took all of this on herself because she felt that’s what he wanted. My Dad would constantly yell out with urgency “Lorraine!” I found this touching (and not to mention loud). One day I convinced Mom to take a walk and have a little time for herself.  As the door shut I heard the same demanding exclamation, “Lorraine!” Answering his call I told my Dad that Mom was taking a walk but I was home with him. I thought he might be unhappy about this but a minute later in the same formidable tone he hollered, “Dan!” That he was able to shift his focus so quickly from his wife to his son told me that despite his love for and reliance upon his wife there was a pragmatic element to survival that may transcend even indestructible love.

Lorraine and Martin Levitz, the author’s parents

As for Mom, now 90, she can be found on one of her two daily walks around her neighborhood in lower Manhattan. She lives alone and gets a nice amount of attention from her children and grandchildren who all live relatively close. It’s not unusual for her to meet someone new and within a minute or two proudly note that she is indeed 90. In fact, she began bragging about being 90 when she was only 89 but you can’t blame her as the reaction is almost always complimentary. At a younger stage of adult life, stating one’s age out of the blue would be something of a non-sequitur.

At 90 it’s simply addressing the elephant in the room. A beautiful aspect of this time of Mom’s life is that she is still happy and independent yet fully aware of the numbers that prove that things are definitely winding down. I think that fact is harder on the rest of us than her but it’s inspiring to know that she can talk about it calmly and firmly in the context of what a wonderful life she most certainly has enjoyed.

Waiting for the Big Yellow Bus

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When I was five years old and living in a different New York suburb I remember walking down the street to the nearby bus stop where that exact Big American Yellow Bus of our collective imagination would transport me to kindergarten. I may have been a bit of a nervous kid as, to me, the actual bus ride was fraught with near constant fight or flight scenarios. I even recall the peaceful serenity of the mostly empty bus heading home being shattered by an awkward exchange of glances between myself and the bus driver’s reflection in the rearview mirror. I was further embarrassed when he asked me, “Are you okay?” as I rushed off the bus. Ugh.

For my family the bus stop was a fantastic way to meet people and get a sense of the neighborhood.

The bus stop situation itself did not help my state of mind. The brief walk down the road from my house was placid and felt safe. We kids would gather at the corner of a cul-de-sac where six or seven of us would bop around, generally geeked up for the day ahead. I must have inadvertently had a semi-existential mentality as the coming bummer of actually being on the bus never seemed to even slightly intrude upon whatever fun was taking place. That is, unless the Dad who owned the house where the bus stop stood happened to be awake. Ugh (again).

It was a very suburban school bus stop on a corner with a modest but pristine house with an equally well-maintained and carefully nurtured lawn. We kids would play tag or toss a ball around and inevitably someone would stray off the sidewalk and trod upon the glistening green turf. These were teeny five and six year old sneakered feet not keeping off the grass yet the homeowner, as if his lawn was alarmed, would invariably bolt out of his kitchen in his boxers to yell at us as if we were taking a backhoe to his monument of domesticity. That his daughter was amongst our gang did not make this awful and not uncommon display any more pleasant.

I’m happy to report that no major emotional damage to yours truly seems to have lingered and I’ve grown up to be a parent myself here in this bucolic part of Northern Westchester. I’m not sure if it’s interesting and/or ironic but upon our move here, I realized that I am now a Dad with a busy school bus stop right in front of my house! My therapist might believe that an early morning, underwear-clad confrontational jaunt aimed at some boisterous elementary school students might be emotionally illuminating for me but my wife disabused me of this notion. Thank you Laurie.

My son was six when he began waiting at the bus in front of our house. Nowadays there are no children without parents or babysitters. I was pleased to see this because I believe with adults involved the bus ride itself would most likely have a far less Darwinian atmosphere. For my family the bus stop was a fantastic way to meet people and get a sense of the neighborhood.

It’s actually quite amazing what you can learn about other human beings early in the morning on a daily basis. The kids were incredibly cute and witnessing their start of elementary school is mostly wonderful. Within the daily milling around you get to know the kids and their attendant adults. I found it fascinating that some of the shyest kids had the most outgoing parents and the reverse was true as well. Sure, situations would arise where, as a Dad, you’d have to talk to another parent about their kid and some real or imagined offense. My boy, on occasion, was victim or perpetrator. For kids this young, 99% of the time it all amounted to nothing and tomorrow was a fresh beginning.

Perhaps the most poignant experience from those days was a neighbor who was very ill yet continued to walk her kids to the bus stop every day. It got to the point where other parents would physically support her so she could stand upright and watch her children play and get on the bus. Sadly, she passed away but her devotion to spending every available moment with her daughters was inspiring and beautiful. I’m certain that courageous effort will never be forgotten by her girls.

A couple we are friends with were once bemoaning the fact that their son’s bus stop consists of only him. The term “bus stop envy” comes to mind when they often imagined the fun of sharing that daily experience with other kids and adults. I initially laughed off their concern and thought of an angry father ranting at young children in his underwear. Then I considered our more recent experience and agreed with them that, yes, there is a lot of nice things about standing at the bus stop with your kid and other families every day of the week.

Farewell, Sweet Swing Set

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The gardeners took down the swing-set the other day.

Laurie and I had been talking about removing this once vital backyard play-center for at least a year, our main motivation being that it’s under-utilized as our kids have gotten older, and years of Chappaqua weather put a beating on the old wooden war-horse.

Also, my daughter’s best friend is something of a champion swinger and still uses ours. The thought of him pushing the set to its final strained limits and potentially flying feet-first into my already not thrilled neighbor’s yard is not appealing. I’m generally a pragmatic person yet the thought of the swing-set ending has made me reflect upon this slight, yet distinct, turning point for our family.

When the big swing-set was installed years ago the kids were not just a little excited. There were huge plans for the club-house area, big-kid solo climbs up the ladder, the glory of three chain-linked swings (two full, one baby) and, of course, The Orange Slide of Destiny. The first thing we did was set up the kiddie-pool (first of dozens) at the bottom of The Slide. The immediate gratification of sliding head-first, feet first, laying on one’s back, the kowabunga surfing pose, any way at all with the resultant explosive splash was thrilling for the kids (and us)!

Even better, the swing-set became a destination for all of us. The kids could play independently in an old school (no screens!) visceral manner, learn safety lessons and, best of all, we could sit and watch, read and watch, eat and watch, maybe even have a drink and watch. You get the picture.

Before we moved to Chappaqua from the city the thought of being excited about having our own swing-set was something I’d never considered nor cared about in the slightest. Going to the neighborhood park and swinging the kids was a simple pleasure of city living. However, as the Manhattan to Westchester culture-shock ensued I realized that my urban perspective would need some tweaking if I was to adjust to a bucolic life. I remember walking into town with my daughter in a Baby Bjorn, something I’d done a thousand times with both kids in the city, and feeling that somehow this was different. And, it wasn’t only because there weren’t yet sidewalks on 120, and people seemed to be staring.

Part of the conversation about removing the swing-set was what to do with the physical space it once so organically filled. That got me thinking about what I might want as the kids get older. Before Chappaqua I may have envisioned being a gardener Dad. The previous owners left us with a gorgeous cornucopia of flowers, trees and bushes. The thought of working in the yard, being outside and physically maintaining my property was highly appealing. In theory at least. A wise Chappaqua friend quickly advised that doing one’s own yard was “too much work.” I’ll just reiterate that it was the gardeners taking down the swing set recently, not yours truly, so that particular Dad vision faded quickly.

It’s funny how you find yourself reflecting upon something as simple as removing a piece of playground equipment. I texted my son at college and asked him for any memories of the swing-set and I was sure it would be some near miss compound fracture or some crazy sport he invented. His surprising response was remembering coming home from sleepaway camp, sitting on a swing alone and feeling not really sure what to do with himself. Certainly not the image I expected but somehow connected to my swing-related contemplation.

I never really seriously questioned our decision to remove the swing set. I did manage, as I do sometimes, to consider the meaning of these little practical changes in life and found myself thinking a bit about my two great kids and how they’ve evolved. Raising children can really fly by and the symbolism of this small event somehow struck a chord with me.

I envisioned the nuts and bolts being taken out of the foundation of the swing-set, and the hard-weathered wood gently laid upon the ground, leaving a sentimental skeleton of a once thriving play-center that was so central to my family’s life.

I could hear the background music, think “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” by Green Day or “Cats in the Cradle” by Harry Chapin, playing as the deconstruction slowly occurred. However, this semi-emotional Viking-funeral fantasy was quickly obliterated when I watched the gardeners take the whole thing down in about two minutes with a chain saw… an emotionally sobering moment for this Dad and probably just in the nick of time!