Wednesday, July 31, 2013

The Swaggerer

There was a time in my life were I was sort of a cop.  I say "sort of" because explaining what I really did gets complicated, and it's not necessarily untrue to say I was "sort of" a cop.  So ... I'm sticking with it.  I bring this up to tell you a story.

One day my partner and I were out on a stakeout.  Yes, it was one of those scenes-you-see-in-the-movies stakesouts.  We were in our car.  He had his giant camera with this super-charged lens and we were waiting for the bad guys to show up.  At one point, a group of people passed our car, so he quickly hid the camera and hissed, "Yell at me.  We need to be having a fight."  Happy to oblige, I started telling him what a loser he was, how "completely annoying you can be sometimes" and in short, let it all out.  I felt wonderful.  He was pretty amazed I could spew venom on cue.  I wasn't.  (He could be pretty annoying at times.)

When the bad guys started showing up, he'd click away, shutters rattling off one captured frame after another while I sat and tried to figure out who was who.  See, here's the thing.  We knew who they were, we just didn't know which one was which.  We had to match faces to names.  (It's a long story.)

Then I saw him.  He got out of his car (I think it was a Volvo) and after he chirped the car alarm he walked towards the meeting place.  Here's the clincher:  THE MAN SWAGGERED.  I kid you not.  It was definitely a swagger.  He was swaggering.

"That's so-and-so," I said to my partner.
"How do you know?"
"He's swaggering."
"I can't put that in a report!"
"Write what you want.  That's the guy.  That's the boss."

Here's where my partner started to guffaw.  I mean tears-and-snorts kind of a laughter with lingering giggles still minutes later.  Annoyed (which is why it was so easy to yell at him earlier) I stood my ground.  As it turned out, I was right.  He was the head honcho and his swagger proved it.

I bring up this story because I saw a man swagger today.  From the back, I swore to myself here was a Japanese mobster in Cambridge, Massachusetts.  The odds of me being right this time were slim.  But, the man had that swagger.  The same one Japanese yakuza guys have.  As do the arrogant, "do-you-see-this-giant-chip-on-my-shoulder" guys, and the "I'm-such-a-badass-you-can't-touch-me" guys who aren't really bad but want the world to think they are.  It takes a unique Japanese male to pull off a real swagger.  This guy today had it down pat.  When I saw him cross the street and climb into his cab, I was very sorry to admit there was no way this guy was a Japanese badass.  A wannabe, maybe.  But not the real deal.  It amazed me, though, that here would be a middle-aged Asian man who looks the part, walks the part, has that "I'm-a-tough-guy" routine all tightly choreographed, but is only a taxi driver.  (And I use the word "only" here with the utmost respect for taxi drivers.)

There's a swaggerer I work with up north in the Tohoku region of Japan.  He's one of these "I-want-to-look-bad" guys, and his reputation could be better.  He wouldn't be happy if he knew I was spilling to the world he's not nearly as badass as he thinks he is.  But, here again is that swagger.  With him, it's more a "get-out-of-my-way" walk but it's there.  People do scurry when they see him.  Children don't like him.  He's "that scary uncle" to most kids, and if they know he's coming for dinner, they'll find homework that didn't get done earlier or preparation for tomorrow that they swore they didn't need when asked before they knew of uncle's arrival.

Men who swagger are truly a breed of their own.  I hope some day you see one only because you really must see to believe.   And, try not to laugh when you do see them.  That act wouldn't be appreciated.

Thursday, July 25, 2013

On Aging and the Pecking Order

My presence is requested at a dinner for out-of-town donors.  The city councilman whom I've worked with for over two years asked me to attend.  I don't turn down requests from this man.  On this particular night, I enter a large room of about sixty people sitting around long tables decorated with large beer bottles and dishes of fish and vegetables.  I take a seat.

The speeches start.  Our host, the city councilman gets up and thanks those in attendance properly.  More men get up saying offering similar phrases of thanks.  I'm eating, picking away at the dish of shark meat in front of me, not sure I really want to venture into unchartered territory.  Not really listening to the speeches anymore but instead focused on the food I suddenly hear my name.  It's the city councilman.

"Amya.  Get up here and say something."
I put down my chopsticks and make my way to the podium which is really a stack of cushions made into a raised platform of sorts.  I bow, say hello, thank the donors, and here is where things go wrong.  I must thank the host, my friend, and do.  I refer to him by all the proper nouns and end with calling him my "older brother."  He's a bit drunk, my friend, and calls out, "Older sister!"  People chuckle.  I'm confused.  We both know he's older than me although I've kept the promise to myself for over two years now not to reveal my age.
"I am not your older sister," I reply, gently.  People laugh.  I finish my speech and sit down.

The man sitting next to me, a local business owner whom I've chatted with around town says, "Why did he call you his older sister?"
"I have no idea," I say.  "I'm definitely younger than him."
"How old are you?"
"Nope.  You know better than to ask me that.  I will never reveal my age.  I'm a lady."
Here he laughs.  I send him a half-glare, and follow with, "How old do you think I am?"
"Oh," and he leans back to get a better look at me.  "Maybe 51?"

I flip out.  "I am not 51!" I practically yell this.  He cowers.  "Sorry.  Sorry."
"That's it," I snap.  "I will no longer speak to you."  I am only half-kidding.
Now, to be sure, there is nothing wrong with being 51.  And, to be sure again, he's drunk.  I will some day be 51 I hope, and yet that day is around the corner--a corner with a long arc between here and there.  I know what's happening.  In my refusal to acknowledge my age, I have violated the norm of pecking order.  People do not know how to speak to me, how much deference I deserve, how polite their speech patterns must be, and whether they must add a "-san" to my name when they refer to me. 

Pecking order, or social hierarchy is largely established by age.  Seniority matters as well, but usually, at least in the Tohoku region, age is a prerequisite to a title.  There are no 30-year old company presidents I know of up north.  Throughout Japan age matters immensely in establishing power structure.  This hierarchy in Tohoku, the whole who-is-older-than-whom phenomenon is on steroids.  In all my years in Japan, I've not seen age matter as much as it does here.  Which is why my refusal to play their game, follow rules, and general obstinance is not appreciated.  Not being able to place me in the proper pecking order creates huge problems for them.

With no plans to let my age slip, I will forever be a pest, a thorn in their side, albeit one that is not hated or avoided.  Here I will stand my ground.  Here, they must acquiesce.  Reluctantly.


Wednesday, July 24, 2013

On Grandmothers

It all started with an NHK documentary I watched as a child.  The Japanese maestro of the Boston Symphony Orchestra, Seiji Ozawa was highlighted on this show.  My parents and I crowded around the television taking in his words, the music, the awe he inspired.  The camera zoomed in on a statue in downtown Boston (one I have yet to find) and I knew right then and there, someday I would live in Boston.

Fast-forward twenty or so years and I'm talking to a friend about this revelation, that I will some day live in Boston.  "People are rude in Boston," he says.  "Really.  My cousin lives there.  He's impressed by what Bostonians do and say.  Well, impressed isn't the right word, I suppose.  People there take rudeness to a new level.  Even the grandmothers are bitchy."

I scoff.  He is wrong.  Not about how an entire population of a city, or so his cousin points out, can be rude.  My objection is about grandmothers.  Grandmothers are not, cannot be rude.  He is simply wrong.  His cousin exaggerates.

These were the days I measured grandmothers by mine.  No one would dare accuse my grandmother of being rude.  Ever.  I assumed all grandmothers were kind, patient, supportive, giving, and treasured.  My grandmother was.  Others must be the same.

I was idealistic, young, and naive.  I lacked real-world experience.  I was fortunate enough not have spent time around (many) truly rude people.  And I was idealistic.  (That part warrants another mention.)  I refused to believe there were rude grandmothers in the world.  Collectively, surely they must be like my grandmother.  As a group, they simply were not capable of rudeness.

Oh youth.  When we finally did move to Boston in 1997 we were met by aggressive drivers, opinionated people who spoke their minds freely (which usually meant they were pointing out how I was wrong), and finally, rude people.  I was shocked.  Was my friend right?  No.  Grandmothers in Boston would not be, could not be rude.  Right?  The rest of these people, maybe.  Not grandmothers.  Please, not grandmothers.

And so the bubble was burst.  One after another, rude grandmothers showed up in front of me, turning left from the right hand lane, flipping me off when I honked at them.  In the grocery store, their cart in the middle of the isle blocking everyone, my "Excuse me"s met with eye-rolling and "Well, just move around me then."  She might as well added, "You little snot" to the end of that sentence.

Twenty more years after my friend told me of his cousin's words, still unwilling to believe all grandmothers everywhere were capable of rudeness I made my way back to Japan.  The land of politeness, consummate service, and kindness, surely grandmothers here personified grace.  In the two years I spent up north in the Tohoku region, I had yet to come across a rude grandmother.  Hoping the American sentiment of freely expressing one's own opinion was what caused grandmothers (at least in Boston) to be okay with their behavior I hung onto hope.  So far so good.

All good things must come to an end.  The resolution, the glory I felt in my correctness came crashing down one day as I stood in line at a bakery in Tokyo, the place that sells the most wonderful milk bread.  Never mind that eating this bread requires penance at the gym (which I refuse to submit to), today I would partake and indulge.

The line was long on this day.  My tray in hand, the milk bread roll resting safely on top, I'm minding my own business when I feel a tap.  I turn around and see an older woman, a grandmother standing there looking up at me.  In perfectly clipped British English she says, "Are you here," and she points to the floor, "to pay?"
"I am," I reply confused.  Why else would we all be in line?
"Que up then," she snips, and then adds, "Properly."

What?  Qu'est que le hell does that mean?  Oh grandmother.  You managed to ruin all hope I had about your kind.  I resolve to admit I have been wrong my entire life.  Angry most of all that she's the one who crushed my faith I am this close to taking out my anger on her, and for a very quick moment think about saying something like, "Well, aren't you a short, snappy little thing."  But, I don't.  Instead I ignore her and stand my ground properly in que, same place I've been standing all along, and mourn the truth I've refused to acknowledge.

Yes, even grandmothers can be rude.  Alas.  So it is. 

Monday, July 22, 2013

Train Etiquette

I am not one to blame the French.  In the case of the empty seat next to me on trains and buses in Japan, it's not the French who are to blame as much as it is my French heritage.  I accept this fault because acknowledging the other truth is more hurtful.  But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

A Facebook posting by someone whom I don't know well but like and respect sent me reeling.  In short, he wrote about large, foul-mouthed foreigners on his train who dropped the F word with too much ease, who were loud, and thus ill-behaved.  No one shushed them.  No one paid them any attention.  He laments their behavior and wondered whether he shouldn't have said something to quiet them down to the level of noise commonly heard on any train in Japan.  Which is to say, no noise whatsoever.

Step onto any car of any train or subway in Tokyo and the place is quiet.  Everyone is in their own zone reading books, newspapers or reports; playing games on their phones or texting; sleeping; putting on make up (quietly, of course).  Two people having a conversation is almost rare.  There's no buzz, no rowdiness, no out-of-the-ordinary happenstance for the most part.  (Crowded trains at night after the drinking-schmoozing-networking events are different.)  Throw in some large gaijins who already don't blend, who don't know (or don't care) that laughing or talking in a group only calls unwanted attention to them and we've got a problem.  Or so my friend says.

Here's the thing.  Other foreigners in Japan may have different stories (which is where the French come in) but the seat next to me on any given train car or bus is always, ALWAYS the last seat taken.  I am not exaggerating.  People will stand rather than sit next to me.  I've pointed this out to friends who are seated next to me.  "Watch," I'll say.  "See if this seat next to me isn't the last one filled."  I am proven right.  Always.

This gives me no pleasure, this "being right" part of what I only see as a form of shunning.  I console myself by saying I smell.  My French lineage comes out loud and strong when it comes to perfume.  I simply will not leave home without spritzing myself.  As a ritual reserved usually for women of the night, that I leave behind me a cloud-wave of scent sets me apart.  I can't smell myself, of course.  Once the perfume is on, it's on.  I don't stop and smell my wrist or my clothes.  Others can, evidently.  Smell me, that is.  I decide it's this she's-wearing-perfume thing people object to, aren't used to, and that's what keeps them away from me.  The other truth, that they don't want to sit next to me, that they don't want to sit next to a foreigner is what hurts.

My friend on Facebook called these foreigners "wild beasts."  Certainly, there are gaijins in Japan with beastly, horrid behavior.  They make the rest of us look bad and for that, I don't like them.  That we're all now lumped together as "wild beasts" hurt.  I told my friend as much. 

One more thing.  I'm not proud to admit if Tokyo wins the bid for the 2020 Olympics and news programs are filled with Japanese commentators shaking their heads at the millions of loud foreigners on trains, planes, buses, and any other mode of public transportation I will have the last laugh.  No, this isn't the most mature of responses.  It is, however, honest.  We are not beasts simply because we are large and don't use our indoor voices on trains.  If we are, Tokyo will be filled with these beasts in 2020.  Beware.

Sunday, July 21, 2013

Mayor Dad

It was April 2011 when I first met Mayor Futoshi Toba.  Thinking back, this must have been a few days after a policeman in Rikuzentakata, the mayor's cousin, found the body of the mayor's wife.  I didn't know this at the time. 

On this same day, standing in front of what was the make shift city hall a young boy of about six walked by me, carrying his sister of three or so on his back piggy-back style.  He called out a hearty "good morning!" and this sight made me choke up instantly.  Here was a classic example of post-disaster strength.  I wasn't expecting to see it from a child. 

Having lost his wife on March 11, 2011 Mayor Toba became a reluctant single parent.  I'd never heard of Rikuzentakata until this day, much less stepped foot in it so I've not ever met Mrs. Toba.  The stories I hear make me want to have known her.  I never will.  I have, however, gotten to know the mayor well.  His two sons, too.  With so much change in their lives, it would be understandable if these two teenage boys were confused, troubled, or even wild.  They're not.  In fact, I don't think I've met boys who are so well behaved, well adjusted, and happy even.

I visited the mayor's home the night before the second memorial this year.  He held a small dinner, and I joined the gang.  The boys are ardent basketball fans so I took Boston Celtics gear, chiding them for having other team paraphernalia on their bedroom walls.  We compared notes on who the best NBA players were, with me making sure Celtics heroes were named often.

The mayor has been frank in sharing the younger boy is the one who's had the most difficulty with his mother's death.  Indeed, the morning of the memorial service, he was silent, sullen, and pained.  The joking from the night before was gone.  I realize this is neither the time nor place to remind him of how he silently handed me a Celtics mug, both of us grinning at his conversion to a true basketball fan.  I knew there was nothing I could say to him that would change the meaning of this day.

Which is why Mayor Toba's recent postings on his Facebook page celebrating the fact both boys are now able to talk about their mother in daily conversation is such welcome news.  Until now the mayor's reminders of their mother's words, "No, you can't have ice cream before dinner!  What would your mother say?" were not met with grins or replies.  Today they talk about their mother more freely, with real and imaged words that may or may not have come from Mrs. Toba.

The boys are well mannered.  They get along well.  Teenage angst does not seem to have kicked in.  On one particular night, however, the mayor came home to two boys who were on the verge of quarreling.
The older, "He won't let me read his comic book!"
"The pages are always smudged and messy whenever he gives them back to me after he reads them!" the younger objects.
"Are not!"
"Yes, they are!"

Somewhere in this not-quite-yet-a-fight, one of them said, "Remember when mom said..." which prompted the other one to reply, "I'm like mom in that..." as the mayor stood by and listened letting the boys hash it out on their own.  Happy they can talk about their mother in this way, it was not important who was saying what, but more they were both able to talk about their mother.  

I'm an observer standing on the sidelines watching this unfold.  I'm proud of the mayor, and proud of his boys.  On my trip up to Rikuzentakata in early August I'm taking bagels for the younger boy (his new favorite food) and a big Celtics mug (to compete with his brother's) for the older son.  I'm looking forward to what fodder this might become for boy-and-auntie banter.

Monday, July 15, 2013

On Mindings Japanese Ps and Qs (Ls and Rs)

A long-standing and unfortunate joke among foreigners in Japan is the laughter aimed at the struggle among many Japanese to differentiate between the pronunciation of L and R.  Curried rice becomes curried lice, made all the worse because the word for lice (shirami) sounds too much like a white speck of meat.  As a child, I would avoid ordering curried rice in restaurants if they misplaced the l and r.  Not having seen lice, I assume they were white and squiggly, looking too much like grains of rice.  Granted, rice is not squiggly, but if it moved I'm sure it would wiggle and not crawl--or so my child-logic deduced. 

When I really need to relax, when books and chocolate don't do the trick I locate the folder of Buddhists chants on my laptop and sit back and soak up the gentle rhythm.  My goal is to take in and on as much of the monks' state of mind, peaceful and calm.  Largely monotone these chants, I let myself go, deep into my version of meditating.  Which is why on one such login looking for the chants that would surely induce serenity, I instead started laughing.  In all these years, it never occurred to me mixing up the l and r in this one particular song would make "Buddhist prayer" into "Buddhist player."  Very, very different things.  Perhaps you had to be there.  I didn't find much om that day.  Too much giggling.

On a recent trip up north to the Tohoku region to continue my work as a volunteer auntie, the preschool children serenaded me with a new farewell that, to this day, has me confused.  Long ago having learned shapes, we make hearts to each other with our hands.  "I like you very much" I always say, the kids grinning back at me, shy and pleased.  Having said my farewells for the day, I was about to head out, waving and calling out "See you!" when I hear a girl say what sounds like "Rub you."  Others chime in, and soon the room is filled with the collective voice of kids saying, "Rub you!"  I stop.  Are they saying, "Love you"?  I can't tell.  If they are, this is huge.  Like is a safe word.  Like a lot is also okay.  But, love is reserved for the super special.  I'm not convinced three-, and four-year olds know how to confess those words reserved for lovers and the most treasured.  The tots don't let up though and I must respond.  I quickly make a heart with my hands again, hoping they'll know this time I mean "love" and not "like" but uncertain altogether.

I vow to resolve this conundrum on my next visit by teaching them the word love, seeing if that triggers in them the reaction, "Oh!  A new word!" or a "Pffft.  We knew that one."  We'll work on the difference between r and l also, all to make sure their curry is edible and their love doesn't always include a rub.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

The Problem With Giving

Large organizations, UNHCR and Harvard Medical School and the like are said to offer up "two" as the magic number.  Two years post a natural disaster and things change.  Aid dries up, and those left behind must find their own way.  I've pondered this of late as I found myself muddling through a sea of obnoxious requests, outrageous comments made about aid received, and an overall ugly sense of entitlement creeping into the Tohoku disaster region as a whole.  Two-plus years since a series of tsunamis wiped out Japan's northeastern coastline, there's absolute truth work still needs to be done.  Equally, a victim-mentality and a "gimme gimme" environment is now just as prevalent as is the community of those who are striving to move on.

If the statement "what doesn't break you makes you stronger" is true, many in Tohoku are now broken.  How and where does one find the will to rebuild without an income?  Those who are elderly (adult diaper sales surpassed baby diaper sales for the first time in Japan) should take out a loan to build a house where they will ... what?  Move in and die?  Words like these sound crass and cold.  That doesn't make them untrue.

Wide-spread depression, questions on how to move forward, whether life is worth living are all present.  This is not to say most feel this way.  I say this to point out with the passage of time and little tangible improvement hope wanes.

Is it then natural for those so used to the twisted combination of grief and pain who have also asked for and received pretty much all they need to now use their loss to ask for more?  The word to focus on is "natural" and the implication, "is this normal?"  That I am being asked to raise funds for items no one would dare have wished for just a few months back ... what does this mean?

Some complaints I've heard about items received remind me of an ill-behaved child who would scold grandma for giving her a birthday cake with white icing instead of pink.  Others impress me with their justification for why they need a new (insert pretty much anything here).

I can't quote the Rolling Stones and sing to them "you can't always get what you want."  Nor can I bring up the example of how ridiculous it is for little girls to ask for ponies for Christmas, the ultimate in a "but I want one thus deserve it" argument.  In the minds of many disaster victims, they truly "need" that item the rest of us don't have.  Does their pain explain their behavior?  Does being a victim mean they should get to ask for whatever they want and expect it?  If you knew the kinds of requests I'm getting I think you would agree, the answer is "NO."

Giving in post-disaster Tohoku needs to change.  For this to happen, donors must know what defines a "must have" versus "wouldn't it be nice if."  This requires a level of honesty among those in Tohoku that is lacking.  There's no other nicer way of saying this.  For many outside of Tohoku there's a real desire to help, especially now that time has passed and the residents left behind feel forgotten.  Offering up everything on their wish list is not the way to offer aid.  They won't like me saying this, but again, that doesn't make it any less true.

The ugliest part about this is what I can't and won't share:  the actual examples.  I purposely block the nasty parts of the reality of Tohoku giving (and receiving) from reaching you because if you knew what some wanted and that word got out to the donors ("they asked for what?") aid would dry up right then and there.  (At least from that donor and others they choose to tell.)  This is why I post updates like this.  You're getting the truth.  Just not all of it. 

My point is this:  I ask for reflection from donors going forward.  Are you giving because you want to check off your "I donated" box?  Is this a real need?  Whom does it help?   This is not a band-aid?  Where are you getting your information?  How much of this aid is actually reaching the recipient?  Do you trust the NPO/NGO/organization you're donating to?  Are you sure they're not sucking up your donation as they "spread it out among the locals"?

The magical "two year mark" has come and gone.  Going forward, I ask for and urge caution, care, honesty, and rechecking facts before checks are cut, items sent, offer extended.  No, little girls in Tohoku do not deserve a "pony" for their birthday.  Grandma gives you a birthday cake?  The words you're looking for are "thank you" and not a complaint about the color of the icing.  Yes, these are examples.  I settle for these as the truth would make us all weep.

Think before you give.  I'm gently working in Tohoku on the "think before you ask" part.  Hopefully between the two parties putting more thought into what is truly needed there can be more of the kind of aid truly needed.

Monday, July 8, 2013

Ten Dollar Bath Salts

Japanese baths are a sight to behold.  Or so my friends tell me.  Onsens, as hot springs in Japan are called are places of wonder.  The waters are rich with minerals and salts unique to the region said to cure ailments and aches, soften skin, and even make one beautiful.  I wouldn't know about any of this as twenty-some years ago I made what my Japanese friends call "your fateful mistake."

Mind you, I knew exactly what I was doing.  When my friend showed me the tattoo of an orange tropical fish on her hip I was sold.  Knowing full well tattoos in Japan were then reserved for those more comfortable with the underground, I would be forever banned from public baths, onsens, pools, and as I learned recently, gyms.  Not caring about these consequences, I allowed myself to get inked.  To date, I don't miss bathing in public, and still do not find sitting in hot water in front of others relaxing or restful.  The ink serves me well.  I get to avoid bathing with strangers.  So far so good.

When I moved into my apartment in Tokyo two winters ago, and after I got over the initial shock of having to live in something the size of my friend's closet I went through a phase of confusion.  I saw there was a wall-mounted air conditioner, and the remote control had a "heat" button but repeated attempts for hot air were not successful.  Perhaps Japanese air conditioners blew heat as well (why?) but not as heaters?  It made no sense.  As a result, I spent my first several winter months without heat, layering extra blankets, and on really cold nights my coats, in an attempt to add warmth.

I did eventually figure out how to make my air conditioner offer heat and was promptly scolded by many for not working out such simple instructions.  It's the several months prior to my discovery I want to write about today.

Japanese bathtubs, especially for those of us who avoid onsens, are simply places of bliss.  They're deep.  As in, you can fill it up with water, as hot as you want it (these instructions I did figure out) and then soak.  I can sit up straight in my tub up to my neck in hot water, temperature of my choice.  For those nights sans heat, the bath-right-before-bed was a need and not a simple want.

I long ago discovered Japanese bath salts.  Depending on the store, there are walls filled with packets of salts offering anything from extra-sweat (as in sweat-inducing salts), soft skin, no more aches, diminished rheumatism, weight-loss (these don't work), and improved circulation.  Then there are the scents.  Oh, the scents!  Rose, lavender, jasmine, pine, grass, citrus, eucalyptus, grapefruit and more, small apartments like mine take on the scent of that night's bath.  Add to this, hot pepper (meant to induce sweat), magma (bubbles), the gel-like substance that makes everything slippery, sleep-inducing vapors, calming, nerve-soothing, and the ones clearing sinuses there's not a lot a good Japanese bath won't cure.

The packets of salts cost around 100 yen and go up from there.  For 1000 yen ($10USD) I can get whatever I want:  scented, mind-altering, herbal, or mud-like, all meant to make me beautiful, youthful, thin, and relaxed.  I don't often justify the 1000 yen investment into this health regimen because after all it's only a bath, but there are those days...yes, those days where the 1000 yen bath seems to do what food (specifically bread and chocolate) and a good book cannot.  On days like this I splurge and let myself soak, easing away the messiness of the day convinced I will have shed those pesky 5 pounds the gym cannot.  (The messiness usually goes away.  The pounds do not.)

Try to include on your next trip to Japan a visit to an onsen (unless you're inked) or a long and relaxing evening in a deep bathtub.  You'll be glad you did.  For those who choose the tub, add your favorite salts for added pleasure.  It's worth the price.  Even the 1000 ($10) yen bath salts.