I WILL NEVER . . . . .

Must I constantly eat my words--I WILL NEVER  . . . . . 

Be based in Miami

Drive a stick shift again

Step foot on a cardio work-out machine

Ok, well, I'm in Delray Beach for a couple of months. So I might as well attempt to get into shape. I jog on occasion, so last night in bed I started psyching myself up. I basically just berate myself and grab handfuls of my stomach roll. First thing this morning I reach for Steve Jobs off my night table. He informs me it is 77 degrees, yet feels like 82 at 7:45am! (Yes, I know he's dead, but he reaches out to me on a daily basis.) Maybe if I'd gotten up at 3 am, running could have been an option, but now--forget about it!

As I swing my feet out of bed, I literally step on my running gear. Oh my God! What did I do? Some idiotic lifestyle app must have told me to arrange my work-out clothes the night before. I would never have come up with this on my own. Well, lucky me. I have a gym in the building. I mean, it's like twenty steps from my apartment. And those that like gyms, like my husband, say it's a good one. But that's a topic for another blog. I would love to ignore it, but it's on the way to the elevator. If I really want to avoid its taunts, I take the stairs. But, oh, it's the stairs and then I get dumped out into the ugly alley instead of our superhip, cool, south-beach looking lobby.

So after two cups of coffee, I wander into the gym. Ahh, it's fifteen steps, not 21. Thank gawd, no one is here. I get myself set up on some device, a walky-type thing. Not the tread mill. Gag me! Actually, it's a steppy thing. Elliptical-possibly, probably. There's a big green button, "Quick Start." Kinda seems like a Cardio for Dummies type of button, so I press it. Bells and whistles go off. Well, not really. Just some numbers light up. I elevate and start stepping. It registers time elapsed and my distance. There's also something called crossramp and resistance with up and down arrows. I know what resistance is and we aren't friends. I jack it down to 3. I can always go lower. Crossramp (not a word) is set to 7. I leave it be. I like even numbers and 3+7=10.

Crap! Someone is setting up shop next to me, on a similar apparatus. "Oh," I say. "I think that tv screen may not work." Just because I couldn't figure it out certainly doesn't mean anything. I just don't want some stranger, sweating three feet from me and more importantly, spying on my cardio output (or lack thereof).

"I bring my own entertainment." She whips out her phone. Up pops a movie and in go the earbuds. Is she going to step for two hours?

It's actually like being at the 10 a.m. movies. The whole damn place is empty and someone has to sit their ass right next to mine! "Go use the thing with the pedals or that row thingy," the bubble above my head screams.

That's it! I'm just gonna blow this joint. She doesn't know if I've been here for 1/16 of a mile or 20! Oh shit! Yes, she does. It's right there, in red neon lights. Three minutes and .04 miles it advertises. If she can look at my stuff, I'm looking at hers! It's kinda like stalking, but this ain't my first rodeo (re:www.tjtumbleweeds.blogspot.com, Kindles, Nooks and Old-Fashioned Books, 4/28/11). Her numbers are set to 12 and 8. Definitely more impressive than my 7 and 3.

And now, what is she doing? She has her arms at her sides. There's all kinds of hand holds to grasp. One set is right in front of my ribs. It should be labeled: grasp if you think you're going to fall. The other holds are shoulder height and move back and forth. They kinda make me feel like I'm swishing down the Austrian Alps. But I'm not. I'm staring out the window at palm trees and sweating. I furtively rest my arms at my sides. Holy shit! I'm bobbing around like a Weebil! My core is trying to engage! Not the core--this mama don't do core! I swear this work-out freak is working her abs as she steps into oblivion. Weebils may wobble and not fall down, but I am not one of those Playskool plastic creatures from the '70's! I grasp the "grasp if you think you're going to fall" hand holds and uh, grasp.

That bitch!

I stay on this thing dancing like Fred Astaire, Steppin' out with my Baby for the next 32 gawd damn minutes! If I had an umbrella, I'd be using it!  Oops, never mind. Different song and different dancer! Next time I come here (like there's going to be a next time), I will bring Post-It notes and wall-paper every damn red blinking neon light in sight. 

TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT TO DO

Tell me what you want to do

Those seven words put me into a tail spin a la Rod Serling's Twilight Zone for a long several minutes.

Tell me what you want to do

I'm in my husband's home office, sitting at his desk. He has two 30-inch computer monitors staring, unblinkingly at me. The one on the right is solid blue. The one directly in front of me is set to Microsoft Word. On the tool bar are these words:

Tell me what you want to do

Well, in reply: I DON'T KNOW!
Stop asking!
Stop demanding!
If I knew, I'd bloody well be doing it, now wouldn't I? Who are you, OptiPlex 5060 Dell, to demand this of me?

Right now, I could be reading, planting, sweeping, working, biking, swimming, volunteering, eating, tanning, talking, traveling, birding, shopping, flossing, manicuring. There really are an infinite  number of things I could be doing. But you're not wanting that. You are demanding that I be introspective. Maybe what I really want is to do nothing. Yes, I'm breathing. I have thoughts in my head. I worry about my brother's hip replacement. I pray for my girlfriend's cancer. But I'm kinda happy sitting here, doing nothing.

Nothing

Sitting here, doing nothing. Unless me staring at you, Dell, staring back at me, taunting me with those words constitutes something.

Tell me what you want to do

But in our society, doing nothing is just not an acceptable activity.

Oh, I know there are people out there who can answer that question. Not only can they answer it, they can execute it to perfection. Hell, they'd be happy to answer the question for me.

Sometimes, I think maybe that would just be fine and dandy. Sometimes, I think I'd like decisions made for me. And I mean, even the stupidest shit.

The hostess at the restaurant dazzles with her perfect teeth. "Inside or out?" Not only do I have to decide between what I really want (a fillet and bottomless glass of Malbec) vs. what I’ll probably order-seabass and Perrier-but now I have to decide if I want air conditioning, which could be perfect or set to 60 degrees or balmy night-time air, which could be perfect or full of mosquitos.

Tell me what you want to do

A friend wanted my opinion. She's trying to decide between sand stone or travertine for her front porch. She says she's a terrible decision maker. What?! She has two successful careers simultaneously.  She's beautifully busted walls down in her house. How is she a terrible decision maker?

Are all (or most) of us just geared to second- and third-guess ourselves?

Tell me what you want to do

My husband's friend has secured a spot on one of Richard Branson's space flights sometime this decade. It's pretty safe to say this guy can answer that damn Dell request.

There is a looking-glass icon next to the request of:
Tell me what you want to do

For those of us not sure, we simply can click.
Instructions pop up: Just start typing here to bring features to your fingertips and get help
A second tool bar invites: Type here to search

ME: Dell, can you tell me what I want to do?

No, I didn't think so.

I'll sit here and do nothing until something pops into my head. If it does.

PYROTECHNICS AND THE SOFT SHOE SHUFFLE

                                     

                                 

I soft-shoe shuffle in my patent leather pumps up to the entrance of the Wick Theatre in Boca Raton. And why not? Tonight's show, Hot Shoe Shuffle, is dubbed a tap dance extravaganza. My husband, Eric, hangs back and rolls his eyes as someone stops me. "They want to keep this area clear," he informs me. "They're bring in pyrotechnics." My brow furrows, as I think of the odd combination of tap dance and fireworks.  "Oh," I nod slightly and reply questioningly. "Uh, cool?" In turn, his white bushy brows shoot up and he shakes his head. I overhear an usher telling someone, "seating in the theatre has been halted temporarily."

The large foyer of the theatre has café tables with spray-painted gold bamboo chairs scattered about. Eric, who is gawking at the over-sized crystal chandelier, leads me to a chair.

"Did you hear that? Pyrotechnics!" I tell him excitedly, now warming to the idea of Roman candles, M-80's, and tap dancing. Had my teacher used this combination 40 years ago for my dance recitals, the audiences might have consisted of more than just guilty parents and cranky siblings!

Eric gives me the same look as the old man, manning the entrance. "Par-a-med-ics!" He stretches out the word like I'm a five-year-old child. "Not pyrotechnics!"

"Oh, I see." I nod my head slowly, disappointed. "Paramedics." I glance around the room at the blue-haired, white-haired, and no-haired patrons milling about. "Mmm, that makes more sense." I knew when Eric and I decided to try "Florida Living" for a couple of months that it would be different than the Upper West Side. In New York, I dance around Bugaboo baby strollers and e-bikes. Here, I run interference with wheelchairs and walkers.

"Everyone seems pretty calm," I say, as I look at the clock on my phone. "Show time is in twelve minutes. Not good." Eric is eye-balling an appetizer menu on the table. "We just ate! Is this place a restaurant or theatre?" I wonder out loud.

He sets the meu down. "Well, it probably happens often," he says quietly. "You know...the paramedic thing."

I watch a woman in a silky, colorful dress, draped in pearls, but wearing sensible shoes, maneuvering her walker across the faded, red carpet. "Yeah, I suppose so." I sigh, wondering about my own future.

I grab Eric's arm in alarm. "Geeze, we're thinking it's one of these old people. What if it's one of the dancers? Do they have understudies?"

He doesn't respond as we watch the paramedics wheel the stretcher into the theatre. After several minutes tick by, the usher announces, "We will continue seating people." I spy the paramedics with a patron on the gurney, exiting stage left.

The show goes on.