How I got older and thinner after a lifetime of dieting

Me in a bathing suit. Or: A photo I could never have imagined publishing publicly before now.

I am the oldest menstruating woman in America. Based on an exhaustive survey of nine of my friends, I am the only 54-year-old in the world who still gets her period every month. You’ve heard of people being young at heart? I’m young at uterus. Since neither my crow’s feet nor my crepe-y elbows are similarly youthful, I’m clinging for dear life to my monthly reminder that it’s not all over. I may not still have it, but I still get it, like clockwork, every month.

But peri-menopause, that’s a different story. That, dear friends, is kicking my butt. Hot…


I’m One Year Older and One Year Crankier

First Birthdays — When All is Possiblity.

Every year on my birthday, I get a call from an old flame. It’s been nearly thirty years since we stopped seeing each other, and we don’t speak otherwise. But every year, for nearly three decades, he calls me on my birthday, and we catch up. We don’t flirt. We don’t get too deep. He acknowledges my birthday, and I acknowledge how lovely it is that after all these years he still acknowledges my birthday, and that’s that. My husband knows all about it — was even disappointed one year when the…


How The Pandemic Changed My Friendships Forever

Photo by Omar Lopez on Unsplash

Remember when you would see someone for lunch just because? You may or may not have valued their friendship immensely, or depended on them for undying support, or even particularly liked them…but it was lunch. And you liked them enough for lunch right? I mean, why not?

Now, there’s a big why not. Covid.

I’ve approached my pandemic social life (now there’s an oxymoron if ever there was one) like it was the old Weight Watchers points system. Weight Watchers, for those few of you lucky ones who have either never had to…


The pandemic may have started to recede, but my brain is still on lockdown

Photo by Ani Kolleshi on Unsplash

Years ago, I was at a trade fair where I got to test out a high-tech treadmill that did everything: it told you your heart rate, your BMI and — and I think I’m remembering this correctly — categorized you as either a Rachel, a Phoebe or a Monica. The man at the booth told me to step on and set it to my normal walking pace. I did, and proceeded to ramp up the speed. “Oh,” said the man, “I see you’re from New York.”


Everything you Need to Know to Stop Obsessing and Start Looking Great

Me. Edited for maximum impact.

Quarantine has not been kind to those of us who help our blond along. So recently, after weeks of growing horror at the state of my roots, I contacted my hairdresser and asked if she would make a masked house call. We sat by the open window in my kitchen, and voila! Blond restored. After I saw my new fab hair, I took this quick selfie:


Me as Hedy La Rue in my 1982 High School Production of How to Succeed in Business without Really Trying.

When I was around 30 years old, I was stopped on the street by a total stranger.

“Nancy Rabinowitz?” she asked.

“Yes.” I said

“I thought I recognized you. I’m E’s mother, from High School? I saw you in all the plays. Are you a professional actress now?” she smiled.

I laughed “Oh no! Not at all!”

Her smile faded “I don’t see why that’s funny. My daughter really wanted to be a performer, and you!” She practically spit at me. “If you weren’t serious about it, you shouldn’t have taken all the parts in High School.“

I was speechless…


Finding Culinary Comfort in Difficult Times

If you think gefilte fish is gross, you’ve likely only ever had it from a jar. Jarred gefilte fish is a gelatinous, odiferous affront. Homemade gefilte fish is light and airy, a meatball made with fish, a quenelle with a Yiddish accent. Comparing homemade gefilte fish to jarred is like comparing bologna to a rib-eye, plastic flowers to fresh, polyester pull-on pants to Prada trousers. …


And Other Unexpected Effects of COVID-19

Photo by Alexander Redl on Unsplash

Liam Neeson saved my life.

I was on Columbus Ave, waiting to cross, and when the light changed, I stepped into the crosswalk only to have someone stick their arm in front of me to shove me back. In a split second I was simultaneously afraid of whoever shoved me, annoyed at that person, and then relieved, when I realized a taxi, which had been stopped at the intersection, had lurched forward, running the red light. Whoever had shoved me out of the crosswalk had saved my life.

I turned to say thank you…


Friends aren’t “supposed” to break up. But they do.

Photo by Sam Manns on Unsplash

Unlike a divorce, which has pretty clear parameters for dissolution, when friendships break, you’re on your own. No papers to sign. No lawyers to pay. No support groups, no one standing by ready to fix you up with a new best friend, telling you there are plenty of other fish in the sea, to get back in the saddle, or some other animal metaphor that does not help one bit. No one makes movies about the end of friendship, unless they star Katherine Heigl and end with joyfully teary reconciliations set…


Bentley enjoying the good life in the Hamptons.

Yesterday, a friend bragged on her Facebook timeline that her cat was so social, so friendly, so engaged, that it was really more like a dog. I immediately thought: so why not get a dog? I mean, if the best thing you can say about your pet is that it’s more like another pet….GET THE OTHER PET. When I talk about my dog, I often do a similar thing — just in reverse. I tell people that my dog, a rescue mutt from Arkansas, is more like a cat. I don’t mean it as a compliment.

The shelter told us…

Nancy Friedman

Just another Neurotic New Yorker bumbling along The Road to F*ck it as I navigate life with a lot of angst, a touch of humor, and a teeny bit of Botox.

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