Certainly there are many options out there for women’s exercise clothes. Yet somehow none seem to be made to meet my needs. A long time ago, I wrote a rant about how fitness pants and shorts for women rarely have pockets. I continue my quest to find bottoms that have pockets that can fit my keys, emergency cash, ID, Kleenex, and gels. Men’s bottoms, unless they are tiny jogging shorts, always come with deep pockets. I still do not understand why women’s do not. Forget my long list of things I need when I run – doesn’t everyone at minimum need a place for keys and ID? Sometimes women’s shorts have key pockets or I’ve found a rare pair of pants with a pocket that could fit key, my ID, and cash. Yet most women’s bottoms have no pockets at all.

Also, the length of women’s shorts tend to vary between super short and pretty short. I need some serious fabric between my thighs or they chafe. Why are shorts always so damn short? Men not only get pockets, but they have a number of lengths to choose from when selecting shorts. (I did notice a few pair of what I consider normal length shorts at Title IX, but of course only one pair had pockets. Also every pair was over $50, which reminds me that men’s shorts also tend to be around $30 or less. And include pockets.) Since I am short, sometimes I can get away with extra large boys shorts. Incidentally, those are fairly cheap and come with pockets, since obviously boys have important things to carry when exercising but women do not.

Which brings me to tops. Men’s tops can be form fitting or boxy. Almost all women’s tops, especially the kind that are supposed to wick away sweat, are form fitting. I seriously do not need my pooch revealed through these tops. I don’t want to feel super self-conscious when I run because my gut is bouncing around for the world to see. I want to hide the damn thing is a loose shirt. Supposedly, the tops are tight to help wick the sweat away, but Husband buys moisture wicking shirts all the time that are not meant to cling to his body and they seem to work just fine. Uh huh.

So, while folding my laundry, I thought I should start my own line of women’s fitness clothing. All damn bottoms will come with pockets. The pockets will be deep or have zippers. They will come in a variety of lengths and sizes. Nothing will be form fitting, just loose and comfy. The company will be called COYOTE C.* I just need a shitload of capital and a manufacturer and someone who knows how to design clothes (with pockets)…

*(Cast Off Your Old Tired Exercise Clothes, which I admit is a total rip off of the amazing sex workers’ rights organization, COYOTE – Cast Off Your Old Tired Ethics, but I like it. It sounds inspiring. Coyotes are fast and not to be trifled with. They will bite your face off if your fuck with them. And I understand that they are fond of pockets.)

Assistant District Attorney (asked to everyone in the jury pool): What is your dream job?

Grumpy Old Guy: something where I could travel for free.

Young Woman with Numerous Visible Tattoos: food writer

Flaming Gay Man in his mid-40s: I know this is weird, but I wish I was a reference librarian. Really, I do.

So I asked him how he replied to the inquiry, and Husband told me, “I said one of those rich and famous people who can buy justice.”

True or not, he was not selected to serve on a jury.

New York City is a hub of the art world. We have all sorts of prestigious and/or edgy galleries and auction houses. What if a child care program teamed up for a cool fundraiser? First, the program could get the parents to agree to “donate” their children’s works of art (made as part of the program’s activities) to the program. The program and the gallery/auction house would stage a show, with the art houses tapping into their client list for attendance, which would be really awesome and inspiring for the kids. Then people would buy the kids’ art, which would also be tax-deductible because they are donating the proceeds to a children’s program.

How fun and cool would that be? I’ve suggested this idea in an off-hand way in some financial management classed that I taught, but no one ever took me up on it. I hope that some day I get to attend a show like this.

It is told that Reb Azriel David Fastag, a disciple of the Hasidic Rebbe of Modzhitz, spontaneously composed and began to sing what has become the best known melody to Maimonides’ twelfth Principle of Jewish Faith while in a cattle car from the Warsaw Ghetto to the Treblinka death camp.

Ani ma’amin be’emuna sh’leima, b’viat hamashiach; v’af al pi she’yismameya, im kol zeh, achakeh lo b’chol yom she’yavo. I believe with perfect faith in the coming of the Messiah; and even though he may tarry, nevertheless I will wait every day for him to come.”

A young Jew managed to escape from the Treblinka-bound train, taking with him the niggun, the melody, of Reb Azriel David Fastag’s Ani Ma’amin. Eventually, the melody reached the Modzhitzer Rebbe who is said to have exclaimed, “With this niggun, the Jewish people went to the gas chambers, and with this niggun, the Jews will march to greet Moshiach.”

I was supposed to be inspired by this anecdote, I think. The subsequent words had something to do with faith and resiliency and blah blah blah. However, it has the opposite effect on me – it makes me furious. Why were these people sitting around waiting for the Messiah to come when it was clear that action was needed? Faith can be a beautiful sustaining element in difficult times. But clearly it can also blind people or make us complacent, causing us to sit back and wait for divine intervention rather than do something to help ourselves.

Around this time, another group of Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto had decided that the Messiah was clearly not coming. On April 19, 1943, the first night of Passover, they rose in arms (or with as many arms as they could smuggle into the ghetto, which was not nearly enough) and repelled the Nazis who had come to liquidate the few thousand Jews who remained in the ghetto. The brave fighters – men and women – made good on the exhortations of a leaflet, distributed in December 1942, from one of the organizing groups:

Do not go willingly to your death! Fight for life to the last breath. Greet our murders with teeth and claws, with axe and knife, hydrochloric acid and iron crowbars. Make the enemy pay for blood with blood, for death with death. Let us fall upon the enemy in time, kill and disarm him. Let us stand up against the criminals and if necessary die like heroes. If we die in this way we are not lost.

The uprising shocked the troops. Although the Jews were grossly outnumbered, they held out until early May.

We are not lost.

In the past few years, I’ve been very sentimental about certain Jewish holidays. I’ve said many times that I am not a believer in God, but the importance of my heritage is very, very strong to me. When I was growing up, Passover was a huge event in our family. We went to my grandparents’ apartment and were joined by their friends, who were also often Holocaust survivors. These were full meals (although not full Seders), held by people who suffered enumerable losses but were determined to start over and go on with life.

Of course, time changes everything. As my sister and I grew up, our Passover meals became smaller, more intimate affairs. Friendships ended (my grandparents are/were hot tempered people who hold mega grudges, not that I would know anything about this…), people passed on, and (best case scenario) others went to different Seders as their own families expanded with grandchildren and great grandchildren. Then I went to college, and a year later, my grandfather died. My sister moved to Iowa; my cousin to a variety of other places. I’ve only been home for Passover once since 1994, and the loss of the way things were was devastating. (Also it did not help that I was on my way back from India and emotionally and physically exhausted from the trip.)

This year, I went to a Passover Seder through my work. It was conducted by an organization that provides social services to Jewish Nazi victims in the New York area. The Seder was in a large room at a synagogue. As dozens of Holocaust survivors filled the room, chatting, joking, and complaining, it reminded me of the times I was at my grandparents’ apartment. A frail woman went to light the candles (this year the first night of Passover is on Shabbat) and she said a prayer, then seemed to forget where she was. For a horrifying moment, she stood still and stared at us. Then, from somewhere in the back of the room, someone shouted out the words, and more and more voices joined in a wave, until the whole room seemed to be speaking as one. The woman still looked confused, but relieved. My eyes filled with tears.

A cantor came and sped through the Seder (just like we had always done – a few prayers here, a song or two there, voila, it’s over – time for the gefilte fish!) and words that I had not uttered in more than a decade (OK, let’s be real – probably two decades, going back to Hebrew school) flowed from my lips, surprising me. I ate my delicious meal (not, of course, as delicious as my bubbe’s, but pretty darn tasty). When I left, I remembered, again, how much I’ve lost, but how much I was given in the first place.

When I arrived at the hotel a little before 8:30 am, I was offered a smoking room or room with two double beds. I opted to wait until something a little more attractive opened up later, and went to the bathroom in the lobby to freshen up a bit before beginning my wanderings. Only after I checked my suitcase did I remember that my camera was in it. Oh well.

My first stop was Monasterio de la Encarncion. This was a convent built in 1611 by Margarita of Austria, wife of of Felipe III. There are many, many paintings of the family in the convent. It still has a cloistered population of nuns, and during my tour it was interesting to see the signs forbidding people to enter the cloistered areas. The tour, by the way, is the only way to get into the convent. It is also an hour long and only offered in Spanish.

I suffered through 45 minutes of mostly horrendous art depicting either Jesus with gaping, bloody wounds (both sculptures and paintings!) or the royal family, trying not to fall asleep or pee on myself (no bathroom in the monastery and of course I had to go when I arrived), before reaching the reason I went to the Monasterio de la Encarnacion: the reliquary collection. Damn, this was an amazing room! There were thousands and thousands of relics on display, some in fragments, but many in large chunks, like bones. And skulls. I saw at least three skulls stuffed into reliquaries surrounded filled with fake flowers. The crowning glory of the relics is the blood of San Pataleon, which is said to liquify every July 27. If it happens on any other day, it is a warning that the city was in danger! So exciting.

After the monastery, I booked it down the street to Chocolateria de San Gines. This cafe was established in 1871 and filled with photos of celebs enjoying their signature dish: a cup of super thick drinking hot chocolate and a plate of churros. Before ordering my lunch (yes, that’s what I ate for lunch), I used their excellent bathroom, where I had my first minor digestive incident of the day, but let’s gloss over that and move on to the churros and chocolate. For only 3.7 euros, I got about eight delicious churros with my chocolate. While I was eating them, the young woman at the table next to me was crying on her cell phone. This was disconcerting, to say the least, but I enjoyed my meal anyway.

From the chocolateria, I headed to the Museo Lazaro Galdiano. Sr. Galdiano was a wealthy financier who had a crazy beautiful mansion and art collection that is now open to the public. Although the website is only in Spanish, the museum had great English signs. I arrived not long before closing time, so it was also free. Yay! This was where I had my second unpleasant digestive incident of the day, but that’s another story. Anyway, the mansion is gorgeous and the collection is eclectic. My favorite piece is a most excellent painting by Hieronymous Bosch (“The Contemplation of St. Jerome”).