Greeting Cards

I hate shopping for greeting cards. When I send someone a card, it has to say something that I wouldn’t be embarrassed to actually say to that person. It has to have some remote connection to the way I feel. I started shopping for a card for my daughter-in-law weeks before her birthday this month. I devoted a lot of time to this project, reading hundreds of cards in numerous southwest Florida supermarkets and drugstores, while my ice cream melted and Charlie tapped his foot, only to leave each store frustrated and cardless.

“You’re telling me there isn’t one suitable card for our daughter-in-law in all the hundreds you just read?” Charlie would ask.

“That’s what I’m telling you.”

It seems that birthday cards fall into two broad categories. The first category includes cards with flowers, windmills, rainbows, kittens or puppies. And if the artwork isn’t enough to make you vomit, the inside verse will finish you off. These cards have more over the top cliches than a Danielle Steel novel. Category 1 cards make me sick, unless I happen to be the recipient of such a card. On the right day, when I’m sufficiently puffed up, I can be convinced that I do bring sunshine into every room I enter.

Category 2 cards are the funny cards, which I further divide into two sub-categories: the cards that are trying to be funny, written by people like your uncle Louie who has worn the same antler hat and flashing red nose to every Christmas party for the last 50 years, and a few cards that are truly funny. The funny cards are mostly “You know you’re old when...” cards.

In my experience, there’s a very small window of time when people actually appreciate receiving “old” cards. The window opens in your 40's, when you’re not really old yet, or you think you’re not, so there’s a tacit agreement that no one actually means it. The window starts to close in your mid-50's, and by the time a person turns 70, they’re downright insulting.

I’ve noticed that humor for the elderly consumer in Florida seems to be reverting back to 2nd grade bathroom jokes. There are lots of birthday cards about flatulence and incontinence. They even make jokes about dementia. I actually approve of those. At least the sentiments are real.

Which reminds me of the cards I used to whip up for my mother using cut up grocery bags and crayons. Like the one from the year she let her third driving permit expire without getting her licence, when she desperately wanted to learn to drive. It said:

Some Moms drive Jeeps,
Some Moms drive Hondas,
My Mom stays home
and makes me lasagna

I think I’ll go back to making my own cards.

Maalox Through the Years

Middle age makes people do things they swore they’d never do, like boring the pants off their kids by waxing nostalgic about all the stuff that used to be different. I never thought I’d do that, but now that I do, I’d like to think that my nostalgia is much more interesting than the stuff my Dad went on about.

There’s technology at Stone’s Concerts, techniques in tie-dye, and the evolution of Maalox, to name a few. Like millions of other Beemer-driving, cell phone-talking, workaholic baby boomer slime, I have been chugging Maalox (the Johnnie Walker Black of antacids) for 30 years. And unless you’re gastro-intestinally challenged and over 50, the many forms of Maalox may have escaped your attention.

Back in the 1970’s, there was only the liquid variety which I kept in the top drawer of my desk at work, next to my tissues, so I could discreetly wipe the chalky residue off my mouth after covertly chugging an ever-escalating quantity. I was in my 20’s then, a new manager with AT & T in Chicago and one of the busiest, most important people you would ever want to meet. I had a closet full of cheap suits and matching 3-inch heels, and I would clatter up Rush Street every morning in search of a cab, and then chain smoke my way to the office while reading The Wall Street Journal, most of which I didn’t understand.

Sometimes I didn’t leave the office until eight or nine o’clock, after which there’d be another smoky cab ride back to one of my favorite near-north bars where I drank my dinner with other yuppie scum while discussing the problems of our days in hyperbolic terms. I believe there were a number of people who thought that I was single-handedly responsible for dial tone in the western world.

The 80’s ushered in the chewable tablet form of Maalox. They still turned your mouth and tongue white, but at least they wouldn’t spill all over the inside of a diaper bag, and you could pop them discreetly during business meetings and nursery school co-op, with no one the wiser. These were the days when I felt like a hypocrite most of the time, trying to straddle the fence between the mommy camp and the working woman camp. It’s not that I was alone on the fence. It’s just that we fence women had no time to meet for coffee and commiserate like the other mommies, so we just thought we were nuts most of the time.

Sometime during the 90’s, Maalox rolled out a product which truly was an antacid and a desert topping. It came in an aerosol can and I believe it was called "whipped" Maalox. The consistency was more like shaving cream than whipped cream in that it stood up on a spoon in a neat little mound.

I was in my 40’s then, had jumped the fence and landed on the mommy side, but with a huge asterisk. Not satisfied with the most important and exhausting job in the world as my only job title, I filled my "spare time" with night classes, The League of Women Voters, and a column for my local newspaper. Later, I owned a bookstore for a few years, and then ran a print and Web publication about books out of my kitchen.

My shrink kept suggesting that my identity and self-worth were tied to my jobs and activities, like that was a bad thing. I was further frustrated because, after giving up drinking and smoking, my health was declining. I was now popping two prescription ulcer medications each day in addition to shooting whipped Maalox directly into my mouth. I enjoyed that. It reminded me of hiding behind the fridge door with a can of Reddy Whip when I was a kid.

Much to my dismay, the whipped variety of Maalox was not around for long. Probably too many people, like myself, had quickly dispensed with the spoon and were over-dosing themselves. The late 90's brought us "Quick Dissolve" Maalox tablets, which seem to melt faster and not get stuck in your teeth like their predecessor.

Now that I’m in my 50’s, my goals are simpler. I’m trying to learn to meditate without hyperventilating. I’ve taken up yoga and Buddhism, and turned into an earnest cliché. The new millennium turned up a new, fun and tasty variety of Maalox - called Maalox soft chews, available in chocolate and cherry flavors. They were the consistency of a Starburst Candy and came individually wrapped in foil. I must tell you that I loved the chocolate, although they were difficult for me to chew due to my TMJ, which is basically a terribly sore jaw which comes from clenching and grinding your teeth too much. The soft chews didn't last long. I don't know why.

And finally, a word of advice to the makers of Maalox, if you’re listening: Although the soft chews were my favorite, they won't fly with dentures. I hope you’ve got something still tasty but softer in the works for me when I hit my 60's.

Call Me Cruella

Childhood fantasies die hard. I grew up in the 50's, at a time when a girl’s first bra was a big thing. They actually called them training bras, as though our little bosoms needed to ease gradually into a lifetime of restraint and discomfort. (They may have been right.) The day I got mine, I locked myself in my bedroom and tried on all my clothes in the mirror to see if I looked any different. I had arrived.

Little girls also practiced writing their "married names" in their notebooks. If you had a crush on Jimmy Donovan, for example, you wrote "Mrs. Jimmy Donovan" inside all your notebooks. When you got tired of that, you wrote: Mr. & Mrs. Donovan, Joan & Jimmy Donovan, The Donovan’s, The Donovan Family - until your hand fell off.

And in my fantasies, the shapely Mrs. Jimmy Donovan was always wearing a fur coat. You couldn’t swing a dead fox in 1950's Hollywood without hitting a fur-clad star. Marilyn, Doris, Liz - they were always dragging a fur behind them. Every little girl dreamed of owning a fur coat someday.

Fast forward to the early 80's. My husband (not Jimmy Donovan) got a large and unexpected bonus, and asked if there was anything I had always wanted. By the end of the week, I had a beaver coat. I knew if I didn’t act fast, the furnace would break down, or we might come to our senses and change our minds.

I think I got to wear my coat a half-dozen times before - and it seemed like overnight to me - the animal rights protesters came out of the woodwork with spray paint. It’s not like there wasn’t an animal rights movement before I got the coat. But I honestly thought the protesters were some lunatic fringe group engaged in isolated incidents. I couldn’t believe that this prize which I had coveted since childhood, which had once symbolized glamor and sophistication, had become vulgar and disgusting.

It was with great frustration that I decided that if so many people were offended about the semi-aquatic rodents who died for my coat, then I would not wear it. Cruella De Ville was not the look I’d been going for. I stuffed it into a vacuum sealed bag and stored it on a shelf in my closet.

Like everyone else, I go through life trying to figure out what is right and wrong, and then drawing lines between what I will and will not do for the things I believe in. I will do this but not that. I will go this far - no further. The older I get, I become increasingly confused about what matters. I’m constantly rethinking everything, including my childhood fantasies.

In the 60's, it seemed I had hardly had time to enjoy wearing a bra before young women started burning their bras. I shoved all my bras to the back of the drawer and did not wear them. I felt that was a sufficient statement, and passed on the bonfire.

But by the time I got married in the 70's,"Mrs." was out, and "Ms." was in. You were supposed to keep your maiden name. Or, you could hyphenate the maiden and married name . I went with Ms. - not Mrs. I took both names - no hyphen. I am Ms. Joan Mayfield Call. I put a lot of thought into it.

And I truly like animals. I don’t kill them for sport. I want them slaughtered humanely. I never want them to suffer unnecessarily. I love my dog, and my cat. I think birds are hilarious. Emergency Vets is one of my favorite shows. But I eat animals, and I wear them. That is where I draw that line.

The anti-fur demonstrators would have a lot more credibility with me if they were equally strident with all people who eat and wear animals in any form. And I think their intense focus on fur coats (as opposed to, say, the meat counter at Walmart) is hypocritical. I can only assume that the focus on fur is connected to the price tag. I think it’s envy, which is often masked as righteousness.

Long before many of the protesters were born, there were those who believed that only the wealthy (i.e. selfish, corrupt and immoral) wore furs, and respectable women did not. Take Tricky Dick, for example. In his infamous "Checkers Speech," while defending himself against charges that he had kept a secret slush fund for campaign expenses, Nixon said that his wife Pat didn’t even own a fur coat, but only a "respectable Republican cloth coat." Perhaps that was the moment in time when the "green monster" was released.

All I know is, I’m trying to do the right thing here, and I’d just like to understand why. I’m appealing to my readers - all three of you - to tell me, if you know: Why is it so much worse to wear a fur coat than to eat a hamburger?

Also, what should I do with my coat? :

Destroy it?
Wear it?
Sell it on ebay?
What?
My operators are standing by.
joan@joancall.com

My Library

It is with great trepidation that I call your attention to the link for "My Library" in the right-hand column under "More from Joan Call." If you go there, it takes you to a great site hosted by librarything.com, where any deranged bibliophile such as myself can post her personal library with reviews and 5 star ratings.

Because I’m down in Florida until April without access to all of my books, "My Library" is just a partial listing. I’ve rated my books using the 5 star system. If you want to see book reviews, you can click around the site and find them. But I don’t do book reviews, and let me tell you why.

I hate to recommend books to people, unless I know them and their reading habits well. Even at that, it’s tricky. Hence, my trepidation. One of my best friends, with whom I had much in common, hated Owen Meany. Another good friend did not enjoy The Ha Ha, by Dave King. For my money, novels don’t get much better than those. I threw up my hands, and learned to feel presumptuous when I assumed I knew what another reader would enjoy.

During my three-year stint as a bookseller, I was forced to recommend books on a daily basis. If I determined that the buyer wasn’t a big reader -no problem. The customer in a hurry, for example: "Do you have that book on the stock market? I don’t know the name of it! It’s purple, and it was on Oprah!" Or, "I’m looking for a book for my coffee table. It should be kind of a lemony-yellow, (there would sometimes be a paint chip)about 11 X 14?" Or the frantic husbands, five minutes before closing on Christmas Eve: "I need a book for my wife! She likes to cook!"

Then there were the customers who had read one book that they really liked in their entire lives: "I just finished Fried Green Tomatoes! I’d like another book like that!" Wouldn’t we all. Really great stories that are both wise and funny are rare.

For me, a really good day at the bookstore was when I could find the perfect book for a troubled customer. They might have a spouse with cancer, a child coping with the death of a grandparent, or a "friend" with an eating disorder. I would sit them down with a cup of tea in my rocking chair and bring them a stack of books. I usually said something like, "I think this is the one you’re looking for, but you might consider these as well."

It was always hard for me to take money from those people when they checked out. Sometimes they’d be crying. Sometimes I’d be crying. Books can do that. It’s a beautiful thing when a book becomes the only key that can get a person through a door they need to go through. Most times, you need to find those keys on your own. Keep looking.

My Valentine

I got an email from my daughter yesterday. She was making heart-shaped brownies to serve to her boyfriend for Valentine’s Day. She bought his favorite candy. "What are you and Dad doing?" she asked me.

"No plans here," was my answer. "But that’s OK!" I assured her. And she knows that. She’s been through the entire evolution of our gift-giving habits - from no gifts to really bad gifts to no gifts and finally, a few thoughtful gifts each year. (But never for Valentine’s Day.)

My husband and I were married in the month of November. Our first Christmas together was so hectic that we agreed to not buy gifts for one another. I may have even been the one to suggest it. But when there was no gift or card for my birthday in January, I was devastated. I pouted. He didn’t notice. Subtlety is ineffective with Charlie. It’s like taking poison and waiting for him to die. There was a blow-up, and a "talk", and an agreement that there would be gifts the following Christmas.

And there were. If memory serves, there was a dust buster, a window fan, and a no-slip safety step-ladder. They came in large boxes, he wrapped them, and they looked great under the tree. The following year there was a power drill and a blender. I began to see a pattern. Our local Ace Hardware was his go-to store for presents for the wife. They’re close, open late on Christmas Eve, and not too crowded.

We had another "gift discussion." It was loud. We resumed the no-gift policy.

Early marriage is tough, or at least ours was. There wasn’t a lot said or written about the fundamental differences between men and women in 1979. Most women, including myself, were still busy trying to prove that the genders were the same - thinking that we had to be the same to be equal. I had not yet read Dave Barry’s Complete Guide to Guys. (Laugh if you will, but that book was an epiphany for me.) I was still thinking that if he really loved me, well, he would notice when I was unhappy. And he would know why. I kept taking that poison and waiting for him to die.

I don’t know how many years into the marriage we were before I had another epiphany: Charlie has never been, and never will be, a guy whose love can be measured in flowers and jewelry. Mr. Romance he’s not.

Mr. Dependable is who he is. Mr. Wonderful Father. Mr. Take the Cat to the Vet in the Middle of the Night and Get Up For Work the Next Morning and Never Complain. Mr. Sure You Can Start a New Business Don’t Worry About the Money I’m Proud of You.

That’s who I married. That’s my Valentine.

Su Casa, Mi Casa

Have you ever rented a stranger’s home? This is something my husband, Charlie and I have done every vacation for over 20 years. When our children were young, it was just for a week or two. But now, we rent a different furnished house in Florida for three months every winter.

As soon as we arrive, before we unpack the car, Charlie and I take off in different directions, exploring the house in gender-stereotypical ways. He’s finding the electrical outlets, deciding on the best spot for his computer and my computer, checking out the hoses and fuse boxes, scoping out the garage and making his list for Radio Shack.

I spend a lot of time making a grocery list - not because I cook but because I’m still usually responsible for figuring out what necessities we need (coffee, soap, popcorn, TP). But as I take this inventory, what I am really doing is trying to get a sense of the people who own the home. Their presence is palpable, as though they were lingering spirits, and I need to make friends with them before I can feel at home for three months. This year, the spirits were restless. They were fighting with each other. I searched for clues.

This is tricky business. The closets and bureaus are empty, of course. Even the stray refrigerator magnet ("Bingo Keeps Me Regular!") or the books on the shelf could have been left by previous renters. But I’m up to the task. Out in the kitchen, some of the appliances are still in their original boxes, with German manuals and writing on the boxes. Charlie reports that there are two German language cable channels on the TV. OK, so the owners are German.

I wander around the whole house now, taking in the furnishings and the "art". The thing that struck us when we first entered the home was a four-foot sculpture of a goofy, demented-looking golfer by the front door. There is also, up on a high shelf, something of a statuette collection of golfers in liederhosen, and also much evidence of a crafty person who makes theme shadow boxes. The one over the kitchen sink, for example, contains plastic fruit, empty cereal boxes and the remnants of a Mc Donald’s Happy Meal. Also an American quarter and a beer cap. Not sure if they strayed from the theme, or perhaps the theme was "American Breakfast".

All of that exists, intermingled with lots of fat gold angels, Romanesque statues and a giant print of three amorous, disrobed Roman women hanging over the bed. This is not right. I plop myself down on a gold brocade loveseat in the living room and stare at the marble columned coffee table from Wise Guy Warehouse. Charlie gives me a dirty look as he limps by me with 3 suitcases. I should be helping him.

And suddenly I’ve got it. "The Germans just bought the house - recently!" I yell at him as I follow him back to the garage. "All the golfers and the fast food art belongs to them. Everything else was left by the previous owner! No wonder the spirits are fighting."

"That’s great," Charlie says."Can we unpack the car now?"

Famous People

Who, out of anyone living or dead, would you most like to meet? Do you ever ponder that question? Just thinking about it makes me nervous. And the answers people give to that question astound me! I’ve heard Abraham Lincoln, Ghandi, and even God. What, precisely, would one say to God?

I have behaved like an idiot on the few occasions when I have been in the presence of a famous person. Case in point: There is a movie called Housesitter that was filmed in the bucolic village of Cohasset, MA in 1992, starring Steve Martin and Goldie Hawn. I happened to own a bookstore at the time, right in the center of the village where many scenes were shot. The cast also included Dana Delaney and the excellent Julie Harris, and was directed by Frank Oz. Very famous, talented people, but for reasons I didn’t bother to think through, it was Goldie who interested me the most. I became obsessed with getting her into my store.

Which doesn’t quite explain what I’m about to tell you about how I blew off Frank Oz and Julie Harris, or treated Dana Delaney like a zoo animal. And Frank Oz was just lovely to me. On the first day of filming, he came into the store to buy a book for his young daughter. He complimented me on my store and apologized for any inconvenience his movie might be causing me. He certainly didn’t have to do that, since a gentleman from Hollywood had been by the previous week to present me with a compensation check for loss of business. (Which, in itself was a joke, because I had no business.) I responded by pressing a Little Harbor Bookstore tee-shirt into his hand and implored him, "Please give this to Goldie and tell her we’re thrilled to have her in town!"

The next day, Julie Harris popped in. She had electric rollers in her hair, and was holding a black cast-iron skillet which she had just purchased at the hardware store across the street. "I’m so excited to find this! My Grandmother used to make cornbread in one of these," she said. I’m not sure how the conversation proceeded from there, but I got into an argument with Julie Harris about the book I was ringing up for her, called The Education of Little Tree. I only remember that the argument was about the authenticity of the book, we were both sure we were right, and no tee-shirts were gifted.

Later that day, Goldie’s "people" were in the store, and I practically fell all over them. (I’m not making this up. I wish I was.) I promised that we could deliver anything Ms. Hawn would like: A safe haven (I’ll clear the store!), a cool spot to rest, a rocking chair, a cold drink, a cup of tea, and a spotless bathroom located much closer than her trailer. They promised to tell her while backing away from me and out of the store.

Sometime later, Dana Delaney appeared on the porch of my store. She was in a scene which started with her leaving my store, and running into Goldie’s character on the street. But things kept going wrong, and she must have stood there waiting to shoot the scene for 30 minutes. During which time I and two of my employees stood not three feet away from her, separated by only our screen door, and stared at her. We may or may not have offered her water. I don’t recall.

On the last day of shooting, when I had all but given up hope, the door to the store opened and in walked Goldie and her 12 year-old daughter, Kate. Goldie’s assistant told me she would like to use the bathroom. I wordlessly showed them the way. Kate picked out a book, and an assistant paid with a check which was signed by Goldie. They left the store. I never said a word.

Even now, I have trouble explaining this. I think there is a broad disconnect between my fantasies and the real world, and that even as I campaigned so vigorously to bring about a meeting between myself and Goldie, I never truly believed it would happen. So when it did happen, I had no plan for what I would do or say. If I had, what should I have said to Goldie? I’ve loved you since Laugh In? You were terrific in Private Benjamin? BIG FAN!!!

All true. But not a reflection of how I feel about her - why it is that she interests me. What I should have said was, "Thank-you for being such a great female role model. I have a daughter, too. I’ve heard you were one of the first to form your own production company - that you don’t let the boys push you around. Yet in spite of being tough, you haven’t felt the need to sacrifice your adorable, giggly, sexy side. That’s what I want my daughter to see. She can be any kind of woman she wants to be, and still be respected, without sacrificing any part of herself. Go get ‘em, Goldie!"

But I didn’t say anything. After she left I just took the check that was signed by her and taped it to the wall in my office. I left it there for about a month, but every time I looked at it, it just reminded me of how I had behaved like a lunatic stalker. So, on my way out of the store one night, I pulled the check off the wall and stuck it in my night deposit bag. Business wasn’t that good.

Fear of Drowning

I guess you could call me a late bloomer, although I prefer to think of myself as someone unencumbered by traditional schedules. I didn’t get around to graduating from college until I was in my 40s. Last year, I started graduate school at age 56. Still, it surprised me the other day when, after a lifetime of shamefully explaining to people that I can’t swim, I discovered that I can!

And I owe it all to my Aqua Jogger. Mind you, learning to swim was not my intention. The Aqua Jogger is intended to be an exercise aide, and is not even recommended as a floatation device. I bought the thing so I could exercise in the pool, which I still do.

The surprise benefit was that I found myself wandering into the deep end of the pool (water over my head!) for the first time in my life. Prior to the Aqua Jogger, I was always stuck in the shallow end, staring wistfully at my friends and family splashing happily in the deep water. I would stand there watching eighteen month-old babies with water wings flapping and kicking over to the party where I was not allowed. So close, and yet so far.

I’ve been blaming my fear of water on my mother all my life. She was a raging aquaphobe. She never owned a bathing suit, and I never saw her in a pool or any other body of water deeper than a bathtub. But I’ve always known the "I learned this from my mother" excuse was a weak theory. My brother and sister both swim. Therefore, I must be a wuss - an opinion of myself reinforced by my brother-in-law, who finds the sight of me in the pool in my Aqua Jogger the funniest thing he’s ever seen. It’s like I’m Martin Short in his SNL synchronized swimming routine where he wears a life preserver.

But the big news is that last week, with my husband standing very close by with his arms outstretched for me to swim to him like the parent of a toddler, I did. Without my Aqua Jogger. I only swim 5 or 6 feet so far, and I don’t put my face in the water - nobody’s going to mistake me for Esther Williams. But I am swimming. And it makes me wonder what else I might be able to do that I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.

Sweet Home Chicago

If I had to describe who I am to a stranger in three words, I would say, "I’m from Chicago." It is the city of my birth, where I grew up and lived the first 34 years of my life. It is what people know about me the minute I open my mouth. Mere photographs of the city can make my heart swell. And not just the beautiful parts. There is something so unique about the neighborhoods of Chicago that I instantly recognize my city in any film. I have to nudge my fellow-viewers and point it out with a level of pride, love and excitement I normally reserve for photos of my children. "That’s Chicago!"

I eagerly moved to Massachusetts 20 years ago. It was time for a change, to broaden my horizons and experience something different. The east coast! The only state that voted for McGovern! All those Kennedys! We lived in three different towns in those 20 years: Hingham on the south shore, Boston - so close to Symphony Hall that I could go home to use the bathroom if the line was too long, and Yarmouth on Cape Cod. All beautiful, all exciting, but last year when an opportunity presented itself to move back "home", I jumped at the chance.

In my absence, my "Sweet Home Chicago" became even more gorgeous and amazing than it was when I left. How can I compare it to Massachusetts? Every time I landed at Logan, I felt like my IQ got an automatic 5 point bump. And there was a reserved quality, almost an absence of wildness, that was so comforting to me at that stage of my life. Landing in Chicago is a different experience. There’s an immediate, madcap, in-your-face, bad as we wanna be quality that will always feel like home.

Politics and Sports

Well, it’s a big week-end. Presidential primaries on Saturday, and playoff games on Sunday. Most everyone you talk to can tell you who they support in all of those races, and passions run high.

My husband and I will root for The Patriots, because the Bears are out of it, and we lived in Massachusetts for 20 years. In the other contest, I’m supporting Green Bay because my daughter-in-law grew up there, and my dad liked them. Also, I think their uniforms are attractive. Last week-end, however, I supported The Colts because my husband is a Hoosier and their coach is a really nice guy. So sue me - I’m not a serious fan.

I am serous about the primaries, though, and it’s driving me crazy that my political support sounds about as well thought out as my sporting alliances. I like all three of the top democratic candidates, I really do. Obama promises to get us out of Iraq sooner, but Hillary is the health care maven, and Edwards is so nice and green. And really, they all talk a good game on those and other issues that I consider to be important. So it’s come down to a "beauty contest" for me, in politics as well as sports.

But even at that it’s tought to choose. Edwards seems so authentic and compassionate with his love for the poor and his son "in heaven" and all that. But Obama is a great speaker and smart as a whip, and wouldn’t it be a wonderful thing for our country to elect an African-American president?

In the final analysis, I’m a female with a daughter and two grand-daughters, Obama is young . He’ll be back. Hillary gets my vote.

Posture

I have had terrible posture since I was an adolescent. I can remember walking around the house when I was very young with a book on my head, and getting lots of attention from grown ups because I could do that. I was often praised for my beautiful posture.

And then I wasn’t. Photos from age eight or nine and beyond show a gradually slumping child. I could spill a lot of ink pondering the reasons why - poor self-esteem, lack of self-confidence, etc. - perhaps another time. Suffice to say that I’m 57 years old and I can’t stand to look at pictures of myself anymore.

I’ve been meaning to do something about my posture for years. I look at my rounded shoulders in the mirror and bark at myself, "Stand up straight!" I have a very low opinion of that woman who is staring back at me in the mirror. I hate her. It has recently occurred to me that this may have something to do with my poor follow-through on the posture project. Also, if I’m not looking in a mirror I just forget to stand up straight. After all, "slouch" has been my default position for 50 years.

So I’m trying a new approach. I have pasted post-its on the mirrors and walls throughout the house that say things like, "Proud" and "Tall" and even "Beautiful middle-aged woman." It’s only been a day now, but I think I’m starting to believe my own propaganda. And I’m sitting very straight in my chair as I type this.

The Cleaning Ladies

I’m very conflicted about the people who clean the workout room in the hotel where I go to exercise every day. It seems like whenever I go to work out, and I’ve gone at all different times of the day, there are two cleaning people there. They don’t seem to be any happier to see me than I am to see them. This is a small exercise room - maybe 20 machines, tops. We’re in each other’s way. I go to the treadmill farthest away from them and start my routine.

They never finish before I’m through, which is 40 minutes. No matter where they are I can see them because there are mirrors all over the place. They zig and zag all over the room with their spray bottles, absently wiping down the same exercise machines, and it’s obvious that they’re hiding out from their supervisor and killing time. The closer they get to my treadmill, the more irritated I get. When they start spraying the treadmills on either side of me, I want to put my towel over my head.

They’re using strong cleaning solution in a poorly ventilated room. It’s a health hazard. I’m breathing hard and taking in more air because I’m working out. I could be allergic. (I’m not, but I could be.) And from there, it’s just a short leap to, Yeah, that’s it! I’m going to tell them I’m allergic. Except they don’t speak English. No problem.

While walking 3.8 m.p.h., I begin an elaborate pantomime with the cleaning woman standing on the treadmill next to me. I wave to get her attention. She looks startled, suspicious, and a bit angry. Her bottle is alarmingly close to my face, finger poised on the trigger.

First I point to myself. Then I point to her spray bottle, and spray an imaginary bottle at my machine. Then I pretend sneeze. I look at her meaningfully. She stares at me, no longer startled but still suspicious. I assume she has understood me, and launch into my second "sentence." I point to myself. I point at my treadmill. I hold up one hand, five fingers spread wide. I point to my watch. I pantomime walking with my index and middle finger. I point to the door. I almost fall off my treadmill then, but manage to grab the handles and maintain 3.8.

The cleaning lady is now staring at me like you would look at a large, scary spider who is so near the ceiling, you don’t know how you’re going to kill him. Then she shrugs her shoulders and nods. For one brief moment I congratulate myself on my abilities as a communicator. I should work at the UN. She understands that I’m allergic to her cleaning solution, but if she waits just five minutes, I’ll be done and gone.

The next thing I know, the cleaning lady is leaning over her treadmill and spraying mine all over. Because I’ve reflexively closed my eyes, I am hanging onto the side handles for dear life. I can feel the spray covering my right side. When I sense that it’s safe, I open one eye and jab the red "STOP" button. The dashboard is slippery wet. I grab my IPOD and wobble towards the door. I am not sneezing. The cleaning lady waves.

So here’s where the argument in my head begins. Selfish Joan is outraged. She paid A Lot Of Money for the privilege of using that treadmill. And those people are just goofing off. They are making the whole experience more unpleasant than it is already, and giving her yet another excuse not to go at all. Why do they have to be there every day? She considers reporting them. Begrudgingly, SJ also acknowledges that she is also frustrated because her cover has been completely blown. She can hardly strengthen her case with allergies if she complains to management, since she is now literally dripping with cleaning solution, yet her eyes are clear and her nose is dry.

Benevolent Joan chimes in: Those poor cleaning ladies are probably supporting many people on their minimum wages, they have no skills for advancement and will be stuck in menial jobs for the rest of their lives. Whereas you, Selfish Joan, are going home to read a book for an hour before starting dinner which, face it, if you don’t feel like cooking, you don’t have to. You are so lucky...

Righteous Joan is beside herself. Luck has nothing to do with it! I was once a cleaning lady myself, when I was in college. My childhood was no cakewalk, you know...

And on and on they go. There are actually dozens of people squaring off in my mind at all times. Stick around. You’ll get to meet them all.