We interrupt this bliss with an important announcement

dear reader,

it is with great humility that i interrupt my tales of the ranch for the following true story. for the first time in my 42 years (yes, i know hard to believe it with my dewy complexion) my back has gone out. while descending from a mother's day hike with my beloved husband, i stepped into a small trench and rolled my ankle. at that precise moment, i felt something torque in my lower back. i steadied myself, avoiding a calamitous fall and carried on running down the mountain leaving david in his funny five toe running shoes behind me as i stretched my legs out and accelerated my already gazelle-like pace. while waiting at the bottom for david, i began to feel a somewhat sharp and yes even shooting sensation emanating from my lower back al the way down to my toes. i did some stretches which made it no better at all. within 5 hours the pain had gone from irksome to solidly painful and i realized i may have actually done something to myself.

given that back pain is something i always think of as affecting the old and infirm, this was not easy for me to admit but alas, my virtual paralysis in bed that night coupled with my suddenly strong desire to install a handicapped rail in my bathroom to assist me as i sat to pee were hard evidence to ignore. when i got up from a fitful night of sleep (it was more like i rolled onto one side and then used the momentum from the roll to try and flop my feet on the floor while rising to a sitting position, and after resting there i then stood up shakily), the pain had escalated to the excruciating. i spent most of the morning standing at my computer (sitting was not an option any longer for my aching back) trying to research this new condition. inconclusive evidence but i was leaning toward an L4 and L5 disc compression with muscle spasms as the diagnosis.

i went to see my trainer at our regularly scheduled time, in the hopes that he might help stretch me, but upon seeing me enter the studio hunched over like an Asian rice paddy worker, he immediately sent me to see his chiropractor Dr. Ho. Dr. Ho is in his late 30's and is not a big man. However, his appearance is cruelly deceptive as I am now convinced he was trained by whatever secret military interrogation unit dominates in his native China. Dr. Ho did warn me that he would need to work on my back and that this would be painful. he told me in fact that it was "peh-feck-lee ass-ept-able foh you to curse oh cry. men-ee oh my pay-shen do bode, iz noh-mal." i chose to laugh through the piercing flashes of pain and dizzy spells for that is simply how i deal with tragedy.

dr. ho's mute intern observed the 65 minute ordeal from the side of the room, and i can only hope that my stoicism served to keep him interested in his chosen profession. dr. ho warned me that i would need to see him three times a week for two weeks, avoid all strain (which means no exercise), and that i would be quite bruised from his manipulation of the muscles and tissue surrounding the L4 and L5 but not to worry. oh yes, and i am not to take any anti-inflammatory meds either which was quite a buzz kill after enduring the procedure. this ban on exercise comes at a most inopportune time as i have my son's bar mitzvah in 10 short days and i was hoping to squeeze into a particular dress that is unlikely to fit perfectly without at least another week of excessive calorie burning. a call to the personal shopper may now be required.

and so, here i stand typing this accurate and unembellished account of my back injury for you my dear reader to both enjoy and learn from. the lesson is simple, when running, if you should happen to feel pain somewhere in your body, stop and walk the rest of the way, apply ice immediately and buy a leather strap to chew on before you go visit the chiropractor.

please enjoy the absence of photos of my bruised back. i decided it was best to omit them for humanitarian reasons.

You can't take the brooklyn oudda de boy, DJ Dance Mix, Swinging Massages from the Ceiling

Today we awoke at 6:30am, a veritable sleep in, and made it to the hiking meeting point at exactly 7am. This morning the hardest hike offered was a Level 3 and as we sussed out our fellow hikers, it was clear that these were no experts. There were two pudgy 60-something women wearing their new Ranch t-shirts, such an amateur move, as well as a mother daughter duo who were, I surmised, at long last attempting to make good on a new year’s resolution to get into shape, and one 75-year old gentleman with his own hiking stick, water bottle belt and some wicked varicose veins. Once aboard the van, the elder man who was sitting next to David, introduced himself and began to tell us his life story without any prompting or for that matter show of interest on our part.

Danny is from Brooklyn originally, and 47 years in LA have done precious little to modify his prodigious Brooklyn accent. “I’m Da-ehn-ny from LA bud I grew ub in Brooklyn, you evah hoid of the late comedian Jack Benny, funny guy very funny in a Jewish kinda way ah-end if you grew ub in Brooklyn when Jackie, that’s my wife, and I did then you eeder are Jewish oh-wer you should be, ha, ha, ha. Anyway, like Jack use to say, Benny I’m tawkin aboud, “You can take da boy oudda Brooklyn but ya cain’t take the Brooklyn oudda da boy.” Ya know whad I mean?” Needless to say with Danny present, one needed to do little other than nod, smile, laugh intermittently and answer the odd question no matter how personal.

Our guides on this hike were Warren, a 50-something year old smiling man with a grey mullet worn in a ponytail that accentuated his fluffy sideburns, and Donna, a no-nonsense woman in her late 50’s with the kind of leathery skin only acquired by years of hiking in the hot desert sun. Two hiking poles in hand, we set out into Sabino National Park for our 1,100 foot ascent.

Out on the trail, Danny immediately motioned toward the mother daughter duo behind us and told me just how often newbies overestimate their fitness level on hikes and slow the entire group down. “Whadda shame. Jackie, she nevah comes hiking wid me cause she knows I like to hike fa-est and she, god bless hah is like a tortess wid no race.” Over the course of the next few hours I learned plenty about Jackie, Danny’s two sons and daughters-in-law “da best, knock wood, bedda than any real daugh-ders could be, serious I tell you like angels.”

After our hike, I enjoyed a facial with my fav facialist here Yvgenia, who remains determined to one day sell me her luxurious potions which I consistently refuse. As a former physician in her native Russia, Yvgenia employs very convincing terminology to try and tempt me into buying her spa goodies but I am not easily persuaded, no matter how authoritative the accent. I was starving by 1pm when I sat down to a fiber filled lunch with David in the dining room. Having partially digested my lettuce, I decided to try DJ Dance Mix class, which is an aerobics class with a live DJ spinning the music. The woman with the slightly-too-tight facelift to my left looked positively euphoric as she kick, ball, changed her scrawny heart out. Then it was off to my 100-minute Ashiatsu treatment, a deep tissue massage performed by a therapist who essentially steps on you while holding onto ceiling bars for support. Another romantic dinner for two replete with psylium husk sprinkles and the keen sense that my colon has never been so happy. After dinner we decided upon a DVD in our room; not surprisingly after last night’s embarrassing defeat David was not quite in the mood for Scrabble before bed.

Rubbery egg whites, Level 5 machismo, Glide n Burn, and Warm Chocolate Cakette

The wakeup call rang at 6am, and within 30 minutes I had donned my hiking gear, had a cup of tea and some egg whites that were devoid of any flavor, and was meeting the guides and guests who would soon be climbing into the Ranch van with David and I to head out on our 4 hour, Level 4 hike. Now for those of you new to the Ranch, the Level of a hike is not a matter to be taken lightly. And a Level 4 is not something to be entered into without serious advance consideration. The lowest Level is 1 (people who walk in white Reeboks with fanny packs and Tilly hats) while the highest is Level 5 (people who wear only Lululemon, have an assortment of hiking boots, and enjoy sprinting 2,000 feet uphill while discussing the 53 miles bike ride they are taking after lunch). Level 4 is for the fit and fast, and therefore anyone who cannot keep up with the pace of the group is appropriately shunned.

As we gathered in the spa lobby to meet our guides Donna and Michael, I could feel the other hikers eyeing me and David. They looked us up and down. Would we slow them down? Yes, we had hiking boots and yes, Dave wore a Lululemon thermal top, but I had an Icebreaker fleece on and this confused the onlookers. As it turned out they were a group of 10 women from Toronto who travel to the Ranch together annually and take their fitness very, very seriously. They made sure to let us know that they were only taking this hike because no Level 5’s were offered this particular morning. David clung to our guide Michael, the only other male, for safety and I adopted a somewhat friendly yet slightly aloof posture in an effort to stand my ground. I didn’t need them to be my friend; I just needed them to recognize me as their cardiovascular peer. Once in the van, the women isolated David and descended upon him like locusts; where were we from, how often do we visit the Ranch, do we hike at home, do we have children etc. David, slightly giddy from the female attention managed to hold his own and when we emerged from the van and began our 1,800 foot climb, in a show of strength he took the lead position right behind Michael.

After the first 20 minutes of vertical climbing, David was still in the lead and a group of four of the Toronto gaggle were between him and me with the rest straggling a few minutes behind. The women relaxed, realizing that we would not be slowing them down today. They quickly become remarkably friendly and engaging. I learned of their life stories, Jessica the 50-year old blond directly in front of me with the killer legs shared how she is handling her recent discovery that her 15-year old son is smoking pot and hanging out with a bunch of skate boarders. She is using humor. For example when she removed a hash pipe from his jacket the other day, she called him to the laundry room to hand it to him and inform him that they don’t wash well and he should really just rinse it out in the sink. Bold move.

Jennifer the 51-year old slightly chubby one of the group explained that her husband of 27 years has been dying to come to the Ranch with her for years but that she feels she deserves a getaway once a year to a place of her very own, and didn’t I agree. I told her that I most certainly did agree but really it was just to make her like me more. And Molly the 48-year old with the husband who never remembers to take the kids to the dentist (“tell me about it” I added although in truth David has never forgotten to take the kids to the dentist) without being reminded, told me all about her case of the Shingles and the time she almost died of altitude sickness in Breckenridge. Before we summitted, Jill the 45-year old redheaded ringleader of the gang asked how long David and I had been married. When I responded that it will be 17 years in July, she smacked me affectionately on the arm (fortunately not sending me head first over the edge of the cliff), and confessed that the group thought we were newlyweds as we hardly looked old enough to even be at the Ranch. They were just lovely.

After our hike, we returned to the Ranch in time for my noon Mango Sugar Body Scrub, which was followed by lunch, then a Glide ‘n Burn (killer muscle toning) class, an hour lounging by the pool and my 5pm Acutonics session. What is Acutonics you ask, well it is a variation on the theme of Acupuncture where needles are replaced with tuning forks that are placed on the key pressure points and reverberate the sound throughout your body. This encourages the free flow of chi as well as the release of the emotions guided by the zodiac which are all represented in the various sounds which emanate. Tres New Age.

My therapist, Marta, explained that different times of the year were better for this kind of work depending on your position in the universe. I confided to Marta that I was born in retrograde and so now is an especially good time for me to retune. Marta was delighted because Marta of course knew that Mercury went into retrograde on April 21st and would remain there until May 21st and that the only way I would know that is if I were an enlightened being. Marta gave my arm a brief but meaningful squeeze, “I was born in retrograde too,” she told me, and we shared a deep knowing smile.

Rebalanced after the session which concluded with a magnificent Neptune inspired Ohm on the enormous gong, I met up with David and we went for dinner. Thanks to the 2,000 calories I had burned hiking and burning, I was able to order the 140 calorie warm chocolate cake, which it turned out was sadly the circumference of a small yogurt container and only a quarter inch think.
I cheered myself up by beating David handily at Scrabble.

San Jose Not-So-International Airport, Frida Pinto bashing, Contraband Cola, and Loma Loma Loma

I awoke at 4:30am and stealthily dressed in the dark to ensure I did not wake my sleeping hubby. I tiptoed down the stairs and into the awaiting sedan, whereupon I was whisked off to the airport to catch my 6am flight to Phoenix. San Jose International Airport (SJC) at 5am does not hold quite the allure of Heathrow or Charles de Gaules or frankly even O’Hare.

The word International is quite misleading as the only border crossing flights to arrive at SJC are from Mexico. Understandably there are no Duty Free shops, no exotic Malaysian flight attendants scurrying about, no fabulously sophisticated European men in Lacoste polos and dark wash denim with handmade Italian leather shoes and no socks. In effect the only thing that is truly international about SJC are the janitors and food service workers. So after ordering my Venti Earl Grey tea and buying the latest edition of W magazine (sadly thin due to the slow return of the advertising business) I boarded my flight somewhat somberly.

I had paid US Airways an additional $10 for the privilege of occupying seat 5F and was praying to have a mute or at least seriously anti-social neighbor. Alas, a young Indian man, who to my surprise turned out not to be an IAT graduated engineer, sat next to me and after a brief hello had the good sense to occupy himself with his iPhone. As I would later learn on the flight, Frida Pinto is not even a top 100 heroine (what they call female movie stars) to the knowledgeable Bollywood loyalist. She’s essentially the Sandra Bullock of India, mediocre looks, mediocre talent, but somehow a bankable sensation. I took an immediate liking to my new friend; his cynicism was delicious so early in the morning.

By the time we landed we had exchanged fav iPhone apps, I shared Dragon Dictation and he shared Google Voice Search (I felt it best to withold the fact that I was already a fan of the product), and we parted without ever shaking hands or exchanging names. So refreshing to meet a stranger and then bid one another farewell without any pretense of wanting to keep in touch or meet again.

My driver met me straight away and whisked me off after handing me a bottle of water dripping with melted ice water from his cooler. It was a two and a half hour drive to Tucson and what I imagined would no doubt be my triumphant return to Canyon Ranch. I loaded up my laptop with the classic film “So I Married An Axe Murdered”, and sat back to enjoy the ride. When we were 30 minutes from our destination, I asked the driver if he wouldn’t mind stopping at a Circle K quick stop so that I could pick up some essentials before reaching the Ranch. I hopped out and made fast for the large refrigerators at the back of the shop in search of two things that are strictly contraband at the Ranch but without which any stay would be far too painful to bear; Coke Zero and Chardonnay.

I found the Coke Zero immediately and loaded up a dozen small bottles with twist tops, they may cost more but it tastes so much better than out of the can. Then I explored the wine selection and this is where dear reader I learned a very important and surprising lesson; namely that there are California Chardonnays which retail for less than $5. It was shocking to see that the Tropicana was more expensive than the Glen Ellen or the Beringer, see pic. Needless to say, it took me a while to locate the most expensive bottle in the shop, a lovely $13.99 Beringer that I am optimistically thinking may contain the very same wine that sells for $45 at my local Safeway.

I also had the good sense to remember to buy a corkscrew to avoid the need for shoving the cork into the bottle with a knife, which is what I have had to resort to on prior visits. I checked in, moving through the process with a graciousness and command that the newbie in the abutting check in lounge chair would no doubt have found enviable. “Oh, I love the new photos, so charming,” to which Cynthia nodded in agreement as she handed me my new Ranch t-shirt. "Great new design," I smiled. In my room, strategically placed midway between the Spa and the Dining Room, I caught up on my This Week at the Ranch reading and headed off for my 6pm 100 minute Thai Massage.

I smiled as I walked straight past the Spa reception desk and confidently strode into the Women’s Locker Room, where I politely announced to the ponytailed attendant that I would like my locker for the week please. To this she replied, “If you’d like to check in at Spa Reception, they can assign you a locker and then I’ll be happy to open it for you and show you how it works.” Classic Rookie mistake, I was devastated, ashamed and defeated. I skulked back out and asked Maria at Reception if I might have a locker. She assigned me Locker 124, to which I said, "Thank you." Then adding for clarification, "Is it a top or a bottom?" She looked at me apologetically, “I’m afraid we have no more tops, but if you’d like to check back tomorrow, it looks like 187 may be available after 10am.” Was it a bad dream? Was it some kind of cosmic joke? I couldn’t be sure but decided to soldier on.

Jenny greeted me in the relaxation room, calling out for “Loma Borenstein”. I didn’t have the heart to correct her and tried to imagine what my life would be like were I in fact named Loma. Once in the treatment room she inquired whether I had enjoyed Thai massage before, to which I simply replied, “yes.” Jenny probed further, as to whether I had enjoyed it here at the Ranch before, to which I once again replied, “yes.” Jenny then asked how many times I had been to the Ranch, to which I replied simply, “four.” Jenny then said the kindest thing to me I’d heard all day, “Oh, Loma you are a real regular.” Yes Jenny, blessed sinewy, spritely Jenny, Loma is a regular here at the Ranch.