Re-entering the Workout Zone

     The gorging has to stop.  Time to reacquaint myself with the machines at the fitness center.  The following is a reprint of a blog I wrote over eighteen months ago...still applies.
    
     For twenty years I have been working out at least twice a week.  I actually hate it, even if I see plenty of people there that I know.  What I love is the feeling of self-righteousness when I leave!

     I march with determination to a stairmaster machine.  There are only two at the YMCA where Charley and I belong.  Neither of these machines will acknowledge my presence digitally, because I refuse to "walk" the stair all the way down before "walking" floorward with the next foot.  Instead I do quick half-steps in an attempt to ignore the aloof mechanism.  I am penalized by having to clock myself.

     I like quiet when I go there.  I do not want to listen to Stephan the Romanian dispensing stock tips from his treadmill for a discussion with the people on either side of him.  I do not want to listen to Tom's tales of romancing the brunette in the sauna after he got off work the previous evening.  I do not want to get involved in Tulia's decision to leave an abusive relationship to join a church group, where she might meet the love of her life.

     I begin my stair-stepping when a disruption explodes in front of me.  A woman has monopolized the treadmill and two other members are waiting.  Both of those waiting have signed in and have seen that the woman has been on for forty minutes - a violation by ten minutes!!  "How long have you been on there?" the man asks.  Perhaps a workout will dissipate his aggression!

     "I'll be finished in five minutes."

     "You can't be on that long!  There's a time limit of thirty on that machine."  The man goes to the attendant.

     Patrick doesn't want to ruffle feathers on his watch.  He explains in quiet tones to the woman, still treading, that she'll  have to relinquish the machine because others are waiting.

     "Then I'll take my business elsewhere!" the woman yells at him.  Patrick shrugs and retreats to the front counter.  The woman remains for the last five minutes she came for.

     I proceed to a big rubber ball.  I choose the red one, smaller than the others, because I believe I'll get more benefit from sit-ups on a smaller ball.  I have no idea where this idea came from.  I place my towel over the top and begin twenty-five of these babies, resting before I attempt the next twenty-five.  As I begin the second set, I feel the towel and my butt slipping downward.  I ignore this, because I just want to finish the damn things!  Before I know it, I have landed on my back on the floor with the towel next to me.

     I slink off the floor to the area designated for free weights.  The YMCA has undergone a transfer in management.  The new manager is a young man, intent on attracting members from the body-building set.  In tank tops, with tattoos rippling like pythons over straining muscles, these young men have taken positions on every bench.  I don't want to be anywhere near them as they grunt and heave.  I retreat to the far end of the gym, where one small bench remains vacant.  I pick up my miniscule five pounds of lead and conceal them against my thighs.

     Once finished with the free weights, I enter the center of the gym.  It is here that Jason, our new manager, has redesigned the space so that the weight machines "float" across the center, giving the illusion of a larger gym.

     The problem is that people over sixty do not want to be out in the middle of anything.  We want to hug a wall or hide in a corner.  I climb on the tricept machine and am staring into the eyes of a guy twenty years younger, just six feet in front of me.  He is running a marathon on his treadmill, while he watches me struggle.

     I wipe the machine and figure I'll return to that one later.  I proceed to the leg extension machine.  The woman who has relinquished it is five feet ten and weighs approximately two hundred pounds.  She wears black gloves without fingers and a bandanna around her head.  The bandanna is dripping onto the floor.  I head for the paper towels and disinfectant spray.  Once I've wiped the machine down (Patrick should be monitoring!), I try to dislodge the metal arm holding the foot pad.  I want it to fit my legs, not hers.  It won't budge.  She has jammed the arm.  I strain until I have deep ridges in my palm.  "Damn Amazon!" I seethe, heading for Patrick.

     When I finish there, I wipe the machine again.  Because Jason is now the resident interior designer, there is literally one foot between machines.  I slide sideways between the leg extension and leg curl machines to hang my workout chart from the clip on the side.  Just as I am in the shape of a wedge of Iceberg lettuce, the Amazon heads for the leg curl machine.  I do a U-turn to the mats to start my stretches.

     The mats are wet.  I have my towel, which I place under me while in the yoga "prayer position."  But I hesitate.  Is it sweat or is it disinfectant on the mats?  I don't take any chances.  I spray them and wipe them dry, just in case.  I do it again when I've finished.  I was going to clean some kitchen shelves when I get home, but I've done enough wiping.  I wash up and head to McD's for a frappe!

    

On Bended Knee...or Not

     December is the month for marriage proposals.  We've all seen them on the plaza in front of Today show cameras or in lights on scoreboards at stadiums or on billboards along highways.

     Vincent Mallozzi  reported a few in The N.Y. Times on December 30th. 

     Allison LeClaire was waiting on a bench in Bryant Park, NYC, for her boyfriend and his boss.  A flash mob of dancers began flailing about on the lawn.  Friends and relatives integrated into the dancers, and a 140-piece marching band appeared to accompany them.  One of the band members emerged from the ranks with his baton, dropped to a knee, and uttered his proposal to the girl on the bench.

     Matthew Wolf of NYC led Ms. Esther Klein back to his apartment where candles lined the hallway, lavender petals covered the floor, and snowflake lights hung on the walls.  At the end of the hallway on a table covered in fake snow was a giant chocolate ring with a white chocolate diamond which read, "Will you marry me?"  The real ring sat in the middle of the chocolate one.

     One ingenious surfer arranged a trail of shells, lit by votives,  from the bedroom to the beach.  There his proposal was written in sand.

     Let's not forget those spoken in helicopters, planes, or speedboats.  I've always wondered how anyone can utter the words during a bungee jump or while hitting the mogels.  Shouldn't the concern be surviving the moment, not the next fifty years?

     Which leads me to my own...non-proposal.  Charley never asked.  After dating for eighteen months, we both knew we'd get married.  We went to the NY Jeweler's Exchange together and selected the ring.  We set the date together.  We made every major decision together (except bridesmaids and room colors) and still do.

     Almost forty-eight years later.

     What are your unusual proposal stories?  Share them in the comment box below.

    

Kids' Christmas Thank-you's

Dear Santa,
     Thank you for the new red wagon with two seats.  Did you mean I have to share with my little brudder?
     Love, Doug


Dear Santa,
     I guess you didn't get the Xmas letter I wrote.  I asked for a fire truck but I got a garbage truck by mistake.  Please put my name down for a fire truck next time.
     Thanks.
                          Love, James


Dear Aunt Rose,
     Thanks for the red sweatr you maid.  My favorit color is really purble.  Maybe you could make that next yr.
                           Love, Sally


Dear Grandma Ann,
     Thank you for the Lalaloopsy doll.  I'm saving in my piggy bank for an American Girl but I'll use yours til I have enough.
                           Love, Molly


Dear Grandma Joan,
     Thanks for the pretty bracelet.  We didn't do much after you went home except open our Xmas presents.  It was more fun when you were here.
                         Love, Becky
P.S. - I hope you get the cast off your ankle soon.  I put my toys away every day since you left.


Dear Papa Jack,
     Thanks for the race car for Xmas.  It goes fast on the kitchen floor, but Mom doesn't want me under her feets.  Maybe you could send me a racetrack.
                         Love, Tim


Dear Aunt Beth and Uncle Will,
     I finished the puzzle you sent me and it was easy.  Mom and Dad took me to the mall to find a harder one.  They didn't have any.  I haven't done anything else but the food court was good.
                        Love, Jeffrey

Pay Christmas Forward

                                                                                                                                            

     I can't seem to get past the nightmare of Sandy Hook Elementary.  I cry talking about it; I cry watching interviews or clips of the heartbreaking funerals; I cry thinking of the abyss if one of our five grandchildren were taken under similar circumstances.

     Millions of us have been traumatized by this mass shooting, unlike any other.  The reason?  We can picture ages five to ten.  We hold them in our arms.  We smell their hair.  We wipe their noses and laugh with their silliness.  Our stomachs seize when they are bullied or their temperatures reach 104.  My daughter-in-law forwarded a link to a wonderful blog by Jennifer Rowe Walters, who explains all this.  It's called, "What Six Looks Like" (www.huffingtonpost.com).

     Yet it's the season of Hanukkah and Christmas.  If Ann Curry's idea (NBC News) for 26 random acts of kindness (one for each victim) seems overwhelming, I'll start with one simple thing with someone right in front of me.

     I'll hug and kiss and hold on longer than usual.  I'll make a point of telling a little one, especially, he will always be loved.  I'll say "Thank you" to whoever is making possible another beautiful holiday together.  I'll tell someone who serves me how much he is appreciated.  Above all else, I'll respect the person in front of me.

     I'll pay the season forward. 

     I'll perform a random act of kindness without expecting anything in return.  I'll give a child passing by a big smile and a wave.  I'll wish people I'll never see again "Merry Christmas."  I'll say "Thank you" for even the smallest act of kindness (holding a door open, for example), and then return the favor for someone else.  I'll give something away that I'm are no longer using.  I'll share a story, a photo, a coffee break, a lunch.  I'll be a good listener, even if a child of six is talking.

     As Jennifer Walters wrote, "We know how sturdy and strong six is...and yet how frail and fragile."   Just like the rest of us.

     There'll come a day when Christmas will be returned to me.  As it is every time I hear those five little voices.

     Merry Christmas, everyone, and a healthy, safe 2013!

    

    

    

Where's the Body?

     This is a true story.  Only the names have been changed.

     Father Paul had sprinkled holy water over the waxy form that displayed Army medals across the chest.  A phone rang as Father Paul addressed the mourners.  It was not a ring; it was bells ringing in wild syncopation. 
     The phone opened and closed with a slap.  Father glanced in the direction of the offender, then continued with renewed gusto.  "Sophie and Jim were the perfect example of a love affair that continued into old age.  They held each other's hand and fininshed each other's sentences.  They --"
     The cell phone started its wild cacophony again.  The offender slapped the phone shut again.
     " -- took their vows seriously to be there in sickness and in health.  Sophie didn't miss a day at the nursing --"
     When the music began for the third time, I turned in my seat.  The offender was in his nineties and obviously didn't know how to turn the device off. 
     "Where are you?" he whispered.
     I could hear the response.  "We're at the cemetery, where you told us to go.  We're driving round and round but can't find anyone.  Where are you?"
     (Whisper)  "The Memorial Chapel on Boynton Beach Boulevard.  Come over here!  How did you get this number?"
     "I called your sister-in-law in Connecticut."  The phone slapped shut again.
     "It seems someone is missing," Father Paul said.  "Have you been able to direct them here?"
     "Yes, Father.  My apologies."
     "Now tell me.  Do you think our Jim would mind if you interrupted my remarks?  Or would he say, 'The more the merrier, and let the bells ring me on my way?'"
     "I think he'd tell them not to rush, Father, since he has all the time in the world."
    
    

A Spoof on Xmas Newsletters

     Dear friends and relatives,

    Happy Holidays, everyone!  Hope your year was better than ours.

     Last Christmas we planned to meet our two sons and their families half-way between them.  The hotel lost our reservation, but they were nice enough to call around to find us some rooms (four).   The only place that had a vacancy was in downtown Newark.  The pawn shops closed at five on Christmas Eve, which was a blessing, but with the pubs and sports bars rocking on either side of us, we decided to order Chinese in.  We exchanged gifts on Christmas morning in front of the little tree that stood on the counter in the office, then spent the rest of the day at Chucky Cheese.

     Charley and I travelled north from Florida twice last winter.  Once was when granddaughter Hannah swallowed a barette in the backseat of their car.  The other was when granddaughter Olivia got smacked with a lacrosse stick that severed her front tooth.  Most of you know that Charley insists on wearing a mask if he has to fly.  I flew on the same plane but five rows behind him (too embarassed), and the kid next to me threw up the whole flight.  When we changed planes in Atlanta, an ice storm closed the airport, so we spent the night on the benches in Terminal C.  Just when we finally got to sleep around 4 a.m., the cleaning crew reported to work and began vacuuming under us. 

     Going home after the other trip, the police dog smelled something in my luggage.  They couldn't find anything (no surprise there!), but the police dog kept yapping, so we ended up in the back of a van with a couple of tattooed gang members in handcuffs.  Inside the detention room they discovered it was the nail glue I'd packed.  By the way, the hospital suctioned the barrette out of Hannah and Olivia has a new cap on her tooth.

     We babysat the twins during the summer, while their parents went to a college reunion.  Unfortunately, one of the twins climbed up on a chair while we weren't looking and let our pet bird, Petey, out of its cage.  The bird flew directly up into the ceililng fan and dropped like a stone.  Naturally our cat, Fluffy, pounced on the poor dazed bird and carted it off to a hiding place.  When we heard the choking, we knew we could find Fluffy, but it was too late for both of them.  A part of Petey got stuck and we lost both of them.

     With two pets gone so suddenly, Charley and I were too depressed to take our annual trip to Niagara Falls.  We postponed it till this year, when I'll celebrate a BIG ONE.  The thought that I am going to be that old may keep me from going anywhere, but the kids say they'll have a cake and ice cream, anyway. 

     Have a very Merry Christmas and stay well!                  Love, Pam and Charley

P.S. - We are fortunate to be in good health, except for the dislocated shoulder that Charley suffered when he was skimboarding with the grandchildren and the Achilles I tore in a shuffleboard match. 
         
         

Little People

   
     After spending a week with three grandchildren under age five, I am still reeling.  Not from making mac and cheese at least once a day or losing fifteen games of Zingo (on purpose) or getting up when the little ones coughed through the night.  I am reeling at the wonder of it all.

     The two-year-olds motored their cars across the tile, then jumped off to tackle us behind the knees with unexpected hugs.   They squealed at the butterflies that flew around their heads at Butterfly World, at the misty waterfall they could run through, and at the birds that stayed on their hands drinking a sugar syrup.  They clung to the pole of the carousel horse, begging for another ride in their abbreviated, "NO GO, more please!" 

     Their four-year-old sister insisted on seeing every live show at Dreher Park Zoo, from the wild birds to the croc she could touch.  With bright sapphire eyes, pig tails, and an ever-ready smile, she stood to recite the pledge of allegiance at a Christmas concert and yelled good-bye to us at the airport, "I'll miss you, grandma and grandpa!" 

     It's not just innocence adults lose (and why wouldn't we?).  It's the resilency.  Kids bounce back - in minutes, if not seconds.  Scrapes on two knees hurt, but getting back in the pool was more important.  Aging makes the consequences of our actions more life-altering.  The lesson I learned from the kids:  get back to basics.
 
     Chelsea Cain's essay in the N.Y. TIMES BOOK REVIEW section December 2, 2012, talks about belonging to two writers' groups - one for distinguished authors and one for seven-year-olds.  She describes the process of writing (stories for the seven-year-olds) and then reading before the group.  In the case of the adult group, I can relate to the gut-wrenching that takes place before reading my piece.  In fact, more than once it has crossed my mind to leave before the leader called my name.

     Chelsea points out that the seven-year-olds, on the other hand, can't wait to read their stories aloud.  "They instinctively offer praise before going in for the kill."   Writing can be frustrating and demeaning.  Try bringing a memoir into a writer's group!  Kids don't know yet that everything they write is part memoir.  According to Chelsea, they cry "because they lost their pencil...or because someone wants to sit next to someone else."  About the important things - certainly not about their writing.

     Innocence, resilency, and perspective - I lost them somewhere along the way.  Spent a few days with the grandkids and found them again!