Drop and Gimme Twenty!

I got to hang out with the strength and conditioning coach at a Big Ten school a couple of weeks ago. I was there to do a profile on the guy for a football newsletter. For about an hour, we sat in an office just off the gym with a view of the enormous weight room.     
          Everything, as you might expect, was huge. From the size of the players working out to the number and comic book proportions of the barbells some of them were lifting. Having spent a lot of time in a few regulation size health clubs, I can say that the equipment in the weight room of a major university is AWESOME by comparison. First it's all intended to feed into a particular mystique -- we're big and we're bad. To start, everything is painted an intimidating flat black. Or it's chromed and shiny like a '56 Chevy. The floors are covered with thick rubber mats to protect the valuable cement from the body parts and chunks of metal that could land there, since what goes up can often, unexpectedly, come down.  
           Each machine looks like it's been ramped up to accommodate The Incredible Hulk. Oh, wait, these guys are ALL incredible hulks. Even, um, that girl riding the stationary bike. I had to look twice to be sure she wasn't a he. It was an understandable mistake. Everybody's wearing the same uniform -- t-shirts with the sleeves ripped off and utility shorts -- so how was I supposed to know?
          We were also taking pictures of the different workouts, but when players with the biggest guns were posing, you couldn't get anyone with smaller arms to join them. And some guys were concerned about the amount of weight they were lifting. Would it make them look weak? Compared to what? An earthmover? Seriously, Dude, you're 6'4" and you're lifting something that's heavier than the front end of a car. I wouldn't worry about it. Luckily we weren't in the locker room. That's where the competition gets really fierce.
          Meanwhile, I continued chatting up the coach, who looks young enough to be one of the players, even though he's almost fifty years old. But, as young as he is, he's already had his hips replaced. So we had some common ground, although I pointed out that when he finally got to my age he'd probably have to have them replaced again. I do know how to bring the good news. 
          There were a couple of amusing moments as I typed everything he said into my computer. He was talking about the thousands of calories the guys need every day, and said he recommends three "squares" and three snacks. Oh, you mean snacks like Clif bars, I said, hoping to interject my vast knowledge of all things athletes consume into the conversation. No, more like a meatball sub, a glass of milk and some bananas. Or the living room sofa, in a pinch. 
          I wanted to know about some of the drills the players had to endure. The coach smiled and gave me the details on what the players call "The Wheel of Death." Enough said. I asked a running back to describe what it felt like when that particular drill was over. He said afterward his legs can't seem to stop shaking. Everything feels like Jell-O. And his feet feel like they've been lit on fire with a blowtorch. Good times. 
          To keep these highly competitive players engaged there are any number of competitions for bragging rights. There are the usual ones -- who's the biggest, strongest and the fastest. But the truck tire toss is the one that got my attention. Competitors have to flip a tire the size of Rhode Island across the stadium field. The one who does it the most times the fastest wins. Something for the kids to do on a rainy day in the basement. 
          On the flip side, the athletes also do yoga exercises for stretching. Not to mention the latest advance in sports performance enhancement -- plyometrics. As near as I can determine no one over 25 years old or more than 200 pounds should attempt to execute plyos, as they are affectionately known. Apparently someone with too much time on their hands got the bright idea to make physics and springboard diving a part of weight training. Okay, I exaggerate. But not as much as you may think. Personally, I can't imagine how mixing math and muscles could possibly have a good outcome. Certainly not when you're my age, when just walking upright is cause for astonishment. 
          Meanwhile, the coach and I were finishing up our interview when he was summoned to supervise the final moments of the day's conditioning exercises -- running the stairs of the football stadium. In 92 degree heat. At noon. Which just proves the old adage -- the more things change, the more they stay the same. 

Cute Kids Alert

I write like Isaac Asimov. No. Really.

Want to know who you write like? Go HERE and enter a few paragraphs from your blog, your unfinished novel, your short story, your angry letter to your ex about the mortgage payment, etc., and find out. 
          Here's the blog entry I submitted [just ignore the changes in typesize. It's a Blogger html thing]:


SATURDAY, MARCH 26, 2005
In Harm's Way
          One of my daughters received an appointment to the Air Force Academy. It took a year for all the physicals, skill tests, luncheons, interviews, and applications to be processed. After all this time, the bar she used for practicing the pull ups required of all incoming cadets still hangs in the entry to her old room.  

          Her father was the one who encouraged her to get an appointment. Not for any idealistic reasons.  It's a free ride.  
          Regardless, when the letter announcing her selection arrived from one of our senators, it was quite an honor.
          Still, she didn't make up her mind about going until the last minute. She waited and waited. As the deadline got closer, she still hadn't decided whether she would go.  
          Finally, the night before the decision absolutely positively had to be made, she chose a mainstream university, not a war college. When I asked her why, her only reply was, "Because it felt right."  
          In retrospect, she made the right choice, as far as I am concerned.  Being a pilot might have meant deployment to the middle east right now. Also as a woman, she might have been a victim of the egregious sex scandal that rocked The Academy during the time she would have been there.
          But it turns out that she's not the daughter I should have been worried about.
          While I was breathing a sigh of relief that my one child was going to remain a civilian, my other daughter turned out to be the one who chose to put herself in harm's way.  
          She is the one who is in a profession that makes her risk death every time she gets up in the morning.  She is the one who takes her life in her hands, walking the ground under her command, unarmed and unprotected.  
          She is deployed as part of a small army of volunteers who enter territory where attacks occur on a daily basis. Where there is rarely any warning to protect her from a maniac determined to commit suicide. She has no body armor. She doesn't carry a weapon. She isn't trained in martial arts.  
          Just last week at another facility like hers, seven people were killed by a fanatic who chose to die rather than surrender.  
          There are hot spots like that all over. But there aren't enough tanks and weaponry to secure all of them. And those who are required to do their work under these stressful circumstances get no hazard pay.
          Weapons of personal destruction are confiscated every day from any number of people entering the facilities where she works. Metal detectors are the only defense against these perpetrators of evil.  And my daughter walks among them with nothing but pepper spray in her purse.
          She isn't a soldier. She isn't a police officer. She isn't a guard in a maximum security prison. But lately hers has become one of the most dangerous jobs in the country.
          She's a high school English teacher.

There's No Biz Like Show Biz

I had my first performance as a member of the ladies' barbershop harmony chorus I joined three months ago. We'll get to that in a minute. In the past few weeks, I have been expected to memorize the words, choreography and the bass part for at least ten different songs [with more to come] while living my real life. Big deal you say. Hey, I'm not in the cast of Glee. We only meet once a week for two hours, so I sometimes feel like I did in college, when I needed another week to study, but my finals were the next day. 

          Something else I've had to get used to: barbershop makes no distinction between men's and women's groups when it comes to the parts they sing. The highest singers are called "tenors," the people who sing the melody are the "leads," followed by the "baritones" or "baris" and the "basses." I was a second alto in my other life, but we don't do no f**king second altos in barbershop. So I've had to embrace the supremely unfeminine designation of "bass" the best I can. 

          I really don't like it. It's tough enough being taller than most men. [Even my father.] Not to mention wearing a size 10 1/2 men's tennis/volleyball/softball shoe.] 
          DIGRESSION: On an ad shoot once, a 6'2" pre-surgical transsexual, who ran the video playback, could no longer contain himself. He finally walked over and asked me where I got my clothes and shoes. He was still wearing men's clothing, albeit a pink polo shirt and lime green slacks, but his long blond hair was styled, his nails were painted red, and I noticed not a little mascara. We had a long conversation about how difficult it was for "tall girls like us" to find shoes and clothes that fit without paying couture prices. Yes, it was creepy at first, but funny how talking to somebody you would ordinarily avoid levels the playing field. 
          I even asked him [he still had his package] what size breast implants he was planning on. A pair of C's, you nosy bastards. When it came time to lop off his junk they would be implanting his new titolas at the same time -- who knew? The last I heard, following his surgery, he was showing up on shoots looking like a drag queen in short shorts and midriff baring tops. Kind of ironic since most transsexuals blend in very well. I guess she decided to take the catch-me-f**k-me route. 

          Meanwhile, following a lifetime of living large, the last thing I want is to be called is a bass. Thing is, I really do have a low voice. Sort of like Anne Murray [if you're old enough to remember her]. Except she was pretty butch if I recall, so maybe she's not the most glamorous example. Here's one -- Toni Braxton. You ought to hear me shred "Unbreak My Heart" in the shower. Or in the car with the volume cranked. At our latest rehearsal, one of the other basses mentioned that I seem to be the only one who could hit a low "C" without coughing up phlegm. I think she meant well. 

          Today was the first opportunity I would have to perform with the group. The venue was a sidewalk sale, meaning there wasn't a whole lot of pressure. Before performing, the group was using the opportunity to accost passersby by asking them whether they liked to sing, then proselytizing for new members with the zeal of born again Christians. Here take this, come to this, watch this, listen to this. . .  

          I looked at the playlist and saw at least two songs that I was still sight-reading, including one I just learned a week ago, and one that I didn't know the choreography for. Oh good. Humiliation is mine. 

          For some reason the director has me in the exact middle of the chorus. Not the back row where we tall peeps like to hide. This all has to do with the placement of the different parts. There's only a few basses so we're clumped in the middle. But the prominent location is killing me.

          Another thing -- we all dress alike for our performances. Not just the clothes either. Our nails and make up, too. Offhand if I had to distill the outfits we wear into a couple of words, it would be "sequins" and "polyester." Our matching lipstick and nails are either "showbiz red" or "footlight fuchsia." Fortunately not at the same time.

          The glitz and glam of ladies' barbershop takes a bit of getting used to. The most color I ever wear on my nails is a light, silvery pink. Except on those rare occasions when I pay for fakes. But my day to day nails look like I'm on a NASCAR pit crew. So why draw attention to them? Especially since I talk with my hands a lot. Needless to say, I haven't been too excited about wearing the bright red nails. It's not like those colors come off easily either. There's always some leftover red caught in the creases. 

          Nails are one thing. I stopped wearing bright red on my lips altogether when I hit fifty. Something about the way it slid into the wrinkles around my mouth like Amazon tributaries was disconcerting. The good news is that I don't have to buy my own makeup and nail polish. The bad news is that the group buys it for you so everybody matches. And we are expected to wear it. Please, can't we just sing in sandals and shorts?

          Today, despite temperatures and humidity in the high eighties, I slathered on the SPF 50, donned my black polyester palazzos, a red top, sequined earrings with a matching sequined sun visor, then tried not to melt. Worried about screwing up, I also wore sunglasses, hoping no one would recognize me. I even asked the woman standing in front of me, a little lady who sings with lots of enthusiasm, to really go to town so people wouldn't notice my many mistakes. I can happily report that she didn't need permission to steal the spotlight. 

          I think we sounded pretty good for the location, standing under the awning of a real estate office. We did some show tunes, some fun stuff for the kids, and I think we really nailed SH-BOOM. Yadada da dadada da. Yes, there were some lyrics that escaped me. Yes, I found myself moving my lips like a gasping fish from time to time. Yes, I was about a beat behind on some of the choreography. But everybody assured me we were clumped together so tight, it wasn't as obvious as I thought it would be. NOTE TO SELF: Women lie. 

           Then, just when I assumed we were finished for the day, I was told we were going around the corner to perform AGAIN. So I got to make the same mistakes a second time!!!! By the time we finished our "gigs" my outfit looked like I'd been playing LeBron James one on one. 

          Fortunately, we performed next to an ice cream shop, so, in gratitude for carrying me not once, but twice, I offered to buy cones for anyone who was interested. I got off cheap because women are always on a diet. But those who joined me agreed that an ice cream cone really hit the spot. Until we had to go outside again. 
          Finally, on my way home, once I got the air conditioning going in my car, the ocean of sweat began to dry off. And I'm sure the salt stains will come out in the wash. Polyester does have its perks. 
          So much for my first day back in show biz after forty years.          

Pot Pourri

          1] Here's a headline to give one pause: 
Kardashian's Wax Figure Unveiled
Why? Because I thought it said:  
Kardashian's Waxed Figure Unveiled
          That unfortunate mistake, however slight, coupled with World Cup headlines announcing that Brazil had lost to The Netherlands and suddenly I had visions of Madame Tussaud's first Brazilian wax display, featuring one of the Kardashian sisters. I know, the mere thought is TMI.
         2] I've been attending a local "Challenger" men's pro tennis tournament the last few days. Usually I go to the night matches because there is no SPF high enough to protect my skin during the daytime. The tournament is for pro players ranked between 100 and 200 for the most part. Sampras played there. Tim Henman won there. Lots of names before they were names. The event is at a big tennis facility run by a tennis pro I used to spend time with. I was going to say "quality" time, but on reflection, not so much. 
          For example, he used to get comped tennis clothing from the racket reps -- the fancy jackets and matching warmups you see club pros prancing around in. If he didn't like something enough to keep it, he'd offer it to me. But only after he'd worn it enough times to leave lunch marks and cheese drips. Sure they cleaned up nice, but seriously, what was I thinking? 
          So last night, as I was looking for a seat in the stands, someone called my name. It was an old friend I used to play tennis with. Her husband and my former "friend" were buddies. The last time I saw her was at 2:00 am at least ten years ago. She was on her way to the hospital to have her fourth child. With no kids/pets/husband at home, I volunteered to babysit when the time came. I remember her husband doing labor and delivery jokes, which, as another pain kicked in, did not amuse her when they were heading out the door. They had a fifth kid, so apparently she got over it. 
          Anyway, she's smiling, we're chatting, and I get a gander at the forty-ish, supremely homely babe sitting right next to her. I got a good look at her because she was glaring at me with samurai swords in her eyes. The bitch looked pissed. I had no idea who she was, so I ignored her, said good bye to my girlfriend, and climbed up to my seats. Five minutes later who should show up but HIM, the guy who used to give me his old clothes. He sits down next to the homely babe and I suddenly realize that's the divorced woman with three kids I heard he had married. 
          For some reason she knows who I am. Since I broke up with her husband at least a year before she met him, I'm wondering what he [or somebody] has told her about me. Because somebody has told her SOMETHING. The downside is that you always feel guilty about causing other people pain. Or more precisely, you want to know WTF? is her problem. But the upside is that I'm sure I ruined her night, judging by the fact that she got up and moved two rows away from him shortly after he arrived. 
          [3] You can tell the real tennis aficionados from the dilettantes during Wimbledon. When they replay an entire match the next day -- one that you watched already -- and you watch it AGAIN, then you're a true lover of the sport. For instance, I can barely make it through World Cup soccer commercials, let alone an entire half. So I don't qualify as a true fan of futbol. Never mind that I had my daughter's left goalie shoe bronzed when she became an all conference player. But I do love tennis. So I watched Nadal v. Murray again today after watching them play just yesterday. Even before they played, I knew ahead of time that Andy Murray would have two chances of winning: zero and when Hell freezes over. Here's why. Murray is British, Scottish to be exact. Rafa Nadal is Spanish. Knowing what you know about the British character, stiff upper lip and all that; and knowing what you know about Spanish sterotypes, i.e., hot, tempestous, machismo. Who would you pick? Exactly. That's how they played. 
          4] Finally, here's a picture of my younger daughter sent to me from Wimbledon yesterday during Nadal v. Murray. The British fans filled up Centre Court, plus every blade of grass on Henman's Hill and the stands on empty Court 2 to watch the match. I just think it was so cool that we could text and she could email me a photo.