Ballerina Dreams Come True

I had the best afternoon today. After teaching and tutoring, I went to the gym for a NYC Ballet Workout. It's a "movement class" based on workouts for the NYC Ballet. I thought it would be loosely based, but no -- there we were in first position doing demi-plies. I had an absolute ball. We did stretches and then learned a little dance with arabesques and turns and promenades and the whole thing. The workout certainly didn't burn as many calories as other workouts I've attended, but it was great -- the hour flew by. We stretched, worked some core muscle groups, and elevated our heart rates to probably the fat burn zone. I think the muscle group that was most tired at the end, though, was my cheeks! I smiled and giggled the whole time. I looked truly absurd and horribly uncoordinated. After the class I jumped in the pool and swam and treaded water for 20-30 minutes. I am having trouble with the rotator cuff in my left arm (a consequence of walking Lucy, who jerks my shoulder out of the socket, and lifting babies quickly approximating 20 lbs.), so I didn't want to overdo the repetitive stroking motion. Instead I treaded water switching from legs -- fly kick, breast kick, egg beater -- to arms. It was the beginning of Saturday's family time, so families were arriving with their toddlers to get in. So cute!
Anyhow, happy afternoon.

No ponytail

When I was growing up, I had long, blonde, sun-streaked hair that went all the way to my waist. I put it in pigtails, one braid, two braids, French braids, “dog ears” as HP calls them on Inwe, and, of course, ponytails. I had long, thick, wavy ponytails. And since I was a swimmer, I often had long, thick, wet ponytails that dripped down the back of my shirt as I sat in algebra class after a morning practice. Six years ago, when I was preparing to leave for a year in Germany, I cut off my long hair in favor of a short cropped haircut that was much more practical for the shower-and-go lifestyle I would be living overseas. Since college, I have grown my hair back out twice but always cut it back off for the very short “butch” cut shown in my profile. I like my short hair. It’s very easy. When it grows a little, it curls out on the side and looks sweet. Even my mother, who loved my long hair, says it looks cute. My husband does not disapprove.

On Tuesday, I decided to join a local gym. Our apartment building has a workout room with a treadmill and an elliptical trainer, but it’s locked from 10pm until around 6am or so in the morning, and since I start work at 7:30am and sometimes work until 10pm, the only time I have to work out is in the morning. So I went by the athletic club that’s two blocks from work (Lincoln Park Athletic Club or LPAC), and checked it out. It’s a nice facility, and with the teacher discount they gave me (for being a Kaplan teacher!), it’s really affordable. With this newfound motivation, I’ve been perhaps overeager with my regimen. On Wednesday, I rode my bike to work (about a 30 minute ride), then did a Full Body Blast class (in which I became lightheaded and queasy for a few moments in the middle) and then a 30-minute inclined walk. Then I rode to my evening job and home later that day. Today, I rode my bike to work, then did a Hard CORE class, then the elliptical to my target heart rate for 30 minutes. My legs are going to be soooore.

I know part of my motivation for joining this gym was also to meet and be around other people my age. I have a hard time believing I’ll make friends at the gym now – especially since so many people seem to know each other from work or school – but I was hoping people would be friendly. And it’s not that anybody’s rude – it’s just that no one is that outgoing. In the classes I’ve taken, nobody chats before or after. And I always seem to be in someone’s way!

But back to my ponytail. I was looking around today trying to decide why I don’t quite fit in at this gym. There are women of various shapes and sizes, though granted most are thin and trim. And then I saw it – ALL of the women in the gym had ponytails! It was like a requirement for working out there. There they were, ponytails swinging and bopping as these workout women did the stairmaster and jogged on the treadmill.

And so now I feel bereft. I want my ponytail back. And of course, that’s easier said than done. I like my hair long. I have pretty hair – it’s my one vanity. I can do all kinds of fun things with it depending on my mood and the occasion. But it’s also heavy and hangs in my face. So for now, I will embrace my cute cropped hair and be excited about the nice color, how quickly I can style it (about 2 seconds), and how much energy I’m saving by not using a hair dryer. Ah, glass half full again. And maybe I’ll even chat up somebody at the gym tomorrow – Spinning class!

Back in the saddle again...

I've started riding my bike to work again. For those of you who didn't hear, I was hit by a car while riding my bike last November. The accident left me horribly bruised and sore and left my bike unrideable for a week or so. It also put an early end to my riding season as the weather soon turned too cold to ride. What follows is the 3rd portion of the walk, drive, bike essay that I've posted in parts. This original draft was written and turned in for class before that accident. I will post the final draft another time, in which the accident is mentioned.

My first bike sans training wheels was a used pink Huffy that my parents either bought or got from a family living down the street from us. I was somewhere between the ages of four and eight based on the fact that we were living in Illinois then. I don’t remember much about my bike except a wicker basket that was attached to the front of the handles. I don’t know that I every actually put anything into this basket, but I loved the fact that it was there. I would ride my pink bike up and down the street we lived on – Lincolnshire – with my friend Autumn.

Several weeks ago, I bought my first grown-up bike – a metallic blue and black Giant-brand hybrid comfort bike (though the considerable soreness of my ass would suggest that the comfort part of that description is debatable). My goal was to ride my bike in lieu of taking the CTA whenever possible, and hopefully get in better shape in the process. I am happy to report that I have ridden my bike every day since purchasing it, having now saved at least $40 in CTA fares to and from work and other engagements. Only $258 more until I break even.

When I bought my bike, I was worried about several things. I was concerned about how hot and sweaty I would be upon arriving at my destination after riding there (June through August only, of course). I was embarrassed to admit that I wouldn’t be able to propel the thing very quickly – at least, not at first, I told myself. And I was a little reticent about driving in traffic. Cars are big, and they are scary. As a pedestrian, I always had my own safe place where I could hide from the cars. I only interacted with them when I crossed the street, and since I only did so when the street signs said I could, I crossed with the confidence and self-righteousness of one who knew she had the right-of-way.

I am happy to report after several weeks of riding that the former two concerns were much more legitimate than the latter. I have indeed arrived to various destinations hot and bothered, usually the consequence of the fact that I cannot, in fact, ride very hard without approaching a small myocardial infarction (though I’m getting better, or at least that’s what I tell myself). Chicago drivers, it seems, are used to driving with and around bike riders[1] and are generally sympathetic to their cause. A bike is, after all, like the Flinstone’s car – a self-propelled form of transportation that (without legs like Fred and Barney) goes slower and leaves the rider exposed to the elements.

Riding a bike in Chicago is, thus, much more like driving than walking. Drivers generally get annoyed with everyone on the road – the bike rider slowing traffic because no one can pass, the pedestrian who darts into traffic and then gets stuck midway in the cross-section of cars whizzing by, and the driver who is either too or not enough aggressive in making unprotected left-hand turns. As a bike rider, I get annoyed with everyone, too – the car that zooms by me , the pedestrian who steps out against the light, causing me to either swerve (thanks to the relative narrowness of a bike) or break hard (a real danger on a bike, as the rider may end up head over heels, and not in a romantic way), and the bike rider who is disobeying traffic rules – passing me to ride through a red light or turn on a corner with a large black-and-white “No turn on red” sign.

Riding a bike as a form of transportation around an American (read: many large cars) metropolis (read: expensive cars) has a variety of challenges, elemental, physical and sociological. The elements of Chicago that pose the great threat to a bike rider are undoubtedly wind and cold. Riding in any wind causes my eyes to water copiously at the onset of my journey, even when wearing glasses. Riding into the wind is a whole different story. Several days ago, on my way to work, I was riding north on Dearborn. Nearing the turn-off to North Avenue at the base of Lincoln Park, I realized that I was pumping vigorously but barely moving. Winter is approaching in Chicago, and the windy city will soon no longer be home to the “friendly confines” of summer. Likewise, as the weather turns colder, no amount of layering will protect the chill that starts in the fingers and eventually overtakes the ears. The only things that hurts more than the wind and cold against the ears, of course, is the thawing out of the ears in the aftermath. Beyond the elements, Chicago, fortunately, is about as flat a terrain as any bike rider could hope for – unlike, say, San Francisco. Hence, the physicality of bike riding in Chicago is subdued to a level at which someone like me can do it. The sheer act of propelling oneself, however, has its terrifying moments. Consider a common occurrence on my daily ride to work: riding north on Lincoln Avenue, I encounter several intersections where at least three streets meet – for example, Lincoln, Halsted, Fullerton, and Sedgewick. The layout of the intersection is such that the distance from one side of a light to other is more considerable than the standard two road intersection. Hence, if I cross the starting line just prior to the light changing, it becomes – green light – oh no, yellow – pedal, pedal, pedal, pedal – oh, please don’t honk at me – the light was still green when I left – until I reach the safety of the finish line on the other side. For a cyclist (see footnote), this might not be a problem, but for a 5’2” (mostly torso and head) recreational exerciser, it can be.

The sociological implications of being a bike rider have to do with perspective. As a pedestrian, I know sidewalks and parks with paths. As a bike rider, I know streets and how many lanes they have, which have a bike lane, and which are one-way. I know which streets have mainly stop signs and which have traffic lights. I know where it’s easy to make a left-hand turn, places where there are actually protected arrows, and where it’s tough and requires a combination of walking the bike across a crosswalk and then rejoining traffic. Being a bike rider has also changed my perspective on entitlement – what’s my right as a bike rider. I probably will never become a person who writes or signs anything in support of additional bike lanes in the city. I will, however, bitch at length about the people who double-park in the bike lanes around the city, causing me to pull hesitantly into traffic and veer around the car – only after checking my rear view for a car that might take offense and try to go around me, thus pushing me into the parked car –because that space is mine. But, even as a bike rider with growing confidence (and ability, let’s not forget), I will never forget that cars are bigger than me, and that it’s my job to look around because I don’t know who won’t see me. It’s why I wear a helmet, and why I follow the rules.

[1] Throughout this essay, I will refer to myself as a “bike rider” because I feel that “cyclist” refers to someone with far greater skill and interest in biking than me. Note that there do exist any number of “cyclists” in the city of Chicago, not to be confused with, though possibly grouped with “bike messengers” who are as scary to a “bike rider” as cars themselves. The term “biker” is reserved for that questionable group of people who ride what is commonly referred to in Chicago as a “donorcycle.”

Chicago's Magnificent Surgical Museum

One of Wes's favorite discoveries since coming to Chicago is the Surgicial Museum on Lakeshore Drive. On Tuesdays, admission is free, which is the only way to see it. When Hoosier Doc and Wes's sister Horse Gal visited over Christmas, we took a group outing to check it out. Hoosier Doc is in his 3rd year of medical school at the University of Indiana, and Horse Gal is pre-vet at Virginia Tech, so those two and Wes had a good understanding of everything they saw. Me, not so much, but it was interesting nonetheless. The funny thing about this museum is that it is funny, though perhaps it doesn't mean to be. For example, in one room on the top floor of the museum (housed in an old mansion!), there are solid colored canvases framed with names like "Alcoholism" and "Osteoporosis." I think it's supposed to show what color the liver is with various diseases... There is also beautifully crafted needlepoint of, for example, lung cancer, depicting the lungs with a little darkened cloud in them. Pictured above, Hoosier Doc poses with ovarian cancer (I think). I mean, who came up with this stuff? Throughout the museum are various educational exhibits on diseases like polio, complete with an iron lung, and surgery, with some very graphic murals of ancient surgery. Considerable coverage was given to a process in which holes were drilled in the skull (for the life of me I can't remember now what it's called) and the birthing process, especially c-sections. We have lots of great photos from our trip to this museum -- including a gall stone the size of my fist and some very, very old, large, rusted speculums. Thank heavens I live in the 21st century!

Lord, won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz...

I have rented a car three times since moving to Chicago (all, sadly, to schlep the same two cartons of teaching materials around the city and eventually back to my apartment). The first two cars were economy, which is the kind of car I used to own – a 2002 Toyota Corolla. Economy cars are a good for a variety of reasons. They are small and easy to handle. They get great gas mileage, which is kind to the environment as well as my pocketbook. And when you injure them – as I necessarily do – it doesn’t cost that much to fix them. I was happy in my economy cars. I knew what all the buttons and knobs did. I could refuel them at the end of my rental for under $30. And I didn’t hurt any of them (hey, the belt slipping and air conditioning giving out were not my fault). The last time I rented a car, however, there were no economy cars available. I went to get one that morning, sure I could find something last minute, only to learn that all of the less expensive rentals were gone. The rental agency agreed to give me a brand new SUV – all they had available – for the cost of a full-size vehicle. I said okay and handed over my credit card. Driving that hulk of a car around Chicago was like entering the land of the Lilliputians in Gulliver’s full-sized tank. I felt enormous. I felt embarrassed. I could neither figure out how to move the seat forward so that my short legs could reach the pedals nor how to roll down the window, inadvertently turning on the windshield wipers instead. It cost me over fifty dollars to refill the tank at the end of the day. Fortunately, the rental agent did not notice the white paint on the black front left bumper when I returned it. Hopefully, neither did the owner of the white car that I evidently swiped when trying repeatedly and almost unsuccessfully to maneuver this monstrosity out of a tight parking spot.

Driving in Chicago – regardless of the vehicle, but particularly in an SUV – is one of the most stressful activities I have engaged in since arriving in Chicago – and I have been taking care of two colicky infants for the past several weeks. Though cars may rule the road, anyone with a sense of concern for others on the road recognizes that cars only rule roads where there are no pedestrians or bicycles – for example, on the Eisenhower Freeway (where, at any given time, so many cars rule the road that the freeway comes to a stop, allowing a driver the opportunity to reflect on the fact that his car can go “zero to sixty in three point two seconds”). In congested areas where walkers and bikers are common, cars do and must yield to both based solely on the fact that a car can kill them in an accident. Though there are examples of cars swerving or stopping unexpectedly because of a pedestrian or a biker, thus causing serious injury to the driver, there are few, if any, examples of a pedestrian or biker actually striking a vehicle as the agressor and harming a driver.

Let me make no pretense here – I hate cars, and I hate driving. They have been, up to this point in my life, necessary evils. I have always worked far enough away from where I lived that I had to drive to get there. And Charlottesville, Virginia, though famous for being home to Monticello, is considerably less well known for its public transportation – and rightfully so. I didn’t get my driver’s license until I was 17, and I only did that because my mother, tired of getting up at 5am to take me to swim team practice, insisted. From the day I got my learner’s permit, I was an accident waiting to happen. I was a timid, and hence overly sensitive driver, because I was constantly petrified by the idea that I could seriously injure someone or myself with this object It’s the same reason I won’t ever have a gun in my home. As time went on, this fear was mitigated by several smaller accidents that injured only the car – backing into a fire hydrant in our neighborhood and the like. I have been in two accidents since then – neither, shockingly, my fault, but neither serious enough to even report to the insurance agency. Over time, I became braver on the interstate and started yelling at people in the left-hand lane going slower than me, but never, never did I forget what a lethal object I was operating.

The only thing less safe than having me on the road, of course, is having someone who does forget the power and might a vehicle possesses, and how overwhelming these odds are against something smaller – say, anything except maybe a building (which in the case of a vehicle like the Hummer and a building like a small, ice cream stand, the vehicle might still be bigger). And yet, in the midst of Chicago’s ticketing frenzy, the drivers are those being shielded.

Driving in Chicago seems to bring out the worst in people. I was recently passing the Starbucks on Rush Street walking south towards my apartment building when I witnessed an verbal altercation between two middle-aged men that, save for the profane language, resembled something out of a nursery school. Two drivers, one still in his car and the other on the sidewalk, were calling each other names because of an argument over a parking spot. The gentleman on the sidewalk, dressed in casual attire and carrying a paper coffee cup, appeared to have taken a spot that the other gentleman, attired in a black suit and tie, was waiting for. I can’t be entirely sure about what happened. But as I walked by, I heard a short portion of their conversation.

The gentleman in the car addressed his adversary plainly, saying, “You’re an asshole!” To which the gentleman on the sidewalk said, “Yeah, well you’re a schmuck!” The gentleman in the car, upon receiving this bitten thumb, responded, his rage increasing, “A schmuck? Did you just call me a schmuck?” It was all I could do to tear myself away.

BIG Brother!

My Tall Sister-in-Law is pregnant with baby number two, and Big Daddy called today to tell me they're expecting another boy. The due date is mid-June. Big Baby (pictured) is the couple's first child, and he's celebrating his first birthday in early March. Unfortunately, he's down and out with an ear infection right now, but that doesn't keep him from his evening spa time. Daddy says just no "baptizing" right now. I've had fun sending gifts from Auntie Lizzy and Uncle Wes to Big Baby. Daddy's favorite gift was Walter, the Farting Dog, a book I consider to be a "new classic." Spoiler: look for a follow-up on this in Big Baby's birthday gift! Congratulations to the expectant mom, dad, and new big brother! 

The Surreal Life

The first day I had Lucy at home, I was cleaning and doing laundry in preparation for a friend to visit. I was engrossed in my tasks, loading clothes into the washing machine, when suddenly I sensed something with me in the little laundry room, and I turned and screamed -- and scared Lucy near to piddles. I wasn't used to having this little being at home with me, underfoot, appearing unexpectedly. I eventually got used to it, of course. She was only five pounds then, so it took a little longer to notice her then than it does now at 20 pounds in a 700 sq. ft. apartment. I remember looking at her one day and thinking to myself, "This little being relies on me. If I don't take care of her, she could die." There was something very surreal about that. It was the first time anything besides me was really my responsibility.

I've had other of these very surreal moments, and I always try to enjoy them. One thing I've come to learn about life is that it isn't big moments. Growing up, I always expected the big events in my life -- moving to a new house and city, starting a new school, graduating, starting college, getting married -- to be these pinnacle moments. Instead, they pass by like almost any other normal day. It's always sometime later when I feel the weight and shift of what has happened. On my wedding day, my best friend Lawyer Lady said, "Call Wes your husband. Come on, say it!" I laughed because it didn't really mean anything to me. Wes and I were excited about our wedding day, but to us it wasn't an event that was built up to so much as one that we simply arrived at and passed through enjoyably. In our hearts and minds, we were already together. Our wedding was simply a ceremony that made it official and celebrated that fact. So it wasn't like we said, "I do" and suddenly felt weak in the knees or heard the "Hallelujah" chorus. Every once in a while, though, I will kind of look at Wes and think to myself, "I met this guy and married him. I have a husband. Somewhere along the way I grew up, and now the two of us are living together and thinking about starting a family. We will always be together." And it's overwhelming in a really cool way. Wierd, but cool.

I had another of these moments last week when I was walking to get on the El on my way to work. I looked around me at the people rushing about, the skyscrapers that create the skyline, and the businesses and high-rise condos and thought, "I live in a big city. There are millions of people that live here, and I'm one of them." It was odd. It's like watching movies or tv shows now that are filmed in Chicago and realizing I know the places where they're set. I live in that big city, not in a little subdivision or military base housing. Wierd, but cool.

I know I'm a little young to be having these reminiscent feelings, but it seems like only yesterday that I was in high school and learning to drive and getting excited about Davidson. And now here I am -- I'm married, I have a dog, I live in an apartment in Chicago. Wierd, but cool.

Celebrating five months today!

Fin (left) and Baren (right) are five months old today. I thought about this because HP's son Finwe (a derivation of Fin's full name) is four months old today, so they boys are exactly a month apart. I can't speak quite as extensively about their development as HP can about Finwe's, as I am not the mother of these sweet little boys, but I can give some general information. The boys are growing right on track and seem to be healthy and happy. At their last doctor's visit, they were around the 50th percentile for weight, which is great since they were several weeks early. They're a little short for their age, but as their mom points out, so are their parents, so that's really no surprise. They love to babble, and Fin especially likes to blow bubbles and DRUEL. Fin laughed truly for the first time on Friday, and Baren just smiles and smiles, especially at his mommy. They love their Exersaucers and their activity mats, reaching out for toys and even pulling them down. They really dislike tummy time and aren't really pushing up yet. Fin has become a happier, less fussy baby over the past month, and Baren has started to fuss a little more. He seems to just want a lot of attention and holding, which is fine as long as they don't want it at the same time!

I've definitely enjoyed my last four months with these guys and look forward to what they next several months will bring. A very merry un-birthday, boys!