Parallel Play

Presidents' Day is over, and the gym is no longer packed with pretenders. I have mixed feelings about this. I wish--for their own sake--more people would stick with exercising. At the same time, I am glad to not have to get up at 3:30 in order to get my favorite machine.

The fitness center is the place where grown-ups can engage, like infants and toddlers, in parallel play, where we play next to, not with, each other. We may watch, entertain, and learn from each other, often doing the exact same thing, but, generally, we aren't interacting. For the most part, we're all in our own heads.

Yes, now we're back to the regulars. There's the woman who used to compete with me for the same machine, after exercising nicely across the aisle from me for three months solid. However, she has moved on to a machine down the way a bit. Now we smile and wave at each other. We have this two-year history with each other where we both work out on ellipticals at the ungodly hour of four and do about 70 minutes each, yet we don't know each other's names. She looks great.

Her husband is there, too. He reminds me of an Italian boyfriend I once had, only he's shorter. I got the idea one day that he's secretly abusive to her, but I hope that's not true. I don't know if I thought that because he comes up to get kisses from her all the time, or if it's because I caught him looking at me a couple of times, or if it's because when he comes up to her machine, she is done. Anyway, it's none of my business, at this point.

There's the guy who wears the same outfit every day, day in and day out, week in and week out. I just hope he's not really sweating in it.

There's the girl who looks like an old photograph negative--long, bleached white hair against dark skin who is always checking herself out in the mirrors in the dressing room, looking in them over her shoulder down to her calves, while telling her boyfriend via cell phone, "I've gotten so big, babe."

There's the squarish-shaped man with the extremely tight calves who sticks to the bar and desperately tries to engage anyone who gets near him in conversation.

There's the skeleton girl. It's bad enough to see an anorexic pounding it out on a treadmill--I always want to say, "Go have a shake or something"--but now that I'm seeing her in the locker room, I can barely look at her. Her skin is stretched so tightly across her ribs that it is ridged, making her look like she has even more ribs.

There's the tall black man who is very nice but always coughs as he works out.

There's the girl who brings her whole bathroom from home with her--plush burgundy bath sheets, a bathrobe, her makeup case, several brushes, a hair dryer, a hair styler, flip flops, and heaven only knows what else. I bring the bare minimum, and my gym bag is heavy enough. When she uses my shower, I end up stepping in after she leaves to turn off the water she has left running.

There's the guy who swings his head back and forth and sways to the music he's listening to. It looks like he's doing a dance instead of working out.

There are the two women in their late fifties who chat incessantly--on the bikes and in the locker room--about vacations, healthy cereals, what's going on in their neighborhood, whatever. I don't know if they really get much exercise, but it's nice to get caught up on Desperate Housewives without ever having to watch the show.

There's the man who is at least 99 and wears the kind of very short shorts popular in the 1980's, who always sets the treadmill too high for himself and hangs on to the machine for dear life, while his feet slip right off the sides of the treadmill! I am just sure he is going to fall off sometime and I'll have to break up my routine to rescue him. This sounds cruel, but I am always as mentally busy as physically busy, tracking my time and percentage done, and estimating the time of my finish. I write this data down in my notebook daily and don't want to lose it. Plus, I make it a point to never do anything dangerous so that someone else will be called upon to save me.

There's the very fit Barbie's kid sister who is unfailingly there, using various cardio machines and weights. Just like Kelly, she has a long ponytail right on the top of her head. I've never asked her if it grows when pulled.

There's the guy whose hair is as wild as mine--only shorter, who reminds me of a grizzly bear.

There's the woman who NEVER wears a shirt. (Yes, wearing a shirt is a rule posted on the wall.) She's very tall and fit, so she doesn't look bad in her sports bra, but she gets very sweaty as she works out and is usually right next to me. She reminds me of a foaming horse, actually.

There's the slight, older woman who walks every day. Fast. She is amazing. I don't like to be next to her, though, because she is full of surprises and distracts me. Suddenly, her foot is up on the arm of the machine, or she's walking backward. Or singing.

There's the tall, good-looking man who always comes up and says hello to me, then disappears into thin air.

There's the woman who had a baby a while ago, who, as hard as she works out, never seems to lose the love handles on her back, like me. She works out hard, too!

There's the man who can hardly walk, clearly due to some physical ailment, but it always there, every day, on the bike and slowly doing what weights he can.

And then there's me. I'm the middle-aged lady who looks like she just rolled out of bed without combing her hair. (I did.) I do, however, brush my teeth before I head to the gym. I know how unpleasant it is to be stuck next to someone whose oral bacteria are still dancing with garlic molecules from last night's dinner. I'm the one who has a favorite machine and a favorite shower, and will hang my coat on my machine to save it while I go to the locker room. However, if someone's already on it or in my shower, I'm nice about it. And I do clorox-wipe my machine before and after I use it. In other words, I want to do what I want to do, but I try not to offend or bother anyone else while getting it.

By the time I finish my workout, the gym is full. But I am streaming sweat and not paying attention to anyone. And I'm certainly hoping they're not paying attention to me.

Valentine's Day, Dumbed Down

I knew this wasn't going to be much of a Valentine's Day.

I knew we didn't have any time.

When Valentine's Day falls on a Monday, it gets tricky for a lot of people. For us, it seemed unlikely that we'd even lay eyes on each other.

I knew we didn't have any money.

When the Fates (or whoever) noticed us put all our current funds toward catching up on some bills, they decided to strangle our van. In a family the size of our family--with two working parents, the minivan is as vital as another member of the family. This weekend, we scraped up all the residue in our accounts and got the van fixed. Just so we could both keep working this week--no really important reason.

Then, on Sunday, the resuscitated van got a flat tire.

Not that we minded.

Paul put the donut on last night and said he'd try to get to the tire place today. I have enough PTSD that the idea of anyone speeding down the freeway with my baby inside a broken-in-any-way vehicle gives me daymares.

I didn't want to nag him, though.

So, my hope throughout the long day as I worked was--not that someone would appear with flowers for me, not that I would find some chocolate on the seat of my car--but that my sweetheart would find the time and the money to get the van tire fixed.

When your fondest wish for Valentine's Day boils down to, "Please don't kill the baby," you know you've been married a long time. Or something.

I'd be curious to know what Freud would make of it.

Anyway.

I did get to see Paul's face, because he was thoughtful enough to drop by my office and bring me my water jug and almonds, which I had forgotten to bring to work when I left in the dark this morning.

When I got home from work, a lovely baked ziti was in the oven. Roasted asparagus, seasoned cauliflower, and another vegetable dish were waiting on the stove. Some silk roses (still a mystery) were sitting in a vase we already owned on the kitchen table.

He had picked up something I needed from the pharmacy so that I wouldn't have to.

He had run errands to take care of the kids' needs.

All the children were alive and well.

And I know he'll come home tonight and another day pretty much like today will start all over again. And another, and another, and another.

And that is romantic enough.

Evil Pink and Purple

Right after I got home with a big bag of new shirts and jeans I'd picked up for my daughter, who grew two inches while having the flu, she told me. "I won't be able to wear these next year." Looking at the shock on my face, she added, "But I love them."

Seems her junior high school has a dress code.

I can understand a school having a dress code. However. Her school's dress code is: blue, green, brown, white. No stripes; no plaid; no prints; no jeans, except on Fridays. No pink, no orange, no purple, no red. No black, no gray. "Black and gray are not school colors," the website her disbelieving father and I sought out at this news stated.

So? My junior high school's colors were green and white. We didn't have to wear them and only them day after day. Thank goodness.

So, my daughter with a more-than-ample wardrobe suddenly had nothing "decent" to wear to school. I checked. All of her pants were black, gray, pink, tan, or jeans. She had one solid teal and one almost solid white shirt that she could plan to wear next year. I'm sorry, but I am not sending my budding rose to school with only two shirts and no pants.

This is a public school. If I were placing her in a private school, I could understand. Some of the neighborhood residents are wealthy, but not all of us!

Even with hitting the clearance racks, it is costing a fortune to provide a totally alternate wardrobe. The penalty for not complying? A fifty dollar fine.

I can understand not allowing students to wear anything questionable or immodest. All of her clothes are conservative. I can understand banning logos. None of her clothes have them. I can understand banning gang colors in an area with gang activity (not applicable here).

I would like the principal to explain to me what is evil about pink? What is wrong with alternating light green and dark green stripes? Even private Catholic schools allow plaid.

Do they realize how hard it is to find green pants that will not clash with the greens (and blues) of the shirts? Black or gray pants match everything. But, no!

I have to wonder. She has an all-blue shirt with white sleeves and a butterfly on the front. Is that going to bring on a fifty-dollar fine? It's solid colors, approved colors, and the butterfly isn't a logo. So will it fly? I cannot tell you how tempted I am to haul her whole wardrobe in there and get each item pre-approved. After providing her an alternate wardrobe on what seems like someone's whim, I am going to be in no mood to pay any fines.

The more I think about this and cannot come up with a logical explanation, the more it seems to me that this is just someone abusing authority. Just making arbitrary pronouncements just because s/he can. And that's wrong. It puts an undue burden on the poor. Even on the middle class! And unless someone can explain to me what is wrong with conservative, modest clothing of various colors, I will continue to feel like it's wrong.