Curtain Call

This is the last official weekend of summer, and I plan to spend as much of it as possible by the pool. The weather has really been spectacular this week. It’s been comfortable in my classroom with the windows open, but I have not been able to enjoy much of it outside. While I have made it out to the pool a few times for an hour here and there over the past couple of weeks, it’s not really the same. I hope that this weekend I'll get to share a farewell to summer with the friends I have made by the pool but haven't seen lately.

There is Ann Marie. She had knee replacement surgery last winter (on both knees) and retired recently and loves to cook. While we waded near the steps at the low end and chatted, she introduced me to a new produce stand in town, we exchanged some recipes and cooking tips, and she shared with me a couple stories of some tragedies in her life. Last year I ran into her at CVS and at the polls; this year she asked for my address and phone number. “I thought of you at Christmas, and would have loved to send you a card, but I didn’t know what unit you’re in or your last name even,” she said. So during my last week of vacation, she walked over to my chair with an address book and asked for my address and phone number. She had brought a scrap of paper with hers already written on it. “If I don’t see you, have a good year,” she said.

Kristina is a regular like me, usually there in the mornings during the week. She is a high school math teacher (it’s easy to figure out who the teachers are!) and a soccer coach who had a few more days of vacation than I had. Funny, but once over the winter I didn’t recognize her by the mailboxes. It was a snowy day and we were all bundled up and I didn’t realize until I walked away that the fair skinned woman in the winter coat was Kristina; I was so used to seeing her on her lounge chair in a bikini, skinny and tan.

Caroline is in her late twenties. This was her second season by the pool, and her last season of being able to tolerate a roommate, so she just bought a new condominium in her home town. She has been by the pool with her mom (also a teacher) and dad, sometimes said roommate. She enjoys an incognito cocktail by the pool like yours truly, and also like me enjoys peace and quiet to read. We decided it would be nice to go out for a drink before she moves on, so we programmed each other’s cell phone numbers one afternoon recently. A weekend die hard, I’m sure I’ll see her over the weekend. Maybe her mom will be there too.

And there’s Susan, who recently moved into the complex. She’s a visiting nurse to whom I lamented about my cankles when I got back from Seattle, who raised her children on the Cape, lived in New Mexico for 10 years after a divorce, and now has moved back to be closer to her children, especially her grandchildren. One daughter lives in Florida and is getting married next month. I hope to wish her a safe and happy weekend away, and perhaps exchange phone numbers with her so that we might go out for a drink too. Both of us like the new Mexican place down the road, so a margarita would hit the spot.

Of course there is Dean, who like me prefers the pool child-free. If I am the Queen of the Pool, he is probably the King. He lives in my building and we frequent the same restaurants, so I see him year round. And there’s Jen, yet another teacher, who just got married (and with whom I share a small world connection); and Bill, a single dad of a teenage girl. Others I know by face, or bathing suit, or chair, but not name.

This cast of characters is a bunch of nice people and I wish them all well. I guess it’s like getting to know people at a country club. (And maybe the gym?) That is, I don’t imagine we will become BFFs, but I do enjoy their occasional company. And it seems only right to say goodbye to the summer with them.

[Heart] Note...to Meredith

I called my niece Meredith this afternoon to see how her first day of school went. After the brief rundown of teacher, classmates, and an 80-minute gym class that she participated in while wearing flip flops because she didn't know she had gym today for 80 minutes today, she said, "Asia," (number 27 on my list of 44 blessings) which means she is about to change subjects. I hear "Asia" in the middle of a conversation with her and my internal editor inserts a new paragraph symbol.

"Yes?..."

"Do you think I should do band?"

"Well, what instrument are you thinking of playing?"

"Trumpet."

"Oh. I didn't know you liked the trumpet. Why do you want to play the trumpet?"

"It's the easiest. "

"It is?" I asked.

"Yeah, it only has three buttons."

Random [heart] Notes

Occasionally I have or overhear a conversation that makes my heart say aaawwww, or witness something that brings a tear to my eye or makes me laugh inside, or taste something that makes my mouth sing. Already, I write about some, but there are some that don't provoke any further thought, or warrant 500 words. Still, I have decided they are worth sharing. And so I thought I would begin writing a new type of occasional post, random love notes (random [heart] notes, that is) that I would like to share with you.

I am ready for my first.

Ouch

On a perfect day, perfectly suited for outdoor pursuits—an afternoon at the beach, 9 holes of golf, maybe some alfresco dining—I went to the gym. I walked right by my pool twice, on my way in to get changed and my way out back to the car, and went to the gym. As Candyce said in an email after reading my post about joining, “You can indeed do it.” She lives too far to go with me this time around, but she encouraged me as she had all those years ago. So I went. I did it. And I didn’t die. But it was a rude awakening.

First of all, it appears the last time I used gym equipment was in the Dark Ages, or at least before the dawn of technology. After my tour of the facilities and signing up for the first of my four training sessions, I thought I would start simply with the treadmill. From there I could use a StairMaster. If I stayed in the cardiovascular room, away from the resistance equipment and ellipticals and the free weights, in that big room where everyone seemed comfortable I could probably fake it, hop right on and act like I knew what I was doing. Um, if it weren’t a treadmill from a science fiction movie! (And I hate science fiction) I might have been able to figure it out. But instead the buttons and arrows and flashing lights made me want to cry. But I didn’t. I got off and remembered that a person with inner dignity is never embarrassed. I found the fitness instructor and asked him to show me. He did. And while I really didn’t absorb it all (partly because after two minutes he sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher), and he was lying when he said once I learned those particular computer controls I could use all the machines (more on that later), I was able to use the treadmill when he walked away.

About five minutes in I was sweating. Ten minutes later the blood vessels in my face had dilated, mixed with my tan, I had a purplish-crimson tinge. I looked away from the mirror and kept walking. I wondered if an alarm would sound when the red heart was flashing, but I increased the pace and kept walking. And walking. I even broke out into a bit of a jog. And eventually decreased my pace before the end of my 20 minutes on the treadmill that felt like no 20 minutes I have EVER exercised in my living room or my neighborhood. And, damn, the calorie burn counter must have been broken, because I barely burned enough on the treadmill to earn a glass of wine with dinner.

So I took a sip of water, wiped down the machine, and stepped on the Stairstepper, as the manager called it, and for the life of me couldn’t figure it out or am clearly not ready to be on that machine. My strides were short and I couldn’t change the pace. But I gave it a go. Then got off after 10 minutes. I went home with jelly legs knowing the toughest part was behind me.

Whoa.

Prices

In life, mostly, we know how much something costs up front before making the decision to buy it. In retail stores we see price tags on items or shelves. It’s $120, but everyone needs a cashmere sweater in black, no? Nowadays you can even find scanners in the score which serve the dual purpose of identifying a price and satisfying the frustrated inner cashier in some of us.

You bring your car to the shop, they give you an estimate first, right? You want to build a deck, have your local contractor come by and work out the plans and price. You pull up to the pump, you know what you’ll be paying (reluctantly) for a gallon of gas. And menus have prices. Never do you eat a bowl of pasta then get bowled over by the price. You know up front.

But it occurred to me recently, as I seethe at a bill from my dentist, that such is not the case in medicine or dentistry. There’s no signage when you walk in an office that says:

Blood pressure reading: $50

Blood pressure and pulse combo: $75

I don’t know how much a Pap smear costs up front, nor would I be in a position to negotiate for one. (Literally.) But maybe worse than not knowing is that, really, if we did know up front, we can’t really do anything about it. We’re stuck. For those of us who are fortunate to have insurance, the only way we know how much a dentist or doctor charges is if our insurance doesn’t cover it all and we get a bill.

On a recent bill from my dentist I saw a charge of $175 for a crown recement. Even if I walked in with a crown in a coin purse because I was silly enough to eat a Sugar Daddy I’d find this high, but such was not the case. In order to prep another tooth for a crown for which they would bill me, they needed to take off an existing crown, then recement it later. But it wasn’t considered a part of the new crown prep cost. Unbelievable. And yet if I did know up front that it would cost the equivalent of 6 manicures, I could not have said, no, I’d rather you not uncement then recement my crown so that you can prep the tooth next to it for a crown. Now I’m just pissed that I’m stuck with the bill.

And yet I know I am fortunate. I can’t imagine what it must be like to live without any health or dental insurance coverage. At all. I'd have shabby hands and one less tooth, I'm sure.

The Gym

I decided to join a gym. Not an expensive one, or one where I’ll have to commit to showing up at a certain time to jump around or cycle with strangers, or one where people grunt while lifting weights, but a gym where there is exercise equipment that may give me a better workout than my Leslie Sansone Walk Away the Pounds DVDs.

I’m nervous. Of course I am! I know that my first time there I am going to feel as vulnerable as I did when I was in grammar school and we picked teams for kickball, or when I had to change into a one-piece gym suit in the locker room at the middle school. I’m going to put myself back in that self-conscious place that none of us likes to go, but it’s clear to me that since I am not willing to give up food or wine, and my logy metabolism is slowing down even more now that I’m in my mid-forties (did I just say that?), I need to exercise more.

The last time I frequented a gym it was a painless and successful and free experience. I eased into it slowly with my friend Candyce. We were both Resident Directors at Simmons College at the time, and fortunate to have access to the newly constructed, state-of-the-art Sports Center. We started by walking together on the suspended track, and eventually felt confident enough to tackle the Stair Master. Gradually we used all the equipment regularly—rowing machines, bicycles, treadmill. And it was great. I stayed with it for two years, and got fit enough to run. Yeah, like outside, with a walkman, which—once I no longer had the luxury of free gym membership—was a good thing because it was free.

Alas that was a long time and a foot surgery ago, and I have no friend to accompany me or encourage me this go-around. But I do think it’s about time I moved a little more. So wish me luck.

(And think of the material I’ll get there, the stories I’ll have to share!)

Lunch Club

Summer demands light, fresh, and easy meals, with little to no cooking if possible. I like to sweat as little as possible (not at all) (God help me in menopause) and the last thing I want to do is overheat after I’ve finally gotten my body temperature down at the pool. I do enjoy eating out of course, but because I have to stretch my last paycheck (albeit oversized) and live on a budget from the beginning of June to the end of August, I do not eat out very often in the summer. Especially in August. Quickly sautéing of a piece of fish; boiling a pot of water for a simple pasta with a no-cook sauce; or slicing, seasoning, and arranging fresh mozzarella and tomatoes are about my speed in the summer. Some nights cheese and crackers count as dinner.

Once my air conditioner is off for the season and the days get shorter and colder, I find my way back to the kitchen. I experiment with new recipes and make old favorites like chili, whose recipe I developed decades ago, before anchovy paste was among my refrigerator staples and I knew what Sriracha was. Recent faves include an Italian sausage soup, and spicy sesames noodles with pork tenderloin medallions. Because I am my mother’s daughter I usually make more food than necessary, so I tend to freeze or share. Sometimes both.

As I have mentioned before my friend Amy is also a foodie and avid cook, so she and I developed a lunch club of a sort, where we take turns trying out new recipes on each other or sharing leftover favorites. There is no formal schedule or pressure to supply (even though Amy apologizes a lot when her husband leaves no leftovers), but on occasion one of us will deliver to the other a lunch, packed nicely in a gift bag or small shopping tote, including any necessary accoutrement, like a hard roll for soup, or grated cheese, or tortilla chips for said chili, and a sweet treat. Neither of us claim or desire to be pastry chefs, but can usually muster a couple of Hershey kisses from our pantries, or something from our respective chocolate stashes like anyone with two X chromosomes should.

I though about making chili the other day, but wasn’t there yet. Soon enough. Again, I’m not ready to rush the seasons, just looking forward to the treasures they bring.