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.

We Are Certainly NOT All A's

I caught some well-deserved flak for my last posting, which gives me an opportunity to clarify my position, for which I am grateful.

While I am alarmed at the thought that soon everyone in America will wear size Q pantyhose and no one will require size A, I realize equally that not everyone can be nor should be an A. My twelve-year-old daughter is a size A, and I could not find pantyhose for her, and I don't remember that being the case back when I was a size A, in the pre-Cambrian period. I remember there being A's, B's, and Q's. We are all different sizes, naturally.

My inability to find size A pantyhose triggered my sensitivity to the supersizing of America and my worries about that. But just as much as I think not everyone should be a Q, I know everyone cannot be an A, either. I, myself, will never be an A again. And I am fine with that.

The reactions I got to my postings gave me two new revelations. One, as a quite short person, I have never needed to purchase pantyhose to fit my height, only my weight, and so, of course, I missed the boat on why many people wear Q and beyond. I forgot that pantyhose size is a matter of height as well as weight. So sorry. Two, that many of the potential candidates for size A are young girls, who nowadays shun pantyhose completely.

So, the market for size A seems to have shrunk not only by our expanding girth but by our expanding freedom. I go bare-legged for much of the summer, too, although I do think there are occasions both cold and formal that require stockings. I am either old-fashioned or classy. Take your pick.

It was also brought to my attention that I may be a little "obsessed" with my personal journey toward better fitness. This is true. As a short person on whom every pound shows, with a heavy side of the family in my genetics, a sizeable sweet tooth, and a healthy dose of vanity despite having borne my last children while squarely in middle age, I have found that, without a fair amount of attention to and thought about what I eat and don't eat, what I do and don't do, where my weaknesses and strengths lie, what my triggers and traps are, I don't make any progress.

Making a half-hearted or short-lived effort doesn't work for me anymore. My efforts to make progress toward permanent weight loss and better health have required a great deal of research, thought, and trial and error. I am not wealthy enough to pay someone to figure this out for me. So, as one of the things I care about, fitness is one of the themes of my blog. This is not a weight-loss column, though, so it is not the only thing I blog about. But it will come up. It seems wise and prudent to me for most of us to give it some thought. But, if it makes you uncomfortable to contemplate fitness, skip those.

Please bear in mind that I am certainly no one worth anyone's envy. I have a large waist for my height, and, while I have attained some moderate gains in the past couple of years, my metabolism is basically broken, and I have to pay a large price for even moderate gains. Also, I can lose them far too easily. Like, by living through a holiday. After all this time, I still struggle to obtain and maintain a balance between my efforts and my weaknesses in order to achieve the results I want. I wouldn't wish this struggle onto my worst enemy. My thoughts are only to encourage others pressing forward along the same path.

And, as my niece eloquently pointed out, I lost two sisters this year and almost lost her father, who came as close to death as anyone can come and talk about it afterward. Other family members were also in jeopardy for their lives due to health issues. Including me. She wisely observed that the time to worry about these matters is now, before we are diagnosed.

So, yes, it is on my mind. When something as small as catching a cold could endanger your life or at least your ability, you pay attention to anything and everything that can help you have better health.

According to the experts, exercise can reduce the risk of everything from dementia to diabetes, from cancer to feeling bloated. And obesity ups the risks of just about everything dire. Even if all you do is prevent yourself from putting on another 20 pounds in your lifetime, from what I read, it would be worth it.

We're All Queens!

So, I went to the store to buy my daughter some new pantyhose. Turns out, all of her pantyhose and tights had developed holes at the same time. There must have been some kind of horrible epidemic in her top drawer. It's the only explanation I can find. Her explanation consisted of a shrug, so that's all I've got.

Actually, I went to more than one store. I went to several stores to try to replace my daughter's pantyhose and tights. See, she's twelve. And barely over 100 pounds.

And every time I went over to the pantyhose/tights rack/wall in each store and started looking for tights for her, one-third of them were size B, and at least two-thirds of them were size Q. All I was looking for was a nude size A. Is that too much to ask?!

Or a black. Or a white.

IF and WHEN (they were rare) I saw an A, it was always "Suntan," which is a horrible color to put on a skinny twelve-year-old girl. When I searched through the rows for a "Nude," it always said Q, or, less often, B. I looked at the back of the package. No, B would still definitely be too big for her.

Every store I went to was like this--a sea of Q's and hardly any A's.

So there I had it--the big question. What in the world is happening to us? Are we all so fat that they don't even bother to stock size A hose anymore? They think a token "Suntan" will appease us? And then I thought, "This is probably what it was like for people who needed Q's twenty years ago--some paltry token offering they could take or leave." But now so many of us are Q's that they hardly bother to get anything else?

We've turned into the movie Wall-E! We're all Q's! The human race has mutated into something else!

I admit I am bigger than I was twenty years ago. I am not, however, a Q. I work hard to not be a Q, thank you very much. But I am concerned about the trend.

I remember humans when most adults were thin. When middle-aged women could still be slim. We had only one fat teacher in our elementary school. And I remember that her girth was truly shocking to me. Wouldn't it be nice if we could go back to that again?

Do we really want to change as a species? Does this alarm anyone else? I think we should fight it. I think we should remember that human beings were designed to carry their water into their homes. Thank goodness we don't have to do that anymore. I like to use a lot more water than I could ever carry. But we need to replace that activity with something else that strengthens our core muscles. We need to burn some energy while preparing the food we eat.

Nowadays, it's possible to practically live our lives as if we are on conveyor belts--we can practically slide into our cars; ride in them to a drive-through, order a big bunch of fat, carbs, and salt; and shovel it in without burning a single calorie. Then we ride to our office, slide up to our desks at work, put in our time, and slide and ride back to our couches and beds.

How many of us take the stairs at work? Go for a walk during the day? Or might we as well be on hover seats one hundred percent of the time like the people in Wall-E? What's next? Drinking all our food so we don't even need to bother to chew?

Let's move it, people! Let's preserve our species as a beautiful, healthy one! Let's show our children what adults should live and look like! Let's not lose our bones, nor our need for them.

The list of health problems obesity causes or at least contributes to is heart-breaking. And it is so preventable.

There was an article in the paper this week by a doctor that I want to echo. He said that if you won't watch what you eat and exercise for yourself, do it for the people whose lives depend on you. Or if not for them, for the sake of the whole human race.

Another columnist this week wrote that she has gone back to shoveling snow rather than using her snow blower, just so she is expending some energy. Yes! I like her thinking! We need to make sure we are expending some energy. Let's stay alive and useful! Even I caught myself this week choosing not to be interested in my Christmas nuts because I would have to--gasp!--crack the shells. How lazy is that?

Come on--we can do this! Not that we can or should all be size A, for heaven's sake, but there should be a similar demand for it in America as there is for Q!

Obit Writers Say the Darn'dest Things!

Obituary writers may be just about the most creative and humorous writers around. Possibly, are more amusing than they think.

Not that I would EVER make fun of someone in grief--but just to improve writing generally, I provide this free service in behalf of the community at large.

Since I last wrote on this topic, several amusing things have been printed in local obituaries, along with many more examples of the most common mistake I see: the deceased having been born in litters. "He was one of ten children born to So-and-So and Such-and-Such on May 10, 1924." It's not a problem to say he was one of ten children. It's not a problem to say on which date he was born. The problem people keep repeating at an alarming rate is putting both in the same sentence so that it says all ten children were born on that date. Considering how famous the Dionne quintuplets are, I would think I would have heard of this person before now if that were the case.

If you must put both facts on one sentence, try this: "One of ten children, he was born on May 10, 1924." How's that?

Okay, English lesson over. More amusing are the examples that follow.

A seventy-nine-year-old woman was described as "the apple of her father's eye." I'm sure she was. I only hope she also reached other milestones in the eighty years since she achieved that one.

About the woman who dashed onto the freeway so quickly that her car got centered on the wall and slid down it several yards before dumping her off onto a street below, we read, "She had an inherent sense for what to do and how to do it with style."

A man's wife was described as "the fire of his loins" FIVE days in a row. Because once was not embarrassing enough.

A wealthy couple who killed each other/themselves on Christmas Day when that wealth was threatened "left everything better than they found it." Well, sure. Just ask the hotel where they shot each other.

If other news articles have already let the whole world know how someone died, you might save your beloved some face by toning down the fairy tales a bit. But if your goal is to write and print something truly memorable, the less thought given to it, the better.

Bucket List

Here are the things I really want to do:

Write the six novels in my head.

Travel to Switzerland.

Put on every single Shakespearean play, using my family as cast members, and using every single word of Shakespeare's in the productions.

Run businesses selling the things I have thought I could make money on.

Spend enough time with each one of my children that they know all about me and why I think the way I do, all of my relevant and positive history, and what I want for them and that they can achieve whatever they want to do.

Regain the buffness I had at thirty-two.

Become perfect.

Sew, cross-stitch, decorate, read, see plays and concerts, travel.

Eat at restaurants.

Here's what I will do:

Wash the same table hundreds of times.

Vacuum the same floors until the carpet is worn out.

Go to church and try to listen.

Have many conversations with my children and spouse, about eighty percent of which will be patient and positive.

Go to work 1768 more times.

Sleep in the same bed, wear the same clothes, eat the same breakfasts.

Sing the same goodnight song to my children at least 18000 more times. Times five.

Wish I had more time.

There must be some merit in performing mundane activities repeatedly. Because this is what our lives get filled up with.

I keep hearing and reading stories of people who--years before they thought this would happen--find out they are suddenly out of time.

The tremendous pain they have means they are full of cancer and they are put on morphine for the two days they have left. They have an accident and it's curtains. They come down with early-onset Alzheimers or another illness and are forced to quit their jobs and other meaningful activities.

It's over. Just like that.

Which brings me back to my thought. There must be some merit in having done certain things every day or nearly every day, over and over, even though those actions--in and of themselves--seem small and meaningless.

I remember at my grandma's funeral, someone mentioned that she got up and got dressed every day. What a thing to mention! Don't we all--to some extent? But it was the steadfast and unvarying repetition, the value she placed on it, that won her that accolade, small though it was. It made a big impression on me. Especially since I spend most of my time at home in my nightgown.

It meant more than it seemed to mean.

It was an effort she made for her own reasons. And someone noticed. And, somehow, it made a difference.

My mother was not a perfect housekeeper--she was far too busy. But I do remember that we never ate off a dirty table, as long as she was serving the meal. Small as that is, it says volumes.

So, maybe, even if I don't achieve greatness in any large way, but keep doing small things consistently, it will add up to something in the end.

Maybe, in the same way that the discipline I've achieved in consistency at the gym has made my muscles hard, washing that same table or singing that same song will add up to something in the end. Maybe there will be enough left over from the hurried, broken, incomplete or imperfect conversations I have had and will have my family members for them to piece together the rest of what I want them to know.