I know, I know - I haven't posted in quite some time. Having a blog is like having a relationship. When I came here to write, the main page looked at me blankly as if to say, "Where the hell have you been?" It's a love affair, this writing thing, and I have deeply neglected it. But, to answer its question, I've been right here, working my day job, caring for my grandchild and trying to maintain some semblance of sanity. Which brings me to Zumba.
Last week, I had a real taste of what hell is like when I agreed to join my neighbor at a Zumba class. "It's really tough," she'd said. "But it's so much fun. You work off your frustrations, do dance moves and the pace is fast." Fun? Dance? Fast-paced? Sounded like a piece of Heaven to me. So I said, "Sure."
And I was more than ready for it by the time Nancy pulled into the driveway to haul me off for my reprogramming. She'd said she was picking me up at 6:45. But, by 6:30, all hell broke loose around here. I had to make more pasta for the dish I'd prepared for dinner because I realized I hadn't made enough fettucine. I rushed to refill the pan and figured out the timing as I raced to set a chair in the laundry room for General Liam, who was demanding he have a moment alone with the washing machine. In this house, the best way to entertain our little two year old is to set a chair in the laundry room and let him talk away to his stuffed cow as he explains the intricacies of a washer's agitator and the sounds a machine makes when it is actually on. Meanwhile, my daughter was repeatedly asking whether I had found a needle and thread so that she could attempt to hem her pants. The pasta had to be stirred, Nancy was in the driveway, and I ran out the door without any shoes (AFTER dumping the pasta, of course. There's another separate story about forgetting that somewhere around here, down about the third paragraph).
Looking at my feet and back at Nancy, I stopped and put my hand up as she nodded while I ran back inside to grab my sneakers, hug Liam again and rush back out the door. As Nancy backed out of the driveway, I put on my shoes and she calmly said, "Where's your mat?" "Oh God," I replied. "If I have to go back into that house..." "I have an extra one," she announced and pulled into her driveway. Thankfully, Nancy lives right across the street.
As it turned out, I forgot my water but I insisted that I was not going back for it and told her to just go. We were a minute late and they had already started. We dropped our mats, weights and purses and ran out to the floor. The mats and weights are used at the end of class.
Let me just say that this thing called Zumba is hell in disguise. Created by Satan, sponsored by demons and taught by sadists. Basically, it is some sort of exercise/dance class with all the trappings of a murder/suicide. The instructor moves at the speed of light with dance moves I've never seen, let alone done, and I'm supposed to follow and keep up?
During class, I was always at least five moves behind everyone else and more than once I caught myself facing a completely different way than the rest of the class. Looking over my shoulder, they'd be facing the instructor and doing something completely different than the dusting-off-the-negativity-from-my-shoulder-and-wiggle-my-hips move I was doing a nanosecond ago. And, not surprisingly, the teacher made a comment that went something like this: "Are there some people here who have never done this before?" No, of course not. I have always had a burning desire to make a fool of myself.
By the time we got to the "mat and weights" part of the class, I was fantasizing about a speedy death and that dying on the floor of a middle school wouldn't be so bad. I realized I could no longer speak coherently and the sweat was saturating my "Peace" t-shirt. I later commented to Druck that this surprised me since I have never been much of a sweater. "No, you haven't," he agreed. "You're more of a cardigan."
So when we went to get the weights and mats, I turned to Nancy and said, "Great! Meights and wats!" She said, "What?" I said, "Neights and mats!" Then.... "Mever Nind." I took several deep breaths and pressed on.
After coming home, taking my shower and readying for bed in an old, yet still alluring t-shirt and fashionable capri sweats and, having stood at the road and talked to two neighbors for a minute whilst I pulled in Liam's big wheels and red ball, I came inside and looked in the mirror to notice that my t-shirt was on inside-out and my sweats were on backwards.
Which brings me to the various wardrobe mishaps I've had over the years. I'd love to hear some of yours in the comments section. Here's just a very small sampling of things that have happened over the years to me. Can anyone relate?
Working in a large law firm in Rochester, NY, and being the mother of two young children did not mix very well. I had to get out of there by 5 pm. But working in the litigation department all but screams 6 or 7 pm, at the earliest. Being a fabulous multi-tasker (you have no idea what I have going on behind the scenes right now as I type this and jump up and come back again to type some more), I always managed to do it.
One day, I had donned my brand new wrap-around skirt (remember those?). It was a lovely shade of brown and came just below the knee. I wore my high-heeled Candies and Ruth L. told me I had Barbie doll legs when I wore those shoes (kisses to Ruth). As I raced down the hall to the copy machine with a monstrous file, I heard a very loud TWHAP! Conscious of the time, I kept running - until the horror came to me. My lovely wrap-around skirt had unwrapped and was laying about 5 offices down the hall in the middle of the floor. Thankfully, I had the wherewithal to put on a slip that morning because, many days, I just went without. Nowadays, no one wears a slip unless what they have on is totally see-through (then again...).
I stood there for a moment, in my slip, blinking at the sight in front of me and set the file down. As I stood there, Doug F. (who I worked for), stuck his head out of his office door, looked down at the skirt, back up at me, broke into a huge smile, shook his head and closed his office door.
Fast forward a few more years to Syracuse, NY. I usually had to get ready for work in the dark because if I didn't dress before the little ones woke up, I might truly go to work with just a slip (not consciously). That day, I wore a black shoe and a blue shoe to work (Hi, Eric).
Jump ahead to Boston, MA. While working as a litigation paralegal, I needed to go pick up a very large file that was at the court house. I had to make copies of the file and bring it back. No one told me it was as large as it was. It packed two huge accordion files (called red ropes in law firms). I had that same old half-slip on, mind you, but by now, the elastic around the waist was all stretched out (having worn it through pregnancies and allowing my kids to wear it and tie it around their little shoulders, etc.), so I tucked it into my underwear to keep it on. Now, I realize that many of you would be saying, "Why didn't you just go buy a new slip?" Working full-time in Boston, with two small children and a commute time to and from work every day of one hour each way is why! By the time I'd get home at night, cook them a good dinner, help with homework, supervise showers, then sit and have a snack with them and a story and, oh yes, the Cosby Show, I was too tired to go shopping for a freaking slip.
Anyway, there I was, in Government Center, walking down the steps of the court house when, suddenly, I felt my slip coming loose. It was inching its way down my legs. I couldn't pull it up because I was carrying two monstrous files. Instead, I bent over, pressing the files against me to hold up my slip, and hobbled into the nearest public facility - Avis Rent-A-Car - where two young women were standing behind the counter, all smiles. Until they saw me. "May I help you?" One young woman asked. Frantic, I replied, "May I please come behind the counter?" "What?" Her face became pale and fearful.
I was in such a panic, I blurted out, "My slip is falling off, I have these two huge files and I just can't go on like this. I'll buy a new slip this weekend, I promise. But for now, can I please come back there?"
"Why don't you just use the Ladies' Room," the other one piped in and, with a wave of her hand, directed me to it.
"Oh, wow. Thank you," I said, setting the files down on the floor and walking to the restroom.
There's another story about that slip here.
A couple of years later, I was managing a law firm on Berkley Street in Boston. Now, believe me, there have been times when someone has outright called me GLAMOROUS. And, believe me again when I say that I have spent YEARS trying to analyze that. Because I have never seen myself as glamorous.
One morning, I was racing around the house, packing lunches, making sure I had the right color shoes on, and I zipped down to the basement to pull out, yes, a CARDIGAN, not a sweater, per se, but a cardigan from the dryer. It was, indeed, a sweater that could survive a washer and dryer because I am not one who likes going to the dry cleaners - it's just another thing to do. So I threw on the cardigan, kissed the kids good-bye ( husband took them to school), and raced off to catch my bus and then two trains to get to work.
As I stood in the office kitchen, breathless and patting myself on the back for another small feat accomplished (i.e., getting to work on time), the managing partner walked in as I poured myself a cup of coffee. I croaked a weak good morning and felt a little nibble at my back. I froze as I heard it. The static electricity sound and the tugging on my back gave it away. I turned slowly to see him holding up a very long, very white sweat sock. "Is this yours?" he smiled. "No, it isn't," I said, grabbing it, thanking him and scampering off to my office.
And, finally, although certainly not the last of the wardrobe faux pas's, came the time when I wore a very big blousey blouse to the same office as the sweat sock debacle. As an aside, my mother had given me this huge colorful blouse, which I normally wouldn't wear, but since she gave it to me, I felt obligated. The problem with it was that my little 34B size did not in any way, shape, or form, fill that thing out. So, I did what any other normal woman would do and I stuck a shoulder pad in each bra cup to help fill out the blouse.
That afternoon, as I was standing in the doorway of Bill C.'s office, talking to him and Ann F. about some important matter, Ann slowly walked over to me and gave a confused look. "What?" I said. She reached over and plucked something from the collar area of my blouse. "This yours?" she said, and handed me a shoulder pad.
I cleared my throat and, thinking fast, said, "Why yes. It's a shoulder pad. It must've come loose."
"But there isn't one on the other side," Ann noticed. "Where's that one?" She and Bill looked from one of my shoulders to the other and back again.
"I have no idea," I replied, before saying a quick "Excuse me," and hustled back to my office, closed the door and removed the other shoulder pad.
Some of us are put on this earth to build bridges, canals, run countries and negotiate huge, impactful contracts. Others are placed here as relief pitchers - as in "comedy relief." It took me years to understand my purpose in life, and now that I have figured it out, I don't care if I put my underwear on backwards or wear two different colored shoes. I don't care if, while I'm talking to my grandson and opening a bottle of sparkling water at the same time, I shake it up because I forget and think I'm shaking up a little milkshake for him and, when I open the bottle, it sprays all over the two of us. It took me years to be ok with these kinds of things. It took me years to say, "Listen, you'll never be glamorous (at least in my mind), you'll never be a physicist, and, even though you can beat the best of them at a political debate, you'll never ever be President." I'm ok with that.
Meanwhile, I signed up for seven more weeks of Zumba. Stay tuned.
Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma
The old egg had never come to fruition, never cracking open with new life to bestow upon an adoring mother duck its beauty of new life, new birth. Instead, the little heart ceased and was absorbed by time as the egg fossilized and hardened to a petrified state, its former inhabitant long gone. Its outer shell weathered the elements and the egg took on a patina that only age, sadness and time could create.
Early one morning, as Sophie partook in the annual Easter hunt hosted by her grandmother, she raced happily to the other side of the pond. Surely, her brothers would not dare to follow because the path to the other side was long overgrown and covered with thorns. Sophie often marveled at that far side where summer's heat brought pretty pink roses to those woesome boughs.
Coming too close to the edge of the pond, she slipped in the mud and glided downward, her Easter egg hunt about to come to a watery end. Quickly, she grabbed an old branch and was spared the drenching which she knew would have also garnered her a scolding from Nana Louise.
As she pulled herself up the slippery slope, Sophie noticed something gray and sparkling in the morning sun. The dew had created sunlit diamonds on the small specimen. Sophie gingerly edged to the beautiful trinket and gently cupped it in her hands.
Smiling, she headed back to the house carrying the only egg she needed. It was hard like a rock, but its shape...surely it was an egg.
Papa marveled at the incredible find and Mama and Nana Louise helped Sophie sift through Nana's basket of ribbons. Mama gently pulled some flowers from the beautiful centerpiece that rested on the dinner table and, together, they glued colorful adornments to the oval treasure.
Within minutes, the old, worn, abandoned egg was new again, exuding a beauty unlike any other that had been retrieved that day. Sophie clasped her hands and gazed at its fresh radiance with sparkling eyes.
"May I keep it?" she queried, giving Papa a sidelong glance.
"Oui, ma cherie," he replied with a moustached grin as he stroked his child's flaxen hair lovingly.
Over the years, as Sophie grew, the egg became a part of her own family and their Easter tradition. Each Easter eve, her children would anxiously watch as Sophie gently took the egg out of its velvet lined box, which had become its new home, and placed it in a holder on the mantle. The children would sit and listen eagerly as Sophie told the story of the egg and what it meant to her: a time of resurrection, joy and the promise of hope.
Copyright 2010 liamsgrandma