Contra Indicated

Have I ever mentioned that, while I am under 5 feet tall, Larry happens to be OVER 6 feet?  It's true - there is exactly a 14-inch height differential between us.  As you can imagine, this has made for a 20-year relationship devoid of such activities as dancing, or even running, together.

Well, okay, we don't go running together because I am philosophically opposed to such masochistic behavior.  But, even if I weren't?  We wouldn't.

Didn't work for us...

 Over these 20-some years, we have made various pathetic attempts to keep our marriage lively and vibrant, mostly with walks (during which we discuss such stimulating topics as the kids, money, and other problems) and the oft-recommended date nights (ditto) - but recently we had pretty much given up on that, seeing as how they just don't seem to work for us.

 Do click on that link - it's classic.

So imagine my surprise yesterday when Larry, upon hearing my announcement that I was going to attend a local contra dance with free lessons before the main event, told me he was going also.

Let's make something perfectly clear: NEITHER of us is a dancer.  I can barely clap in time to music.  Yet, deep within me, there has always been a desire to learn some of these traditional dances; and happily, as I am turning 50 this year, I seem to be slowly acquiring the inestimable gift of  being incapable of embarrassment. 

So, we went.  All the way from the parking lot, we discussed (well, I discussed, Larry listened - or not, who knows) whether or not we should really go.  You see, my PTSD was definitely kicking in.  The last time I had tried anything like this was in 7th grade gym class - for some reason we had a week dedicated to square dancing, during which I was forcibly partnered with Kevin Kashuba, who made funny faces behind my back.

That experience was, as you might expect, devastating to my 12-year-old psyche.  So we (I) decided that we would go in, see if the people looked intimidating (or like my long-lost 7th-grade nemesis), and  - if they did - pretend we had wandered in by mistake and leave.

No one was dressed like this.

End of story?  We stayed.  We danced (to the best of our abilities).  Prior to this experiment, I had confided to my one contra-dancing friend that I was nervous I'd mess up.  Her advice?  Keep moving!  Laugh!  Smile!  So I did that.  I believe I may even have come off as slightly manic.  By break time, 2 hours in, Larry and I were both soaked with sweat and exhausted.

Meanwhile, the older couples were still out on the dance floor, practicing a waltz that the obliging fiddlers were playing for them.

"Gosh," I said, loudly.  "Love to stay, but...uh...the kids need us!  Yup!"  and Larry and I staggered out to the parking lot, practically holding each other up.

Let's not even talk about how I feel this morning.  I understand my legs feeling ache-y, but my rib cage?  What's up with that?

In short, yesterday evening I had the most exercise AND the most fun I have had in YEARS.  Think about it - I spent the evening holding hands with a bunch of other people, swinging around in a circle, skipping back and forth, and (as directed) smiling and laughing.  Also?  Some twirling happened.  In short, I felt like a kid again.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some sewing to do.


[Date night image: Cheaper Than Therapy]
[Costume image: The Reel Thing]
[Pattern image: Etsy]

Meteorologists Can't Be Trusted

Um, let's just not talk about today's major snow disappointment, all right?  If you need the sorry details, you can check out Buzzfeed's rundown of the (non)event.  Suffice it to say that my kids handled it all with remarkable grace, while their mother hid in her bedroom closet and had a tantrum.

Gah - 70's mom hair

And now, to top it all off, my husband tells me Bonnie Franklin is dead.  AND I read that Valerie Harper is dying.  People, I was not a social butterfly in my youth.  I spent all my weekend nights at home or at my friend's house, watching sitcoms such as Rhoda and One Day at a Time.  And, yes, Loveboat.  So it feels as if all my friends are dying off, friends who - for me, anyway - are frozen as they were in the 1970's, young and energetic and sassy. 

Does this look like 73 to you?

Oh, all right, Bonnie was sort of annoying.  I only watched that show because I wanted to be just like Valerie Bertinelli.  But still, Ann Romano can't possibly be old enough to be dead, can she?  In my mind, she's always the thirty-something divorcee with the bad hair.  And Valerie Harper is forever the wise-cracking, thirty-something Rhoda Morgenstern.  Even though she is actually 73.  SEVENTY-THREE.

Once, on an airplane, my mother and I had a stewardess who looked and sounded just like Rhoda.  We thought that was very exciting. What can I say?  It was the 1970's, before you could follow celebrities on Twitter and act as though you knew them personally.  Meeting someone who resembled Rhoda was a BIG DEAL.  A rare occurrence, if you will, like a halfway decent snowstorm in our particular geographical area.

Yes, as a matter of fact, I AM still sulking.  Why do you ask?



[Bonnie Franklin image: Facebook]
[Valerie Harper image: National Enquirer]

Like Disneyworld, Only Better

For 3 years, we've been deprived of even so much as a 2-inch snowfall in this area; for 3 winters, our kids - sleds at the ready - have waited patiently for one big storm, big enough to cancel schools and work -- cancel everything, really, but the fun.  And, at long last, it looks as if their patience will be rewarded.

8-10 inches are predicted for tomorrow, people - and we are OVER THE MOON about this.  Do you know how dreary it is to go through an entire winter without even one snow day to break up the monotony?  At last, our ridiculously fast-paced suburban lifestyle will be made to stand still, if only for 24 hours or so - and snowmen will be built, cocoa will be drunk, homemade cinnamon rolls will be consumed with abandon. 


Bring it on, Mother Nature - we are SO ready.



[Sled image: Arthur's Clipart]

Improv Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be

Never blog when tired.  You end up going to bed right afterwards, and then the blog world insinuates itself into your dreams.  Last night, I dreamt that I traveled to Los Angeles to participate in some theater/improv workshop run by Suzy Soro.  When I got there, all the other workshop participants were being outfitted in pretty dresses (a la Renaissance style); but Suzy said to me, "You don't need a dress.  You're going to be the pig."

"Pig?  Um, okay.  So, uh, where's my costume?" I asked, enviously eyeing a compatriot being outfitted in a gauzy white flowing number.  I knew better than to argue with Suzy, even in my sleep.

Intimidating, I tell you...

"What you've got on is fine," she said.

I looked down and saw I was wearing ugly jeans and an even uglier bright blue button-down top.  Where did I get those?  I wondered.

"Okay," Suzy said.  "You've got to go outside now."

"Outside?"

"Yes, you're the PIG.  You have to run away, and they are all going to chase you."  She shook her head as if to say, Man, do I have to explain EVERYTHING to these cretins? and stalked away.

Things went downhill from there.  Picture one of those medieval scenes of a mob of villagers (but dressed in long, flowy dresses) carrying torches, hunting for the runaway pig (um, that's me), who was doing her best to do a sort of infantry crawl through the woods, all the while wondering where she got that ugly blue shirt she had on.

I have the dumbest dreams, I swear.  But, Suzy, if you're reading this, I don't think I'm going to sign up for an improv workshop, should you decide to start offering them.  Not unless you can guarantee I won't be the pig...

Ticket To Ride

Is it possible to be too tired to blog?  Because that seems to be the situation here, for no apparent reason.  Just popping in to tell you that my train ride yesterday was like a mini-vacation, only better, because I didn't have to pack for anyone but myself.  I read, I knit.  I finished one pair of socks and started another.  Sometimes I just stared out the window, enjoying the silence.  And I hit the jackpot on the return trip - a pair of seats facing another set of seats, ALL 4 TO MYSELF.  In the quiet car. 

Sometimes, fortune does shine upon me.  And I do appreciate it.

My train didn't look like this, however.

Oh, and yes, there was a funeral.  But I got to see my dad and some cousins I haven't seen in years, and I met other relatives I didn't know I had.  All in all, a good way to spend a day, if you forget about the death part.

Do I sound callous?  It's just the exhaustion speaking, I swear.  Come back tomorrow, when I shall strive to be properly mournful.  Also, you'll get to hear about apples and farmers' markets and suspected murder.  It's like The Orient Express, only without the train or the suspense.