Synchronized

I was on the swim team as a child for several years, but moving around a lot and the general tedium of swimming laps eventually caused me to stop. Then I found synchronized swimming. I was sixteen and looking for something new. I went to observe a class at my local recreation pool and it was love at first site. The girls on the team were beautiful. Gracefully moving to music under and above water. Better still, absent were the pasted smiles and ridiculous swimcap clichés I had seen on television. This was a revelation. I was on the team for a year. It was hard work. Harder than swim team in a completely different way. In swimming, you goal is to be as streamlined as possible. Speed was everything. In synchro, speed gave way to exerting extreme muscles control doing figures and keeping the rhythm with your partner(s) during routines. I was in the best shape of my life during that year (until recently, but more on that in another post). 

Sadly, it only lasted a year. My coach decided to quit teaching the teenage team because they didn’t pay her enough to deal with the parent drama that is notoriously correlated to most school sports, and the next nearest team was over an hour away. I got out of the water and though I tried to find synchronized swimming classes in every city I moved to, I ended up staying out for about sixteen years. Until I moved back to the Washington DC area and found that the same coach was still teaching her women’s synchronized swimming classes. Though I’ve been on an off for the past four years, I’ve been lucky enough to spend many a Tuesday morning swimming with some wonderful ladies. 

It makes me feel like a kid again. It’s not just that I love playing in the water that brings back my youth, but the ladies in my class are almost all my parents’ age. I guess it’s a bit self-selecting as it’s a mid-morning class and only my unusually flexible job schedule allows me to attend. But these women were doing synchro with my coach before I had met her at sixteen. A couple of them compete in the 55+ bracket, but most of them come for the exercise. Synchro and these ladies are the best part about Tuesdays for me and I’m excited that after our regular summer hiatus, I get to spend tomorrow morning with them.

On the Pole

I’ve been pole dancing on and off for several years, now. Until fairly recently, the “off” has far outweighed the “on,” and I would’ve considered myself no more than an advanced beginner. But in Spring of this year, I took it up with renewed vigor. And the payoff has been great. I’ve gained core and upper body strength but the kid in me is more delighted with the cool tricks I can do and the interesting bruises that show up the next day. My close friends know I engage in this bizarre weekly ritual, but I kept it a secret to my family. I mean, it’s not every mother’s dream to have her daughter on the pole, even if she’s not getting paid (but is actually paying) to do it. But a couple of months ago, I decided to “come out” to my mom. Rather than be concerned about the inappropriateness of the activity, she worried that I was purposely harming myself as evidenced by the bruises I so proudly displayed as evidence of my most recent engagement. It was pretty comical. 

Fast forward to today. I was sitting at a family gathering with a couple of aunts, a few (female) cousins, and my mother. This last decides to tell this group bedecked in Indian saris about her daughter’s fun new activity. Eyebrows were raised but not one was aghast. They were interested. They asked questions. They wanted to know more. Through the benefit of a handy dandy internet-enabled smartphone, I was able to show them what types of tricks I could do. They were, well, impressed. And I was just tickled at their reaction and the freedom I felt sharing something that really interested me without the fear of judgment. It was a good feeling to be authentic. But what really meant a lot was when my dear, sweet Indian mother told me she was proud of me for being able to “do what I do.” Wonders never cease.

September the First

This was supposed to be posted on September 1^st to kick off my renewed commitment to writing…which went something like “Sure, I slacked off this summer, but starting September 1^st, I’m going to write every day, no matter what.” Famous last words. “No matter what” was a slight exaggeration. Life happens. Family comes in town from India. Other family members have housewarming parties in New Jersey that you need to attend. Road trips ensue. Crazy masses of relatives descend upon you and fail recognize you might need a moment’s peace. Then, as the day comes to a close and you find a place of more or less stillness, the Wi-Fi you had been relying on to actually work, fails to do so from the corner of the basement you’ve eked out for yourself. You want to jump up and down. You want to pull your hair out. Your mind ignores the fact that this is truly a First World problem. Its anal, obsessive, perfectionist mode has been switched on and it rams itself against your skull, demanding an answer. Luckily, your heart’s in the right place. And though your head would argue, your heart knows that pestering your aunt -- who has been up to her neck in a sea of berserk extended family, of which you are one -- to reset the router when she has to get up in five hours to prepare the house for another onslaught would be a little…unkind. This is my lesson on this first(ish) day of the month. So I will rest, reassuring my mind that even as I save this (offline) at 12:30am on September 2, it is still September 1^st in much of this vast nation of ours.                                         

Teaching an Old Dog

My dog and I just met up with another dog and her owner, this evening. My dog, in her usual fashion bounced about, tail wagging, sniffing away. The other dog held still and took it all in with a calm bordering on apathy. After watching this for a few moments, the dog’s owner smiled and asked “Your dog is so excited! How old is she?” When I answered that my dog was six year’s old, her eyebrows raised. Clearly, she had expected a different response based on my dog’s behavior. 

Puppy behavior. Excited about the world and new experiences. Even after six years, forty-two in dog years, my dog still dances in circles at meal times and greets every person with wild abandon if they show her even a modicum of interest. No one would think that only a month ago she was viciously attacked by a dog in our apartment building. We were waiting for the elevator on a Friday night and an apartment door across from the elevator opened. The next thing I knew, my dear sweet dog was being picked up and shaken like a rag doll by a dog ten times her size. 

I don’t know how the owner finally dragged her dog back into their apartment or how my dog survived with minimal physical damage, but I’m grateful for it. She was traumatized. I was traumatized. It took us a long while to get back to feeling normal and there is a residual effect. She startles much more easily and I still feel less than my normal, sunny self. It’s been a month, I should be over it, but I’m not quite there. But my dog is my role model. Even though she had quite a bit of anxiety in the week following the attack, she realized that the dog that attacked her was one dog out of the many living beings she encountered. That the incident was an isolated one. There was no reason not to let it affect how she related to others. She may be scared to be picked up, but she could still wag her tail excitedly. She may wake up panting with fear in the mornings, but she would still lick any hand that came within reaching distance. We did have our trust issues following the incident, but she has completely forgiven me, in that way only dogs can, for not protecting her. Her physical and emotional scars have almost healed entirely and she hasn’t let it change her normal, sunny, puppy-like disposition. Surely, I can follow her lead.

Ego Trippin'

I have a few of friends who are going through a rough time. They are deeply unhappy and have required a lot of nurturing on my part. Being there for them has caused me to examine my own behavior, as well. Particularly when it comes to advice.

When my loved ones are going through a hard time, I know from years of experience that sometimes the best thing for them is just to be there. Listen to them. Be the cup for their tears. Allow them to lean on me as they work through their own problems. Yet, I find myself opening my mouth and offering advice. It comes from a mostly altruistic place within me. One that wants to help alleviate their suffering. Make the pain go away. I say mostly, because I’m well aware that my ego is also involved somewhere in the mix. I know what’s best, I can fix them, they’ll see me as a wise woman and like me more, etc. I try to be mindful and speak in terms of my life experiences and I never use the word “should.” But am I being condescending in some way? I wonder.

This really came to light when I got frustrated with the heartbroken friend for looking outside herself for happiness. This is a woman who fails to accept that the reason why she’s so unhappy is that she doesn’t find herself worthy. She gets into relationships with unavailable guys and wonders why they don’t accept, love and stay with her. She completes a program or a class and wonders why she feels so empty after it’s over. She constantly says and thinks “When I get X, I’ll have arrived.” But she never arrives. Because it’s all an illusion. 

I tried to point this out to her for the millionth time and it was like slamming my forehead into a familiar brick wall. I got angry and had to cease my conversation with her. Why couldn’t she SEE what she was doing? She asked me why this keeps happening to her, I told her why, but she would not accept my opinion. 

Ah, there’s the ego getting tangled up in the best of intentions. I have some need to be right. Do I believe if she sees my point of view her suffering will lessen? Yes. But it’s also about me and my need to be right and for her to acknowledge my advice. In my desire to help, I’ve been tripping all over my own ego. Time to focus on being receptive and let them own their pain.