True Blue: My First Talent Show (6th 1st)

Way back in May, before anyone was thinking about the holidays, before farmer's markets sprouted up and gave us the joyful fruits of summer, even before I went on and on about that conference I went to in Chicago, a few of you participated in the First Official Readers' Poll and voted for the final installment in my mini-series of Firsts. As you may recall, there was a tie between my first night as a sorority girl and my first talent show. So now, without any further ado, (although I love ado, don't you?), I bring you: My First Talent Show!

I think the elementary school talent show started out as an idea in our classroom's suggestion box. Our teacher, who was in her early 20s, was pretty much the coolest adult I'd ever met. We were her first teaching job and she treated us like real people. For our school play, in which I played the role of the Forget-Me-Not Lady, she gave me one of her old prom gowns to wear. (I later wore it to a Halloween party and ruined it during the egg toss.) She once invited our whole class to her house for a cook-out. She lived just a few blocks from me, and didn't seem to mind if my best friend and I stopped by on the weekends or during the summer, even after we'd graduated from elementary school.

For the talent show, my best friend and I decided that we'd do a dance routine, set to Madonna's song, True Blue. We went to Claire's Accessories and bought one pair of electric-blue lace gloves, one glove for each of us. I can't picture the rest of our outfits, but I'm sure they matched and suspect they involved leggings.

I'd been tap dancing since the age of 4, but we decided to do a jazz/contemporary routine because it seemed more appropriate to our stature as cool fifth graders who ruled the school. We choreographed the whole song, pantomiming lines like "Your heart fits me like a glove," and "No-whoa more sadness, I kiss it goodbye!" and stealing bits of a routine that I saw in a jazz class at my dance studio. There may also have been some lip-syncing involved.

What happened next is foggy (as these things often are). I seem to recall that each student could only be in one act. And some adult in my life, not understanding the current popularity of lip-syncing, dance routines, may have mentioned that perhaps I'd have more success in the talent show by playing a song with my band friends. (More success? How do you define success in a school talent show? Were their prizes? Maybe a free book or a pack of pencils?) This is where it gets cloudy, because my best friend was also in the band. But I think I abandoned her. And somehow or other, a group of us budding band geeks formed our own mini-band for the talent show.

We held rehearsals at each other's houses, which I'm sure our parents just loved. When it was my turn to host practice, we moved the dining room table off to the side to create a studio space. I had my flute, Brian was there with his saxophone, and Tawnya had her trumpet. When our drummer showed up for practice, he forgot to bring his snare drum with him. I think my dad gave him a bucket and some spoons to use instead. Despite this, we were a well-oiled band machine.

Looking back, I can't remember what song we played, if we won a prize, or even what my best friend said when I backed out on our act. But I remember wishing I was up there with her as she twirled around to the hottest Pop music of our time. I even remember some of those sweet dance moves. Most of all, I remember this when I weigh two options or consider two paths: It's better to be true blue to your heart than to seek out the approval of others, even when they mean well or sound sensible.

Paranoia Cha-Cha-Cha

While some people pretended to be the aliens from V, I feared them. And I feared that everyone around me, including my parents, would simultaneously reveal themselves to be lizard-like creatures masquerading as humans. And that I would be the only human left in the world, or at least in my neighborhood.

I lie in bed at night, imagining this bone-chilling scenario. I planned my escape, visualizing my emergency evacuation route. I'd slip out of bed and creep to the door of my bedroom. If it was late enough and my reptilian parents were asleep in the room across the hall, I would stealthily sneak past the door and flee toward the front of our ranch house. But if it was still early, which was when I usually had this frightening fantasy, I'd have to be more careful. In order to get out of the house, I'd have to be either very fast or very quiet.

The living room, where my parents were watching TV and pretending to be normal human beings, was adjacent to both the kitchen and dining room -- the only two rooms with doors leading directly to the outside world. Could I run fast enough to evade their flicking lizard tongues and quick lizard legs? I doubted my speed.

The alternative was to sneak out of bed and open the cellar door, which was just outside of my bedroom. But the door was creaky. They would be sure to hear and catch me before I made it down the steep steps and out into the backyard! Besides, the door had a lock at the top, and I was too short to reach it.

So out the kitchen door it would have to be! I ran - nay! I flew! - down the hall, into the kitchen, out the door! Into the dark night! I crossed the alley next to our house and raced up the street! But where would I go? What would I do? In this scenario all adults were potential flesh-eating lizard aliens. I could trust no one. And being in just the third grade, my knowledge of the neighborhood was as limited as my resources. How would I survive in this hostile world?

Better to stay quietly in bed and pretend I didn't know the truth about their identities. Maybe then they'd let me live to go to middle school.

In the meantime, I made sure to sleep under the covers, no matter how hot it was. Even if it was just a thin bedsheet, I felt safer. Because otherwise, a monkey would lower himself down from the ceiling by his tail and stick a hypodermic needle in my bum cheek. (This one had nothing to do with lizard aliens. It was just one of my quirks.)

I don't think I'll be reading this book when it comes out in a few months.

NaBloPoMo: Day 14

Oh my gosh. The writing. The writing. The writing. Every day with the writing. That's what I get for signing up for National Blog Posting Month and publicly declaring my intention to write a blog post every day. It's only Day 14 and I'm stumped, folks. I asked The Husband what I should write about today, and the conversation went something like this:

Me: What should I write about? What are some of the stories I always tell?

Hubs: Hm... How about the time you dressed your brother up like Baby New Year?

Me: That's a good one.* Maybe I'll save it for New Year's.

Hubs: Or how you used to put makeup on him.

Me: I didn't do that. He just says I did. ...at least, I don't think I did.... I think he wanted to try some on.

Hubs: That goes a long way in explaining a lot of things.

Me: Didn't you ever want to try on makeup as a kid?

Hubs: No. Although, my mom did have this face cream that formed a mask and you could peel it off in one piece. I used to put it on my face so I could pretend I was one of those aliens on that TV show "V" and then peel my face off.

I didn't say it to him, but that goes a long way in explaining a lot of things, too.

*There's even a picture!

NaNoWriMo: 2,455 Words

I'm pleased to report that since leaving the 801 word mark, Anna has managed to do more than not get on and then get on a train. Currently, 1,645 words later, she has also avoided a scam artist, looked at a Christmas tree, and met a man named Ian, who apparently sells puppets and marionettes. Who knew? (I certainly didn't when I started this madness.) Things are really starting to pick up -- if you ignore the fact that I'm 7,547 words behind schedule.

Determination

I feel like a nut at the gym. My trainer devised a circuit training routine that has me bouncing back and forth between a treadmill and various weight machines for about 45 minutes. Walk three minutes. Do one set of weights. Walk three minutes. Another set of weights.

When there are other people in the room while I do this, I feel manic. I've never seen anyone else do this type of workout. But I'm trusting that Ms. Trainer knows what she's talking about and isn't secretly submitting the surveillance video to America's Funniest Gym Videos. (And if she is, I want a piece of the winnings!)

A few weeks ago I noticed a new face in the women's workout room. She wore charcoal grey workout pants and a matching jacket over her thin, almost frail, body. Her lined face placed her age somewhere in her 70s. She wore a red scarf wrapped around her head. When I got closer, I could see that she had no eyebrows.

I saw her eyes watch me zoom back and forth between cardio and weights. She was pedaling slow and steady on the recumbent stationary bike, watching TV and listening with her own earphones.

As I neared the end of my routine, she left the bike and came over to a weight machine next to the one I was using. She caught my eye and said, "You are one determined woman."

I knew that I was sweat soaked, probably beet red about the face, and generally looked crazy. For a moment I felt embarrassed. But I soon took her words as I think she meant them: as a compliment.

The mere thought of going to a gym used to make me cringe. I couldn't see myself doing it. I couldn't even imagine myself doing it. Physical fitness was never my strong suit. I wasn't all that keen on sweating or getting my heart rate up to begin with. The idea of doing that in public -- where everyone could see how inept I was -- horrified me. When I accompanied my husband on an orientation tour of the athletic club last spring, it was all I could do not to hit the fetal position and rock back and forth, murmuring incoherently about needing some chocolate and mashed potatoes. Here's how I felt about it: I came. I saw. I fled.

But I was so tired of being overweight and unhealthy. I watched my husband make an appointment with a trainer and start going to the gym, something that was new to him, too. I witnessed this for a few months when something inside of me finally got indignant. "If he can do this, I can do this!" I thought.

So I went and got me my own trainer. She's a thin blond with a southern accent and mascara that doesn't run when she sweats. All good reasons to hate her, to be sure. But she showed me her "before" picture, when she weighed at least as much as I do. Of course, if I'm being completely honest, I have wondered if it's really her in the photo. It didn't look anything like her. Which could be due to all the extra poundage, or because it's just a random photo of some other fat chick. But who cares? It gave me hope.

And I needed hope. The night before my first scheduled gym appointment, I cried like a child frightened of a doctor appointment. I was terrified. Of the gym.

But the trainer was nice. Everyone was nice. Nobody asked me what a fat, clumsy gal like me was doing in a place like that. After just a few sessions, my endurance increased. After a few more I noticed that my upper arms were starting to look less like albino sausages and more like body parts with muscles. The scale moved down a few pounds. This was getting exciting.

I finished my set of trainer appointments and started going on my own. Getting to the gym is still hard for me, but not because I'm afraid. Mostly just because I'm lazy about getting there. But once I'm there, I try to work it for all it's worth.

"You are one determined woman."

The older woman and I chatted a bit. She told me that she's going through chemo and comes to the gym when she can. "They say it helps," she said. "And I think it does."

Here was an elderly woman with cancer, working out at the gym to aid in her recovery, telling me that I'm a determined woman. She may never know what a strength and blessing those words are to me.

I didn't get her name that day, but I think she looks like a Muriel or Kate. I hope I see her again so I can ask.