Shatter

I am tall and strong. Sturdy, like a warrior princess. But that seems to be only my appearance, not an actual truth. I think it's possible that I'm made of delicate china, my fragile milk-white frame ready to crumble at the lightest blow.

Evidence:

• My lower back is a torn-up battlefield. An extra vertebrae, bulging discs, muscle spasms, inflamed bursa... a wasteland of pain and crunchy tissue. This is not new; I've learned to make accommodations, and with the right stretching routine, the pain is relieved. Still, the degeneration started about 30 years too early, and that makes me uneasy and difficult to insure.

• On Sunday, I sprained my ankle. This is not my first sprained ankle. Oh no, this same ankle and I have done this dance many times before. The last serious sprain was in college, and I couldn't afford the physical therapy, so it healed sort of lumpy. But it healed nonetheless. In the years since, I've turned it here and there, and it always bounces back. It's healing again (as I write this, I am standing up), though I don't recall ever seeing it so bruised as it is. There was no adventure to cause my injury. I tripped, fell. I'm hoping R.I.C.E., Advil, and arnica will do the trick. I don't think it's broken, but if you told me I had some pretty pissed off connective tissue, I wouldn't be surprised. I do not like sitting still, and while I've enjoyed watching TV while I work (because I've had to sit on the sofa to elevate), I am frustrated that I am not taking 10,000 steps a day, nor sweating through TurboKick. I want it to be better already.

• I have this pesky little hand numbness thing that happens when I lie down. I was willing to ignore it, until it decided to stick around for months and months. Since that's not a good sign, I went to the doctor. My MRI showed that I have several herniated discs in my neck. I had no idea: I have no neck pain, no symptoms at all (except, maybe, hand numbness? Still too soon to know for sure). But what it does mean is that the pain could start at any time -- one false move, and my oozing disc goo could slide around some nerves. Then my neck would start to feel like my lower back, and I'd have to start eating Advil like candy.

So, like, now I am scared to move. What if I bounce too hard and rupture more discs? There are only 23 in your spine, and I'm out 5, and still not old enough to be President. Can you imagine what things could be like when I'm -- gasp -- 50? Am I going to be a cripple? Before all this, I was starting a nice running routine. I wasn't a particularly good runner, but it was pleasant. I stopped because I had pain in my hip. Crap, is that the next joint to go? I wake up with stiff, clawed fingers, sometimes unable to open lids until after I've had my coffee. What's next? 

As much as I hate sitting still, I'm afraid to do anything else. I did not realize I could break so easily.

Swim on, little fish

Happy March! I did not meet all of my goals in February. Also, February has way fewer days than any other month. I'm not looking for excuses. Ok, yes, I am. In some ways, February was not my best month ever. But in other ways, maybe it wasn't so bad. Ask me at 1pm, when I can take another dose of Advil to soothe my sore, inflamed sprained ankle.

I did read an extremely awesome book: The Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler. Oh, honey mustard, do I love this woman's writing. I didn't want the book to end, and was fairly annoyed that it had to. Also, it energized my "disaster planning" neurons (which hardly need stimulating), which is always exciting. So, if nothing else good happened all month, I had that experience. Mind enriched, outlook enhanced, so on and so forth.

If sharks stop swimming, they die. If fish stop swimming, they get eaten by sharks. No matter whether you're a big fish or a little one, the best thing to do is to just keep swimming. Thanks, Dorie.

Why put off until tomorrow what you could do next week?

Alternate title: procrasti-nation.

I have procrastination issues. Part of me thinks that's because I might be ADD. No, really. I saw a commercial the other day about children with ADD, and they visually described his symptoms (which is good, because there's no audio at the fitnessy center), and I totally have all of those. The other reason I think I procrastinate so much is because I have an overdeveloped lizard brain which recognizes 4/5th of everything I want to do as "terrifying" and tries to protect me from it all. Bad lizard! Bad!

So it's February now, and it's time to dive in to my February books. It's a shorter month, so I need to be a little more on the ball if I want to get things read. And that would be a lot easier if I could stop reading Percy Jackson and the Olympians books. They're similar in style to my Dresden Files books, but geared for YA and involving Greek mythology. Pretty darn great. I tear through them in about a day and a half, and because they're on the Kindle, no one has to know what I'm reading. Good thing there's only one more left in the series.

I've decided for February, being Black History Month, that I need to read more by African-American authors. For my non-fiction, I've downloaded a great collection from the Kindle store: W.E.B. DuBois, Booker T. Washington, essays by Zora Neale Hurston. And for my classic, I have an Octavia Butler book on my shelf that I haven't read yet, The Parable of the Sower, which I'm excited to read. "That's a classic?" you ask. Yes, it is. It's on HS reading lists... lucky kids. Octavia Butler is fantastic. If you haven't read her yet, I highly recommend Fledgling. It is to vampire stories what Twilight is to a McDonalds Two-Cheeseburger Meal. I adore the Two-Cheeseburger Meal, but feel completely sick and ashamed after eating it. Lucky for me, it's not available outside of the NY/NJ area.

Ok, enough procrastinating for now. I have a bunch of other stuff that I've been putting off that I really should get to. Ironically, I'm also putting off napping (something that people usually use as their procrastination tool). I'm stupefyingly tired. While I can do more if I get up earlier, it feels like I'm doing all of it in a pool of molasses. Maybe I need more coffee. Mmmmm... coffee. Chick-Fil-A has free coffee. I'm just saying.

Callous

I'm working on developing a thicker skin. Not literally, though you wouldn't know it from the pea-sized callus I have below the pinky finger on each hand. These are from drumming, and they're a good thing! They keep my hands from blistering from the friction of the drumsticks, exacerbated by my constantly sweating palms. Finally the calluses are in the "correct" place... before, I used to blister and callus around my thumbs and forefingers too, but those were a sign of improper grip. These calluses are a sign of protection -- even if they cause Cabana Boy to recoil in horror whenever he sweetly grabs my hand. Sorry, honey, I'll sand them down.

No, I mean a thicker emotional skin. I'm what's known as "overly-sensitive." Can't stand teasing, take everything too personally, blame myself for every bad thing that happens. Technically that makes me a "negative narcissist," but that's enough name-calling for one day. I need to toughen up.

I show signs of improvement. Last week, I got notification that a short play was not selected for a festival in New Orleans. (I had to rewrite that sentence... swapping "I" for "short play." "I" am not my writing.) I had a moment or two of, "oh, that's too bad. That would have been fun." I'd like to take more credit for my placid response, but really I was too busy stressing out about a work/career crisis that hit at the same time. My panic  doesn't like to multi-task.

Last night, I a portion of my new play got critiqued. I have learned, after many, many years of writing classes and writing groups, that workshop/critique groups are highly subjective. The work is never presented in the ideal setting (usually a cold reading against type with no staging) and those critiquing you may not be your ideal audience (um, does anyone know of a playwriting group for the pre-AARP in SoFla? Maybe I should start one...). There were some extremely negative responses. I think people started to feel bad for me.

You know what? I didn't feel bad for me. In fact, I played kind of a mean trick on my audience. I deliberately gave them the middle portion of the play, the part with very little exposition or character development, because I needed guidance on the overall shape and tone of the piece. Most importantly, I needed to hear the piece out loud. I did not want to get bogged down with comments like "Why isn't your 30-year old character married?" or "Grown women don't eat cupcakes!" Yes, that's actual feedback I've received in writing groups, but not last night -- I just threw that in there for effect. I've learned that if I want these workshops to be useful to me, I need to decide ahead of time what I want to get out of them, and determine how to best get it.

I did get useful feedback, mostly from the people who understand how to give useful feedback. Information about verb tense/action, and guidance on where to cut and where to build. The other thing I got, almost from every single person was "You write beautifully." That was usually preceded by "I have no idea what you've just presented." Afterwards, more people came up to me: "You have such respect for the English language!" and "You put your words together with such care!"

In fact, glowing praise for my talent was not the feedback I had wanted to elicit, but it sure was nice to hear!

Brrrrrrr, Baby, Brrrrrrr

It's cold here. I know it's colder up north, but just pity me for a moment. We have frost warnings. Iguanas are freezing to death. If our orange crops fail, we all might get scurvy. It's the perfect morning to curl up on the sofa in flannel pajamas, snuggled under blankets, drinking coffee and reading a candy book on the Kindle. Which is exactly what I did.

Yeah, I've lost your pity now. Now it's full-blown Grrrrr. But I have to do something to balance out the loss in income, the delayed paycheck that won't arrive until AFTER my taxes are due, and the drumming teacher who thinks that push-ups are the newest and greatest thing in the world.

In other words, I am trying to make the best of it. Please don't hate me. I would rather have a portion of your job than carry around this anxiety.

I've made a promise that tomorrow I will get back to work. Not my actual income-bearing job, such as it is, but the work that showers my soul in riches (ooooh, isn't that a pretty phrase). I cannot express how much this promise terrifies me. I don't think I've ever avoided anything more than this innocuous chartreuse folder on my desk, ever in my life. Plus, this promise cost me $100. That's now 10% of my weekly salary. So I'll be frittering away money if I bail.

Reading the candy book on the couch is comfortable, warm, and pleasurable. Getting back to work is scary and surrounded by the unknown. It's fully, ultimately, out of my control. On the sofa, I arrange the blankets and turn the pages -- I'm in charge. The green folder could lead to hardship, angst, and rejection. Or it could just as easily lead to fortune, glory, and adulation (ok, that's perhaps a bit much). There's no way to know.

Reading my candy book, I know exactly what is going to happen. The book's heroine is going to catch the bad guy, aided by her plucky partner and her dreamboat millionaire husband. There's no glory and adulation for me in it -- in fact, I'm too embarrassed by the title to even reveal what it is -- but it just feels so good. There's the nagging portion of my brain that says to stop. Like an emotional eater on a binge, "Put down the pint of Ben and Jerry's!" it begs me. But it's hard to stop. I read because I cannot face the reality of my own words.

Happy New Year!

It's 2010. Can you even believe it? I can't. Of course, that's probably because I'm so tired from being up until 2am. I'm, like, old now. I can't do that any more. Oh, sorry... I was just informed that I won't be old until TOMORROW. Ok. Party on.

I have new goal things I'm working towards this year. In lieu of resolutions, I'm actually planning goals and creating action items and metrics. Lest you think it's something lofty, some of these goal are "Moisturize face twice a day" and "Always carry reusable bags when shopping." Sure, there are a couple of lofty things on there, but I'm not going to tell you what they are. Because if I fail, you might make fun of me. No, you wouldn't do that. That's nice.

But I figure I can use this blog to track some of the goals, like the ones about the books that I read and the music that I listen to -- that's fairly interesting. Plus, one of the goals is (as before) to blog more regularly. Maybe all of these things will work together, in a seamless integration of time and action.

Or maybe I just need more coffee.

2010 is going to be great!

Prick

On Monday, I had acupuncture. It's awesome, life changing, etc. We open my chi, we redistribute my energy when it's gone all gooey, and we explore the energies of various other things... emotions, toxins, allergens, medications, etc. Generally, the results range from stellar to "well, at least I feel relaxed" and it's part of my overall treatment, so there's nothing to lose. It could be hoo-haa, or it could be the stuff of the subtle body and whatever makes the brain light up in a functional MRI.

So Monday, she had me choose three vials representing energy. I chose "discouragement," "success," and "low self-esteem." I figured that I fear success because of feelings of low self-esteem, and so I get easily discouraged (that's an interesting word, no? Like, it's the anti-courage). I'm sure this is all a part of my ingrained Puritan work ethic (which in this instance makes my father "theater"... it's a different post, you can look it up if you want). Like... I can only be successful if I work really, really hard. But there's no end to hard work, and one can slave until one collapses, and it may not ever be enough. And ultimately, I have to work so hard because I am no good, because if I were to be any good, I wouldn't need to work so hard (damn you, recursive data!).

During the treatment, I felt amazing. Unstoppable. I could see my creative future clear as day, and it was gilded in bright, shiny success. I visualized what I wanted to see happen, where I would travel to (and how I could bring Cabana Boy along), what I would do, what I would have. It was fantastic. My acupuncturist mentioned how great I was going to feel.

Eight hours later, I felt lower than low. Basement low. Coal shaft low. Secret plutonium storage facility low. I lost all energy, I cried, I moped, I clung to Cabana Boy like he was my glass elevator. I fell asleep at 9:30pm and slept until well past 7am the next morning. That morning, I couldn't do any writing. I couldn't do any work. I just felt mopey and slow and uninterested in doing anything other than lying in bed.

Later that day, success called. Great news! I'm a finalist! My visualization is working. Do I credit my acupuncture treatment? Yeah, I kind of do. Did I feel better? No, not at all. I felt worse. Much, much, much worse. I couldn't let the good news in. I pushed it away as hard as I could. What if I were to only be a finalist, and not a selection? I would feel sad. I would feel disappointed. Instead of letting that happen, I decided not to feel anything good. Well, that's really damn stupid of me. No one ever died of sad or disappointment. It doesn't negate the fact that this year I am a finalist (while last year, I was flat out rejected). Nor do I look at all of my amazing friends trying amazing scary things, and think poorly of them if they get rejected. That's assinine. I just don't know what is wrong with me.

I'm tempted to call my acupuncturist and ask her what she thinks is going on. Why I don't feel powerful, successful or brave anymore, even though success arrived as I'd planned. It could be nothing, it could be unrelated. My body is battling a cold. My employment situation is having some issues that will impact my future finances. I have recently eaten entirely too much white sugar, and yesterday I had to have my cervix prodded. I could just be a normal, stressed-out American. Or I could be a self-sabotaging wombat stuck on a crazy emotional frequency who needs to be pricked with more needles until I have less static.

I don't know... should I call her? Should I just take a St. Johns Wort and get on with my day? Should I just suck it up and write, like my good Puritan work ethic demands? Or should I go take a nap? I am open to suggestions.

Hell on Wheels

I guess women's roller derby is hip now. There's a major movie out about it, and since it's starring Ellen Page, it gets instant hipster cred. But we like to think, down here in Florida, that we're slightly immune to hipsterism. I mean, sure, there are small outbreaks of it around FAU and the Whole Foods in Boca. But generally, our demographic skews... older. Well, Fort Lauderdale is a slightly different story. Much wider array of people, larger population, etc. Well, Broward County has its own roller derby league. Hip has come to Florida.

If you had asked me if I wanted to go see roller derby, of course I would have said yes. What a great example of female empowerment! Woman-on-woman violence doesn't really count as violence, not like it does if men and women were beating on each other. Just like boxing is an old and esteemed sport. Well, turns out that one of Cabana Boy's friends is an MC for several derby circuits, and would be working the gig in Broward. Now I had a legitimate reason to attend!

Doors opened at 5pm. We got there around 5:15. Parking was a nightmare. Getting in to the rink was a nightmare. Maybe these girls are hell on wheels, but they're not so great at working a door. Finally we get inside. I don't know if you went roller skating as a child. I did. I was just the funnest thing, but the rinks weren't exactly high-class joints. This particular rink was firmly rooted in roller disco, and maintained the requisite decor. We ended up sitting in the snack bar, as there was no more room on the rink (either in the folding chairs or sitting cross-legged on the floor, hoping not to get crunched). I watched the entire match standing up on a banquette.

However, the clientele didn't seem to be firmly rooted in anything. There was a mix of hot lesbians, not-hot lesbians, fanboys who wanted to see some fishnets, goth kids, a few hipster couples swigging from flasks, and, strangely, many babies and toddlers. If not for the children, it would have felt like I was back at Lilith Fair. Michelle mentioned to me that she was the only person there without a tattoo. I offered to draw on her with the Sharpie in my purse, but I don't think she was interested. Two little girls selling baked goods to raise money for the team wore cat ears and tails. The place was a social anthroplogist's dream come true.

The match itself, once I figured out what was going on, was very exciting. It's not always about punching some chick in the face, or pushing her into the wall. It's more about a nimble weaving in and out of moving bodies, balanced on wheels and going fast. All while wearing fishnets. It's very high scoring, and includes a "halftime." My favorite part was when our goth MC would call out plays, and count "1, 2, 3, 4, 5... Yahtzee!" I don't actually know why he would say that, but he would, and it made me smile. Clearly, I have to look up more details on the scoring.

Everyone's attention was focused firmly on the flat-track when the paramedics had to be called over with their stretcher. A girl went down, and she didn't get back up. But, sadly, no blood, no need to actually put her on the stretcher. Looked like -- from where I was standing in the snack bar -- that she had the wind knocked out of her. We all clapped as she was gently tugged off to the sidelines.

I am excited for the next season to start. I look forward to getting there early, not dealing with parking nightmares, and getting to sit right up front. I look forward to learning exactly what's going on. This seems like a sport I can totally get into.

Those Sagacious Spice Girls...

So tell me what you want, what you really really want, / I'll tell you what Iwant, what I really really want, / So tell me what you want...


I actually really like this song. It's upbeat, catchy, danceable, little hint of girl power. It came out at a time in my life when we were young and silly, and doing fun things. I feel the same way about Hanson's MMMBop. 

The crux of this actually comes from my mother, who is hoping to take on a second job. Partially because she's on furlough and needs the money, partially because she needs human interaction over the holidays. "I hope I'll have the energy to do this, but I guess we find the energy to do the things we want to do." Incidentally, she was telling me this as I was driving the thirty miles home from drummy at 9pm on a Sunday night.

BAM! Insight much?

It's true. If you want to do something, you'll do it. If there's any doubt, any nagging tug, it doesn't. I want to learn taiko, so I drive an hour round trip twice a week. I want to go to acupuncture, so I will get myself up for my 9:30am appointments. I want to go on vacation, so I will save my money and do the research.

But also, ick. Does that make the opposite true? I did not go to the 8:30am Latin Impact class at the gym this morning, even though I want to brush up my salsa skills before our trip. I must not have wanted it that badly -- is that a fair thing to say? I did not write anything yesterday: I must not want to be a writer very badly, eh?

I don't know. It feels mean to say that about myself, that I'm deliberately sabotaging my good intentions. However, it very much might be true. But I also feel like I got off the rails a little bit over the weekend, and am now trying to catch up. Friday night, I was up extremely late, drinking German wine and planning for Puerto Rico. Saturday morning, I lost several productive hours due to computer malfunctions. Sunday, I had to recover from Saturday's late night (it was like an exhaustion piggy-back ride), go to Costco and go grocery shopping, head down to drummy, and generally feel like I was coming down with a cold. Monday, ditto. Cold-like symptoms continued all day, and I went to bed at 8:30pm.

So, this is all fine. I had a really fun weekend, and there's no crime in resting. But... resting takes time. Resting is not getting things done. Resting doesn't write plays. Nor is multi-tasking is very good for us, all the blogs say. I guess there are things that I want, but there are many things that I want. And I'm also fairly easily distracted. THAT is my great fear... that I'm not really going to be successful because I'm not focused enough or committed enough. The singularity of focus they talk about writers having... I don't have that. I don't know if it's willpower, or what, but I don't.

Or maybe I'm afraid to want. Patricia Moreno tells us during IntenSati (I totally feel cool like Amanda for being able to say that): "Desire, focus, intend, become." But we have to admit what it is we desire. I want to write plays. I can't say if I want that more than vacation, more than taiko, more than love, more than bike riding, more than Glee, more than Halloween, more than having a clean home and healthy food. But I do, I want it. Is that a start?

Wednesday JU!

Well, crap. It's Wednesday, and I'm supposed to write something today. And, uh, I also was supposed to write something on Friday. Normally, on Fridays I post a list of 5 things. Because I'm making up for lost time, I will write 10 things.

1. It's annoying that my neighborhood is not pedestrian-friendly. Even though I'm walking on the sidewalk and in crosswalks, cars pull all the way up to the curb, blocking my path. These are the same people, I can just feel it, who go to NYC and walk around Times Square and just suddenly STOP on the sidewalk to gape at something.

2. I walked past a McDonald's -- most of the cars cutting me off were on their way there. It smelled SO good. The last time I had McDonald's food was at Newark Airport in February, returning from my harrowing visit with my mother. I had my very favorite: the 2-cheeseburger meal. Now, I understand that it's not good for me, and I actually do know how many calories are in it, but it's what I wanted. I ate it, and it was so, so delicious. Every time I'm in an airport and I try to eat healthy -- thinking I'll have a turkey wrap or a salad with grilled chicken -- it ends badly. Chicken like latex strips and some sort of mucilaginous sauce in the sandwich. Also, I needed something to fortify me after my ordeal.

3. In fact, that was probably why I often ate very poorly in NYC. I needed fortification, whether from the cold, the miserable working conditions, or the stressful life I was leading. I remember so clearly, when deciding where we should go for lunch, my co-workers and I chose the burrito place. Oh, they're fantastic burritos, authentic and fresh, smothered in cheese and packed with rice and beans. We needed that food for sustenance, needed the feel of something nourishing, warm, and heavy in our bodies.

4. Florida's certainly good for that. It's hard to eat a heavy meal when it's 90 degrees out in October. Like at Oktoberfest on Sunday. There were probably 10 different kinds of -wersts, plus pork and chicken, mashed potatoes and various slaws. And, of course, the good German beer. Ja! I had a hot dog with sauerkraut -- I don't think I'd ever had sauerkraut before -- and mustard, a fantastic soft pretzel (being from Pennsylvania, I know me some good pretzels), and a pickle that was actually a whole cucumber. Yes, I could actually fit the whole thing in my mouth. I fear there are pictures, but I hope that they miraculously disappear. Can we change the subject now? I'm blushing.

5. I've taped the "race number" from my bike ride onto the back of my desk chair. As if suddenly my chair was going to go racing off! But I like it -- I feel very official. I am ready to get back on the bike too, now that my delicate sitting areas have recovered. After we went up the first hill (really the overpass to the highway -- there aren't hills in this part of Florida), I felt like an Ironman. It was such a great day, and such an amazing experience. I credit the Bike America people for being so patient and pleasant. And what great swag! A Trek water bottle, socks, a t-shirt AND I won a groovy prize in the raffle! So, yeah, well on my way to being an actual Ironman... though they probably don't need to ice their soft tissue.

6. This has been an odd week. Some days have staggered forward, others have zoomed past. I woke up nice and early yesterday and got so much done. Of course, by 9pm, I was completely exhausted. This morning, my body protested. "You starved me yesterday! Now it's payback!" It paid me back by binging on sleep for an extra two hours. Not sure what to make of tomorrow or Friday. Maybe my body and I can work something out. Or, I'll settle for not having my hands fall asleep during the night. I researched that... it's most likely a postural problem, or maybe carpal-tunnel, which would suck, but also wouldn't be shocking, considering I'm a writer who plays the drums.

7. On Monday night, we went to see The Laramie Project: Ten Years Later. It was the world premiere, and part of the "simultaneous opening night" -- it was being performed at about 100 theaters around the country. Sadly, the preshow from Lincoln Center featuring Glenn Close wasn't working, so we just launched into it. Overall, I thought it was well done. My background is in performance studies and dramatic criticism, and I find these sorts of productions very interesting. Definitely political, definitely had an agenda, but very creative and evocative. Saw a headline today for a Newsweek blog post calling this piece "theater-as-journalism." I haven't read the article yet, but that title concerns me. Journalism is unbiased... theater is not. I hope that blogger knows the difference.

8. Wow, doing a list of 10 things is exhausting. I'm drained already, and am only on 8. Glee is on tonight. I love Glee. Mostly because I am a giant musical theater dork. Ok, not really... because, sadly, I have seen and even know people who are just in too deep. The ones who have seen the play 20-30 times, who line up outside the stage door, who know exactly who's in the cast, even in each supporting role. But, admittedly, I'm a sucker for Andrew Lloyd Webber. Phantom rocked my world in junior high, and Miss Saigon was all I could think about in high school. I have seen Les Miz maybe... 3-4 times? And, yes, I know every word to every song on the Rent cast recording. So sue me. (Will stop now, before I start singing Guys and Dolls)

9. I am starting to work on the next play. I've actually told several people about it. This is huge for me. I know that all the productivity sites say not to overshare your goals, but in the past, I've been almost secretive about my work. Not exactly shame, but more like... waiting for the disapproval or for the comments indicating that I was incapable. But now, I've mentioned it, given a short 1-2 sentence thematic overview. It exists. I even told scary people! And you know what? Nothing scary happened. The scary people were nice. Everyone is actually nice.

10. Ok, super. Last one. And, also, luckily, time for dinner. I will have my regular Friday GO this week, because, damn, this is hard! Also, this weekend, we're going to roller derby, so there definitely will be much to discuss.

Gooooooaaaaalllllll!

Well, I am a day late (but hopefully not a dollar short). But that's ok, because a day late is better than nothing, and we get up on that horse and we just keep swimming, etc, etc. I gotta say, I feel better than I have in years. I credit the warm Florida sun, my comforting home with Cabana Boy, and lots and lots of acupuncture.

Each session, we do all sorts of things and stick needles in the craziest of places. Like, did you know that a needle placed in your outer thigh can relieve TMJ symptoms? Seems crazy, but it WORKS. Last time, I had needles threaded through my hairline and one stuck directly in the palm of my hand (insert your own Jesus joke here). No matter where I get pricked, I always end up feeling better.

Instead of wasting unquantified amounts of energy fretting over this or that, over wallowing in self-pity, and maintaining paralysis in the face of fear and opportunity, I am able to do other things. Like write, and exercise, and sleep. But now, having erased all that crap, I have this blank page just waiting to be filled up (with good things).

It's the goal setting process that freaks me out a little bit. I'm not going to tell you what my goals are, because studies show that doing so weakens one's resolve (because you feel productive just by mentioning it... like if I were to say "I've met Edward Albee" and then think that I can skip a day of writing because I'm that much closer to being a playwright). Like, because I am naturally a bit high-strung, I have lots of things I want to accomplish, and thus yield many, many goals. Great! Except I still have the same amount of time in the day that I did when I was moping.

I am reading a bunch of blogs on the subject, and I'm trying a bunch of strategies. I'll report back if any of them work. Right now, I'm considering breaking them into small chunks, so that I do a little bit each day. Sort of like with a box of Mini Bite-Size Chocolate Frosted Mini-Wheats... they're really small, but you'd be amazed at how quickly you can consume an entire box.

The Jung and the Restless

I've been slowly reading this book about the hero's journey for writers. It basically synthesizes Jungian archetypes, Joseph Campbell's The Power of Myth, and basic plot/characterization tips for writers. Anyway, however you feel about this "pop psychology," these roles do seem appearing over and over again in life, no? This seems as good a way as any for organizing the chaotic experience known as life.

I mostly have two recurring figures in my life: my mother and my father. I would say this is true for most people (unless they have large families with siblings or other important people... though I would argue that those people might be stand-ins for mater and pater). And this discussion isn't like how strippers have daddy issues, or how my failed female best friend relationship probably relates to my failed mother relationship. This isn't actually about people. It's about the things in my life that I've assigned these parental qualities to... keep reading... I really do plan to make sense.

See, my father is work. He was the one who took care of the day-to-day necessities: food, shelter, medical care. The kinds of things that we need money to procure. As a child, I got that from my father; as a grown-up, I get that from a job (or its resulting income). This is neither good nor bad, it just is. Unfortunately, my father also was sort of tight with money, and had a killer work ethic. These things lean a bit more towards the bad. I had to work for my allowance (which was also my lunch money), and if I didn't do my chores properly, I lost money and priveleges. It also meant he got to comment on how I spent my money, and how I took care of my meager finances. If he didn't agree, I received critical lectures. Add to this the fact that he spent more than half of his life working in one job, which he occasionally loathed. I learned that money was vital, work came first, and self-fulfillment would come later.

And now? Now I am terrified about money issues. So scared that I'd rather put my head in the sand than actually educate myself and take charge. I have an almost slavish devotion to my jobs (which is the epitome of irony now, since I'm a consultant). During my last corporate gig, the managers were mostly men. This certainly didn't help. In fact, we jokingly called my last boss "Papa" -- mostly because he had kids and dressed like a dad even though he was our age. But having to ask him for a day off, or when approaching our annual review? I was 9-years old again, standing small in the doorframe of my father's office, being instructed on the importance of saving.

It's not all bad. I am fairly good with money: I carry no debt but my grad school loans, I have savings and retirement accounts, and an accountant. I have a strong work ethic, and it seems to serve me well. But I feel entirely too responsible. I have trouble making large purchases (uh, mobile device decision still pending), and even feel guilty about a $5 lipstick or a $12 t-shirt from Target. I'm preparing for a business trip and trying to get some guidance on the travel budget; my contact has basically left it up to me, clearly assuming that he's dealing with an adult, and not a math-phobic 4th grader. How do I do what is frugal, convenient, and right all at the same time?

***

My mother is theater. This is potentially very bad, as writing is what I love most, but my father is the one I actually get along with. Or, actually, maybe it makes complete sense. I wanted to have my mother so desperately in my life, but it didn't always work out. For so long, I treated my writing as something that other people had to sign off on, approve of. This isn't completely erroneous, as there are a fair amount of gatekeepers and threshhold guardians involved: critics, festival adjudicators, producers, MFA admissions officials, etc. But it doesn't have to only be that way. I can do my own work, I can produce my own plays, and generally, it's ridiculously satisfying.

Except... it's hard work. Sometimes, it's easier just to sit and sulk and wallow. As in, "Why did my mother leave me? Why can't she be better?" Or, "This is too hard! I'm so stressed! I'm a hack and I'll never be any good. Playwright X over there is way more successful than I am!" There are such deep wells of emotion trapped here... I want to be the best, I want to be successful, I want that approval, whether it's her attention or a good pull-quote from a reviewer. "If I'm not the best, then I should quit" is equal to "If I were the best, she'd treat me better." Then I get trapped in my self-sabotaging ways, doing just enough work to get by, but not enough to really shine. What do I think would happen if I did that, cracked open that shell and let everyone be dazzled by me? I think it would hurt her, maybe. And because she never really let herself shine, I shouldn't let myself do it either. If I can't actually have her, then the next best thing must be to become her, right? Wrong. Very, very wrong.

There is another way. Stop fighting it... let it all go, and it will all come back. If I can accept that she's not perfect, that she's doing the best she knows how to do, and it's not actually about me, then I can drop the giant hurt-boulder I've been carrying around. I can just write what I want to write, and follow the paths and opportunities that will make me happy and give me the most joy, I can stop trying to follow Playwright X's path and have a happy little stroll down my own. It's easier said than done, of course, but saying it is a pretty good start.

***

There are things we're supposed to learn from these recurring archetypes. Usually, in the hero's journey, the mentor appears, teaches things, and then dies, leaving the hero to assimilate those lessons on his own. In some variations, the mentor eventually becomes a threshhold guardian, or even the shadowy enemy to be vanquished. But in none of these stories does the hero ever just stop, sit down in place and say "No thank you, I think I'll stay here." He keeps going, and accomplishes something, even if it wasn't his original goal. I will close with some words by one of the best-but-undervalued mentors of recent times: "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming."



(That's Dorie, from Finding Nemo. Not all mentors have to be smart. Did you except me to quote Yoda?)

Hysteria

I've spent a lot of time over the last few days thinking about my uterus. Yes, if there are any boys out there, you can be excused now. Did you know that the word "hysteria" is derived from the Ancient Greek word for "uterus?" Both hyster- like hysterectomy and hest- like Hestia, goddess of the hearth. Wherein hearth also was a representation for a woman, which makes having a bun in your oven make a lot more sense.

Lots of my friends are involved with bun-making these days. One is pregnant with her first, another just announced that she's expecting her second (shhh, don't tell, it's still a secret). Several others have fresh baked goods at home. Cabana Boy and I once went to a big, riotous, alcohol-soaked party and it was filled with pregnant women and/or their recent offspring. It was the strangest thing. (I decided to abandon the "baking/bun" metaphor. You'll see why in a minute.)

I love babies. They're cute! All round and sweet and cuddly... and those toes! Those chunky thighs! And I generally like children too, though I find them less interesting from about age 10-18. I think children, as a concept, are super. But it's just not something I really want for myself. It's not that I can't nurture; I just know how much work it is, and frankly, right now, I don't have that much energy.

(See, I had to drop the "bun" metaphor because I really wanted to say "I love to eat bread, but I prefer for someone else to do the baking." And that sounds awkward and slightly cannabalistic, though I'm not necessarily averse to baby-eating humor.)

Thus, I spend a lot of time thinking about my uterus and how I can ensure that it remains vacant. Ultimately, what I've come up with is that "The Man" (or whatever you like to call the Judeo-Christian-political-industrial complex that controls the world) wants women to reproduce, and they make it as hard as possible to opt-out. As with telemarketers, I struggle to get on an effective "do not call" list. I think Margaret Sanger was a super-duper fierce rock star, but I worry about what dabbling with hormones will do to my body. All of the other options, from sheath to sponge to the big snip-snip, have some sort of negative side effect. It doesn't seem quite fair.

If I were a very strong feminist, I would say that this is also a way for "The Man" to prevent women from getting joy from their bodies. All because they need us to bear their heirs and ensure lineages! Have to keep us in line, while the men are blissfully frolicking around unzipped! But I'm not really that much of a feminist. It is what it is.

Still, it would be nice not to worry. Nice to not have to think about it. And maybe it's not such a big deal. Just pick a method; if it doesn't work, try another one. It's nothing to get hysterical about, right?

Technobabble

Oh, poor neglected bloggy-blog. I am so sorry... I have been so absent. It's not that I don't think of you fondly and often. It's just that I am a master of procrastination and avoidance. Or maybe you've been secretly keeping me at bay, retribution for referring to you as "bloggy-blog." Deal with it.

I feel like maybe I would blog more if I had the right tool. Not tool as in software, as I think Blogger is perfectly fine for my low-flash, high-text posts. And not really tool as in computer, since there are more computers in residence here than people. But I want to not be trapped in the house, and yet also not be lugging around heavy laptop bags that I can't leave unattended for a quick potty break or stored in a hot car.

So of course, I think about going mobile. I am not ashamed to admit that I crush on the iPhone. If it weren't for that wretched AT&T service, I would be all over that. And then I seriously considered the iPod touch for a while back around January... and I flipped and flopped all spring long. But I couldn't quite see the value, until I started using Evernote and Sparkpeople, and suddenly there were all of these things that I wanted to do while I was out in the world! So I started flipping again, but I knew I had to wait until September for the new Apple announcement. There were rumors of an iPod touch with a camera (WANT for sure!) and even the potential for an iPad.

In the meantime, there was the PalmPre. Pretty sweet! And Sprint has a good value plan, and I'd only have to carry one device. But it would mean switching to Sprint. And then there's the Google phone, which totally owns me now that they use the Cat Stevens song in their commercial. But after yesterday's Gmail outage, I'm wary of commiting all of my online life to Google. Or maybe I just want an old-school Blackberry.

To make matters worse, there are netbooks. I adore netbooks. Except for the typing bit. Which is ironic, perhaps, because I'm pretty sure that heavy typing on the iPhone/Touch is going to be really challenging too. Now there are netbooks that come with broadband cards, and the new MiFi personal wireless hubs. So, so, so tempting. Because then I could be online with my mobile device, or with my laptop, and even hook up several of my friends. Good for work and play!

But then I go back and forth, back and forth. Get a netbook! Just get a smartphone. Get a new iPod! No, you want a netbook! I will wait until September 9th to see what Apple has to offer, and then I will make my decision. But whatever I end up with has to fit in a normal handbag, so I can take it to the bathroom with me and carry it around the grocery store.

P.S. My favorite thing, of course, is actually still pen and paper. But there's that annoying interim step of how to get handwritten things nicely typed up. Yet another tick in the "Hope for an iPad" column.

Don't Ask Me

So recently, we were test-driving a new gym. I had a free 7-day pass, and wanted to check out some of the classes. I was excited that they had Zumba, something I learned about from a late-night infomercial. They also had a general dance class that was held at a convenient time; my current gym offers only once dance class, and it contains the term "impact." That's something a person with a degenerative disc disorder needs to avoid, so I've never tried it. Still, I like to dance, so I figured this would be fun.

And was it ever! I had the best time! We did the can-can, a little salsa, a bit of merengue, and a whole lot of rump-shaking. I don't usually get to shake my rump in public, as I'm very white and overly tense... I won't say it's as bad as the "Elaine" dance, but I'm not loose and I seldom flow.

So while I'm not the world's best dancer, I was in fact a pretty good martial artist. My favorite part of training was kata, the forms that highlight stances and strikes in a slow, controlled environment. It was about precision, control, strength and endurance. We would often remark in class -- especially when watching the black belts do their advanced kata -- that it looked very much like a dance, and there was a special kind of grace that came from their power. I was good at kata.

But see, it's not exactly a dance. And that's hard for me to wrap my head around. The can-can is all about the high kick, but I guarantee the goal is not to high kick an opponent in the head. While some of the other ladies were wilting from the sustained, repetitive kicking, I was in my comfort zone. Except that my kicks looked... different. They weren't fluid or dainty; they were measured, precise, and strong.

Crap! I was doing karate in a dance class! Other mashed-up techniques followed: an accidental "knife hand" instead of a flirty hand wave, quick punches instead of arm shimmies. And, yes, during the can-can, I was blocking my head when I was kicking. Still, I was able to keep up, didn't faint, and no one seemed to notice that my dancing was a bit more bellicose than bella.

Thus, I was excited for Zumba the following Monday. I was lucky that karate also taught me to isolate my hips, so while my upper body might be a solid, unmoving mass, my lower body was fairly flexible. This would be great for a Latin-themed class. I imagined an instructor wearing shocking colors, Carneval music on the stereo, and a general feeling of fiesta. Ay, no. It ended up being the exact same class I'd taken the previous Friday. Turns out that teacher was subbing on Friday, and I guess did whatever she normally did when she taught. So, Monday was, again, lots of fun... but just another hour of rump-shaking and "knife hand."

I felt a little cheated. Did I Zumba? I have no idea. I was so excited to be part of this dance sensation that, while not exactly sweeping the nation, had made its way to Staten Island where it was endorsed by a good friend. Now I can't say for sure what I did. I will say, though, that there is a particular joy in pretending to be a writhing, lasso-wielding cowgirl while a man chanting "¡Dale, mamí, dale!"  blared from the speakers. I mean, when am I ever going to do that again?

Salve

Oh, hi. Didn't see you there. Probably because I haven't been looking at this blog in a gazillion years. Didn't I have some goal that said I would write something each week? Um, major fail. But I'm starting to realize the thing about failure is that it's not a once and done thing... you can keep doing it over and over again. And maybe, eventually, one of those times, it won't be fail. So it looks like I'll try again. Once-a-week, here I come!

I don't think I'm living up to my potential. I know that sounds sort of junior high guidance counselor -- I did have a dream last night that I was sent back to junior high, and showed up late and got in all sorts of trouble, but they didn't know what to do with me because I just totally didn't care, because I was already grown up -- but I think it might be true. Actually, it's not that I'm not living up to my potential... I seem to be living up well to everything in front of me. I think I'm avoiding my potential. 

For example, I recently had a successful workshop for a play I've been working on forever. I came out of it with tons of helpful advice. And yet... is there a fire under my butt to work on it and get it done? No. Wait --- that's not true. There is a fire... everyday I'm like, "Man, I should really work on those script changes," and then I find something else to do. The fire is there, but apparently my butt doesn't mind getting all charred and blistered. Eww, right? Perhaps I should do something about that.

I realized it most profoundly at work. I love my job, and I get to do lots of really interesting things. One task is working with video editing software to create short training videos. I've been involved in the process from Day 1, previously writing and editing scripts for other people to produce the videos. Now I'm working on all areas. This ought to fill me with joy: it's a fantastic thing to list on my resume, and is fun to do. And yet for some reason, getting me to work on the task requires nothing short of fingernail pulling. I just can't bring myself to do it. Same thing with submitting my monthly invoice. Hello, dumbass! Take 20 tedious minutes to do this paperwork, and people will send you thousands of dollars!!! Nope, I wait til the last minute, needing several prompts from my boss to get it done. Is that normal?

Maybe it is, but I don't think it's helpful. Meanwhile, I have no trouble instantly catering to the demands of the nice-but-crazy people I work with. "Please help me do this simple technical task that I should already know how to do!" It's like there's someone else inside me, diverting the good stuff so the crappy stuff can get through. Some turned-around, potential-blocking bouncer that has no problem with burned butts. I think that guy's getting fired.

March Forward

I had this plan that I'd blog more. It was going to be great: I'd be writing and actively engaged in creativity. Plus, I recently heard on the radio that people who blog are happier than people who don't. Ok, admittedly, I heard this on Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me but since it's a show about the news, the news they cite ought to be true.

Except that I hardly wrote anything in February. Three posts. And one of them didn't really even count. But I meant to. I had this lovely Valentine's Day post all ready -- a sweet ode to love -- and is in fact partially typed up on my desktop. But I never got around to finishing it. I had this idea that when I was up north I would blog about my experiences, and I've been carrying around this amusing post about cold weather in my brain for over a week now, and just haven't made it happen.

If you've noticed, most of my recent posts have been about my inability to manage time properly, and my oversleeping. Maybe this whole post isn't fair, since I'm extraordinarily cranky about going back to sleep this morning, when I really wish I had just gotten up. 

WARNING! I'm going to get very whiny now, because this is my blog and I can. Please avert your eyes. I'll let you know when it's safe to look again.

I know it's not fair to complain, since I have a more reasonable schedule than other people, but it just sucks! Like, already, it's 9:15 and I still have more things I want to accomplish. I just hate this. Can't I have leisure time and writing time and exercise time and personal time? All this makes me feel like a complete failure, compounded with the fact that I'm the person who routinely spills and breaks things (yes, this morning I spilled coffee. No, I haven't broken anything  yet today, but it's only 9:15 so give me time). I am so tired and cranky and premenstrual. I want to eat Doritos and drink chocolate milk and just watch TV all day. I do NOT want to call the accountant. WAAAH! 

Ok, I am done now. You may open your eyes.

I'm going to wrap this up, because I'm just taking time away from other things. If I hurry, I can get in 2o minutes of yoga and hopefully still be able to take a shower. Maybe I'll try to blog once a week in March. In January and February, I had hoped to blog every day. That might have been too ambitious. So once per week, for now, is what I'll shoot for. Wish me luck.

AM = Anti-morning

I have been slacking off on the blogging lately. On lots of things, including virtual pet care (though I still manage to feed Lola every day). Because I have been sleeping.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I am so tired in the mornings! Maybe this is because we go to bed later some nights, or we're exercising more, but I just cannot wake up in the morning. The alarm goes off at 6:30, and I turn it off, and Cabana Boy gets up. I roll over, barely conscious, for another 45 minutes. When he comes in after his shower, my eyes open into tiny slits and search vainly for his form. Must focus... must try for sight. It's hard. And then I blink naturally, but the eyes stay closed for longer than they would normally. Sleep is tugging me back, while my longing to embrace him and tell him "drive safely" works to keep me conscious for just a few moments longer. Instantly, I am asleep again, and dreaming. (Is so much REM sleep normal? Should I have this looked at?)

This is not new for me. I've never been a very good morning person. I want to so desperately to be. I want to get up with the sun, and drink my coffee and read and write, go to yoga, and do all of these things before going to work. Mostly, in my life, I was the person who hit the snooze button repeatedly, sometimes for HOURS. 

What I need, the moment I hear the alarm, is to dash open the blinds. I know that streaming sunlight will burn off the fog of sleep. This is part of the problem, I'm starting to realize. When the alarm goes off, the sun isn't up yet. Just now, I googled it. Sunrise here is at 6:54AM. Well, that explains it. If I am getting up with the sun, I should be setting an alarm for 24 minutes later. It's like our own Floridian version of SAD. 

I will try it tomorrow. Anything to keep me from sleeping until 8:30. It feels gluttonous, and only leads to more dreams, which is never good*. Plus, I wake up groggy. On the up side, the coffee is getting better.

*Random side note: Is this why Freddy Krueger always freaked me out so much? Or maybe it was this movie, which I watched too often on HBO as a child.

Playing in Traffic

This morning, I walked to Walgreens. We needed a few things, and, as Walgreens is only a mile away, it felt literally like a crime against nature to drive. 

I do not live in a pedestrian-friendly environment. Which is to say, I live in America, outside of a major city. It was very hard for me to embrace being a driver again. I grew up in a suburb, but spent all of my adult life until now in a city. That meant mass transit and lots of walking. Not all of which was good. I love the fact that I no longer have to carry my meager supply of groceries home -- a mile and 1/2 walk -- in the snow. And I'm not against car travel... I love being a passenger, and there is nothing greater than driving down Route 1 on the way to Key West. I just find driving to be tedious and annoying.

Walking isn't much of an option here. There are sidewalks, but the traffic is so intense that you barely feel safe walking on them. At first, I worried that I would feel self-conscious being a walker. There are so few other walkers that you really do stand out. I hated the thought that people would stare at me, especially if I were all sweaty. Then I realized that attention is exactly what you want. If drivers see you, they're less likely to accidentally jump the curb and run you over.

Major intersections involve the dreaded "pressing of the button." You know the crosswalk button? The one that you secretly suspect is not even attached to anything? Yeah, that one. On most roads, there are 4-6 lanes of traffic -- and this can grow to 8-10 lanes if you have special turn-only lanes. I'd be better off trying to cross the Florida Turnpike. Also, U-turns are generally legal, and present a hazard for motorists as well as a pedestrians. See, when you get behind the wheel of a car that is located in Florida, a funny thing happens: your turn signal is rendered non-functional. Add that to overall sense of "right-of-way" entitlement, and you walk at your own peril.

Most of this discussion is pointless. We live in such sprawl that nearly everywhere I want to go is just out of reasonable walking distance. "Reasonable walking distance" means "does not take 2 hours to get there." This is why I want a bike.

I dream of being a bike rider! It is, in fact, one of my New Year's resolutions. I visualize myself on my shiny new bike, dashing around town, rolling past the ocean, cruising through a park. Sometimes this bike is black, sometimes it is powder blue; I have not fully decided yet. I'm not actually a competent bike rider -- yet. I will be! However, I have no experience riding in traffic. My juvenile escapades on a bicycle were brief, and never involved populated areas. I want so badly to ride my bike to Walgreens, to the gym (2.9 miles), to the grocery store (1.4 miles), even to the library (4.6 miles). These all seem like reasonable distances, but are still intimidating for someone with 0 hours of experience playing in traffic.

I must also face the likelihood of the shiny new bike being stolen. There are regular notices posted at the gym about cars being broken into, and a fair amount of petty crime in this general area. What makes me think my bike is going to be safe? Would I end up having to walk home? 

So I imagine it like this. I have already located several roadways that lead to my desired destinations with very little traffic, and very wide sidewalks. Yes, riding on the sidewalk is probably a ticketable offense here, but I am going to be a grown woman wearing a helmet and wobbling mightily. I think the police will overlook me. I have counted the number of intersections I need to cross, and I know that I can get off the bike to press the button if necessary. Finally, I am prepared to buy both a U-lock and a cable lock to secure my bike upon my arrival -- several cable locks, if that's what it takes. 

I really, really want this to work.

The Wisdom of Nancie

Nancie -- with an "ie" -- is my Thursday night Swimmy teacher. Oh, let me take a step back. "Swimmy" is what's actually called "AquaFit" on the gym's schedule, which is really "water aerobics" wherein you do fitness activities in the pool, occasionally using yellow plastic weights and "noodles," those long foam things popular with children. See, I call it "Swimmy" because I'm not really swimming, though I am playing in the swimming pool. I do feel a small amount of shame in admitting that I have to take water aerobics because I have the spine of an old person, so I try to reclaim the experience and make it my own. 

Where were we? Right. Nancie is my Thursday night Swimmy teacher. The Tuesday night teacher is a sassy young lady with multi-colored hair, multiple tattoos, and a bizarre name. I like her because her classes are comfortingly predictable, and because she's very fit and strong, but still suffers from cellulite like a normal human being. She's a fun teacher, but just doesn't compare with Nancie.

Before Nancie arrived, we had a number of Thursday night teachers. First there was Kathy, a sweet, Wonder Bread girl with a southern accent. She lasted for a few months, but ended up changing jobs and had to stop teaching. Next came another lady with a bizarre name. This lady frightened me at first, with her Western Long Island pushiness, but she did run a good class. She didn't give anybody any slack. She's just about 50 years old and has the body of a 26-year old. A very, very tan 26-year old who still wears workout gear from the 1980s. She left because she found the water too cold.

And now we have Nancie. Nancie is probably also around 50... 6 feet tall, with the long, lean body of a dancer. Nancie is from Iowa, and looks like what I imagine my friend Sarah will look like at 50, if she had bigger muscles. Nancie is also deeply, deeply tan (I'm not sure what to make of this trend -- it's not something the younger Swimmy teachers do). Nancie has a new hip and a new knee "and those are the only body parts I've bought that I'll tell you about." Yes, I believe hers are fake: she does look rather pneumatic in her tank suits.

Nancie is tough, but fair. "You grew it, you lift it," she commands, as we high-kick across the pool. Still, she tells people to go at their own pace. "You should be working in your target heart rate. Unless you're having one of those days where you're just lucky to have made it here at all tonight... maybe you don't feel like working so hard. You do what you need to do." She checks on us regularly to make sure we are still breathing, and requires that we make some sort of noise to confirm this. "Woo!" we all yell in unison. She has such enthusiasm that she makes us want to "woo."

Nancie schools us on our target heart rate, giving us charts as handouts, and reminds us to cool down if we ever have to leave early: "Not only can you pass out in the shower, but you can get vericose veins!" She understands what motivates us. She encourages us to activate different muscle groups: "you can keep your knees apart... I've turned off the underwater cameras, so you're safe." When she calls out a new move, she prefaces the change with "And then..." occasionally using a Muppet voice; this makes me giggle. 

She tells the same corny jokes every week. "So this class runs until 8:30, right?" It starts at 6:00. At first, some of the new people would pause to evaluate the seriousness of this claim, and giggle nervously when they realize she's teasing. But now, we're more likely to cheer "yes!" and hope for the day it actually comes true. As it is, she often keeps us late, occasionally lying to the irritated lap swimmers waiting to get back into the pool. "Oh, we're just about done here... got a late start because of some swimmers." The Tuesday teacher ends class at 6:50 most weeks, because she has to dash to another teaching gig up in West Palm. Nancie never cheats us of fitness.

"Ladies, you should be in water that's about chest deep. If your chest is up here [she indicates her neck], I don't know what's going on. If your chest is down here [she indicates her solar plexus], then you probably belong in my senior citizen class." She is full of good, solid advice, and keeps us on track, but never threatens or goads us. "Your heart doesn't know if you're on your right foot or your left foot... it doesn't matter if you don't do it exactly right. Just keep moving!"

After we have been in our target heart rate for about 35 minutes, we move to the weights and noodles. We do a few sequences with each, and then begin to cool down. "Leave your weights where they are. Do NOT put them away. This is the hardest thing for you ladies to do... just let go." Nancie instructs us with the wisdom of a buddha. As we come to a close, we do a final stretch: "reach your arms out to both sides, and now wrap them around yourself, and give yourself a hug, just in case no one else does." Nancie understands the importance of self-care.

The other ladies and I love this class the most; I know this because we tell each other in hushed tones in the locker room, and when we gather on Tuesdays and don't want the other teacher to feel bad. One woman drives up from a town about 20 miles away just to take this class; she's hooked. As much as I like the Tuesday teacher, I wish Nancie would teach all the classes. In fact, I think it would be cool if she just hung around all the time.