The Dangers of Exercise (Richmond, VA)

Exercise is dangerous to your health. This unfortunate truth has been hit home to me time and time again.

The first time it hit me, it did so with force. I was 21 years old, pitching a no-hitter in Manhattan's Central Park, with a group of friends, when a man (who had asked to join us) smashed a line drive into my face. Don't believe it if someone tells you that a softball is a soft ball. That sucker lifted me up, then deposited me on the ground four to six feet from my launching pad. I had an out-of-body experience, watching myself fly through the air from a perspective about two feet south of Heaven. By the time the ambulance had arrived and the batter(er) had run away, I was convinced that all my teeth were going to spill out of my mouth. They were the only things that hurt; the ball had damaged the nerve in my face, leaving it numb -- a good thing, as I never felt the pain of my broken jaw, nose, and the bone under my eye. By the time I was back on my feet -- with two black and jagged-red radiating-line-decorated eyes, the gluey remnants of recently removed bandages still visible, and a crooked nose that would ensure that modeling could never be my profession -- I had sworn off soft, base, foot, and basketball or any sport or exercise involving round objects sailing through space that could come into close or far proximity with my face.

My next brush with the perils of exercise occurred years later. I was participating in a calisthenics class, and the instructor decided to break the group into teams and have us race each other. As a woman of already a certain age (but much younger), I was in my element. I used to sprint competitively, and this was a chance to strut my stuff. So, I hit the ground running, until I hit the ground, running. My knee promptly swelled up to the size of a bowling ball. I have avoided running, bowling, and the ground ever since.

I literally and figuratively hit a wall about a year and a half ago, while taking a combat aerobics class. You use moves from various martial arts, but there is no person-to-person contact in this type of exercise. There's not supposed to be any contact with walls, either. But on that ill-fated day, just a few minutes into the warm-up, I was moving forwards and back, when the next thing I knew, I was not. I found myself sitting up against the wall, my wrists hurting like hell, and with no memory of what had transpired. I emerged from the emergency room with a broken right wrist, a sprained wrong thumb, and a lump on the back of my head. I couldn't drive, dress myself, or type on the keyboard for the next two months or more. I managed to obtain a special pencil that attached to the middle finger of my left hand, but I could never read whatever it was that I wrote, so I ended up just using the device as an extended finger to indicate my anger -- if you know what I mean. Since then, I've kept my distance from combat, walls, and anyone or anything I consider backward.

I've probably erased from memory other exercise-related mishaps, but the latest occurred a few evenings ago. I was dancing with one of my salsa buddies, when I stepped on my very own foot. When I removed my shoe later that night, revealing broken skin and a bloody toe, I resolved to avoid referring to dancing as exercise.

Cold Spot (Richmond, VA)

These are the gloomy days, the chilly, rainy days of Richmond. Intro to Winter 101. Have there been four or five or a hundred of these days in a row? Don't know, but it feels as if this grayity has settled into my very bones.

Rain falls in cascades, sheets, cats and dogs, maybe even lions, tigers, and bears. Tempers run short and high.

Everyone looks pale and sickly. I feel rather ill, myself. Congested. Coughing. Sneezy and wheezy.

Surrendering to the malaise, I stay in bed for an entire day and night, mostly sleeping. I cut back on activities, missing dances, classes, and various intriguing events. I will unsnail once the clouds lift and the sun shines.

Going Deaf or Going Daft? (Richmond, VA)

I have an excuse. The music is blaring, so I've got my ears plugged and can hear hardly a word that anyone cares to say. But the woman who's just been introduced to me -- and whose name I didn't hear and would've forgotten immediately if I had (I've never met a name that I could remember without multiple exposures), isn't plugged out or in. She says (and I DO hear this): "I'm going to call you by a nickname."

"No you're not," I respond.

The woman who introduced us helpfully chimes in with a suggestion: "Barbie."

I glare at her. "Absolutely not!"

I look at her friend and offer my own suggestion: "How about if you just call me Barbara?"

"Sure," she replies with enthusiasm, "but what's your real name?"

"Barbara," I say.

"Now, that's really strange," she remarks.

I walk away. The exchange seems weird to me, too.

Tall Tales 2 (Richmond, VA)

Apparently, my doctor was concerned about shrinkage. She ordered a bone density scan for me because petite people seem to be at high risk of breaking their sparrow-like bones.

I dutifully fill out the pre-scan questionnaire. I am accustomed to saying that I am almost 5'l" -- as measured by the Baltimore Aquarium's temporary exhibit that compared height and weight to the size of a baby whale. (I'm smaller). Because there isn't enough room to write "almost," I scribble 5'1" in the space where it asks for my last known height.

When the nurse (who is at least 5'20") measures me, she snarks something like, "Aha! You've already shrunk some! You're only 5'1/2" tall."

That so-called nurse is so so-called tall that she actually compresses my skull by flattening my hair until it becomes ingrown! In addition, I've long suspected and am now convinced that all of the measurement tools in my doctor's office are out of date, balance, and whack. For instance, the scale adds five pounds that someone else must have left behind, it doesn't take stock of the heavy-weight materials used in the undergarments that I wear, and it doesn't subtract the 13 lbs. of water that I drink and the breakfast and lunch I eat before my appointments.

Everything is wrong about this, I'm sure you will agree. Who, after all, would have the more accurate measurements? The well respected, scientifically accurate and internationally acclaimed Baltimore Aquarium or some little medical practice that nobody's even heard of outside of certain ever-shrinking circles in Richmond, Virginia?

Anyone looking at me (except for my son, who is completely impossible when it comes to talking about my height -- he says that I don't have any...) can see that I am MUCH taller than my mother ever was -- even at her zenith: At 5 feet, in her stocking feet, she ended up being taller than all of her friends; she was the only one among them who didn't shrink with age and time. And furthermore, if math really made sense, five feet plus two feet would equal seven feet, right?

And while we're not too far from the subject of my son, I must explain that when he was about four years old -- still knee-high to a grasshopper and about chin-high to his mother -- I made the mistake of telling him that in the final chapter of my favorite book, Gabriel Garcia Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude, the family matriarch (Raquel) had become so wizened and shrunken that her great-grandchildren stored her in a dresser drawer and played with her as if she were a doll. This son of mine piped up with his own creative and frightening rift on this already disturbing vision: "Mom," he told me, "when you get old I'll keep you in a shoebox, dress you in clown clothes, and use you as a bookmark."

With this in mind, you will appreciate that as much as I support my son's love of reading and as much as I hope that he will continue to involve me in his life, my need to stand tall, keep my chin up and my shrinkage down is high on my to-do list.

One Shot Before Dinner (Richmond, VA)

It's 3:15 p.m. I get on line in the pharmacy for a flu shot. I'm number 95. I ask the woman who hands me the pre-shot questionnaire ("Have you ever had a negative reaction to a flu shot?" "Are you allergic to eggs?" "Will anybody realize you're acting oddly if you start screeching like an angry monkey?" "Have you updated your will?")how long it will be before I get my turn. She doesn't know and wouldn't care that I have to be at a former student's apartment for dinner at 4:30.

Ahmed lives at least 20 minutes away. I wonder if I should wait or just go next door to the florist, buy a nice bouquet or plant, and arrive at dinner relaxed and on time. I opt for stress.

I am not about to stand idly in line. I'll get some work done. The time will fly by and before I know it, I'll be cradling my wounded arm and wondering if this is my last shot. ("If you notice itching, swelling, or tingling at the site of the injection, call your doctor, rush like mad to the emergency room, and dictate your epitaph to the triage nurse.")

I rifle through my Mexican shopping bag, pulling out folders crammed with papers that will, hopefully, form the basis of a presentation I'm giving to 120 new teachers in two sessions next week and which I haven't had time to think about. I shuffle through the sheets, make mental notes -- always a bad move when you're prone to forgetfulness -- and ten minutes or so later, try to put the folders back. They won't fit, so I just shove them in. They're obviously not taking this kind of treatment from me, so they fight back, flying back out and spreading their contents all along the aisle. Everyone watches me (no, I'm not being paranoid) as I hunt down and gather up my stuff.

I decide to jot down my mental notes. After fumbling through my purse to find a pen, I pull the inker out. In obvious collusion with the folders, it jumps out of my hand, shoots into the air, torpedoes down an aisle, and rolls under a display. Everyone watches me as, on hands and knees, I try to retrieve the impudent implement.

Returning to my place in the line that hasn't advanced an inch in 25 minutes, I balance my Mexican bag on a shelf. The shelf collapses. Everyone looks at me. I shrug and mumble that I'm not going to attempt to fix it, as it will probably break.

I tap my toes, then stand on them. I stretch my legs, first one, then the other. Stretched, tapped, and still standing, I decide to find out how long it will be until I reach the front of the line. "I'll be right back," I tell the people who aren't watching me.


Zig-zagging my way through aisles showcasing cosmetics, candy, and weird things straight out of late-night TV ads or science fiction movies(pastel-colored plastic balls that fluff your laundry; pink pads that remove hair from even your most delicate body parts by simply rubbing; electronic devices that shield you from shrieking monkeys), I make my way to the front of the line, in the back of the store.

"Excuse me," I say in my most ingratiatingly pleasant and polite voice. "I'm number 95. Can you please tell me how long it'll be before I get my shot?"

The nurse stops mid-jab to glare at me, pointing the needle as if it were a sword and I the sorry knight who lost the battle. "We are working as fast as we can!"

"I know you are," I say in my most groveling and ingratiating voice. "But could you please just tell me what number you've reached?"

She practically spits at me: "Sixty-nine!"

I return to my place in line. I wrestle my pen to a notepad and figure out that at this rate, I will probably get shot, if not killed, by about 4:15.

We nano-inch forward. When I am finally within sight of the needle-wielders, the kindly couple standing in front of me instructs me to go ahead of them. I thank them and realize later that they must have been watching the proceedings. When I turn again to thank them, they are nowhere in sight -- probably slunk out the front door, high-tailed it to their car, and sped out of the lot, panting in fear and relief.

I am hoping that the nurse doesn't recognize me. I try to make small talk, in my friendliest, most charming voice. Apparently, charming friendliness doesn't work with everyone. I swear that every bit of pent-up rage that this woman has ever felt in her entire, very long life, went into that one thrust into my arm. I'm surprised that the needle didn't break in two or, at the very least, fly into the air in imitative pen-movements. I almost did.

I lurch out of the pharmacy and into the florist. It takes me 15 minutes to make it back to my car, bouquet in hand (of working arm).

It's 4:30. Not too bad. Ahmed is from Saudi Arabia, and in the class before he transferred out (he had to change nights for family reasons), we had discussed when people arrive for dinner in various countries. In the US, I'd explained, you can be 10 minutes or so late. I remember that in Saudi Arabia, you can arrive something like an hour to four weeks late without a problem.

Ten minutes later, I'm driving through the apartment complex, searching for the right building. I find it, but cannot find an unreserved parking spot. I recall the discussion in my class the night before. My students were telling me that none of their friends visit them anymore, because their cars were always towed for parking in residents' spaces.

I ride around for 10 minutes. Reserved. Reserved. Every spot is reserved. There should have been a sign reading "NO VISITORS ALLOWED." After asking various residents where the guest parking is and getting "I don't know" for an answer each time, I park in front of Ahmed's building and exit my car.

Some rather unsavory looking young men are lurking near the building's entrance. "Will I have a problem if I park here?" I ask.

"You'll get towed," Unsavory #1 responds.

"Do you know where there's a space for visitors?" I ask.

"Never seen one," says Lurker #2.

They both run around the lots, searching for a space. Lurker finally finds one and plants himself there until I pull in.

I thank them and walk to the building. It's three stories high. When I step inside, I realize that Ahmed never gave me the apartment number.

I ring all four doorbells and move to the center of the hallway.

A man opens a door. That's when I realize that I don't remember Ahmed's last name.

"Do you know Ahmed?" I ask in my hopeful voice.

"No English," he says. "My daughter speak."

The daughter comes to the door. She doesn't know any Ahmed.

"He's got four or five children," I say in a more hopeful voice.

They both shake their heads no.

In my most hopeful voice, I say, "His wife covers."

They point straight up.

I climb the stairs and ring the bell. Ahmed's oldest son opens the door, smiles, and lets me in. Ahmed's wife comes over, smiles, and tells me to sit down.

She serves me weak coffee, flavored with cardomom, in a tiny porcelain cup. She places a bowl of dates in front of me and apologizes that Ahmed is not home yet; he's getting a flu shot at the hospital.

I help the oldest daughter with her science homework. I talk with Houda and Abdullah. Houda calls Ahmed to tell him that I am in the apartment.

When Ahmed arrives, about an hour later, he apologizes profusely. Later, he tells me that he thought that I was coming for dinner on the 27th. We had originally scheduled for the 20th, but I'd told him that I had to work until 8pm that night. I thought that we'd agreed on the 22nd. I am mortified. Everyone is gracious.

The family admires the flowers. I admire the dinner (biryani with chicken, almonds, and raisins) and a salad of chopped cucumbers and tomatoes.

Ahmed is late for his class. I am late for a meeting. I thank everyone and say goodnight. They tell me I am welcome anytime.

Remembering Peru

I'm talking to someone about my wonderful sojourn in Peru seven years ago. I'm going on and on, raving about the spectacular ruins and setting of Macchu Picchu, the mysteries of the rain forest, the resourcefulness of the Peruvians I met there, and the impression that the Amazon made on me. "The country has 38 of the world's 45 climate zones," I add.

I tell her that it's got to be "the longitude, the latitude, the altitude, and the attitude" that make Peru amazing. And I am absolutely certain that I'm right.

I'll tell you all about it all sometime.

What is the Sound of One Ear Partially Listening?

I am definitely going deaf. Although I'm usually frustrated and annoyed by my loss of the ability to hear what's being said, sometimes I find the results rather amusing.

For example, the other day I was driving to my night job, while listening to the radio. I tuned into a piece on NPR, featuring an interview with a few of this year's recipients of the MacArthur Genius Awards. When the speaker said that each recipient was awarded "a no-strings-attached" monetary prize, I heard: "Each will receive a nose string attached."

My imagination launched into over-drive. I pictured the brilliant mathematician, linked nostril-to-nostril, via a (red) cord, to the highly articulate poet. The fruit of this union of great minds and unseen (but, no doubt, tortured) faces would be a study of the mathematics of rhyme, the poetry of numbers -- or a battle of unforeseen proportion and consequences. Would this be the cosine qua non? What is the probability that such sets of disparate polygons of virtue might produce transformations that,at their very root, are the proof that metaphor, whether gauged by the foot or by meter, can be epic?

I'm not sure what this would mean, either. But then, I'm not good with numbers and rarely, if ever, wax poetic.