Forgive me, O Steam Room, for I have abstained from thee.
It has been four long months since I last opened your formidable, yet hallowed door.
This is my confession.
I have strayed from your righteous vapors. Though I know thoughts and intentions meaneth nothing to you, nor do my words, since you are, with all due respect, an inanimate object, I did, with pure heart, pack my gym bag this morning determined to beg for your salvation.
Yea, though I walk through the locker room of perfect bodies, I will fear no embarrassment, for thou welcomes all shapes, sizes, and races. Thy warmth and the meticulous, friendly cleaning staff at Equinox, they comfort me.
After the practice of yoga, I shed all of my clothing and bathed in the gently falling waters of the shower to purify myself, until I felt cleansed, but not pruny, before crossing your threshold.
So, whilst I have no offering, such as even a spriglette of eucalyptus, I reveal myself to you, albeit tightly wrapped in atowel, because I seek your redemption; not your repulsion, and pray that you will absolve me of the pain of the pulled muscles in my Gluteus Maximus.
O, what a miraculous thing Thou art, for I can now receive breath through my right nostril once again. My mind has been cleansed and my thoughts are clear; yea, clearer than my mind has been for so many scores of years.
I feel as if every pore of my body has been relieved of the toxins in life, and those who seek evil upon me. I feel loose, but not in a bad-girl sort of way.
I feel unburdened, now, as if the impurities in my body have been lifted out by thee. And, yes, O yes, I feel five pounds lighter.
It would be untrueth of me to promise to partake in this ritual daily, even though my heart, Gluteus Maximus, and sinus cavity beseech me.
I beg for your absolution for my Act of Contrition. So, I will say these words, unto you, O heavenly Steam Room, “So that you might anoint my head with steam, I’ll be back. Maybe not tomorrow, but sooneth.”
I would have told this story through interpretive dance, my preferred method of communication, but I’m still bloated from Thanksgiving, and don’t feel like donning my tutu at the moment.
Courtesy Disney
At about age seven, when I began my career as a writer, I created goals, a business plan, a budget, a writer’s platform, and took an oath never to use anyone’s real name without permission.
I chucked the goals, business plan, budget, and writer’s platform when I was seven and 1/2 because I could tell those things were never going to happen, and, so far, they haven’t.
But, I’ve always remained true to my oath, so the identities of the people in this story have been slightly altered, as you’ll see in the illustrations below, while they remain in a secure, undisclosed location.
Last week, one of my BFF’s, who is a righty, sent a group text to her Super-Friends that read, “Thank God it’s the left hand! Cutting an apple. At ER waiting for stitches.” We’ll refer to her as “Friend in the ER,” or FER.
Courtesy catspawup
Wonder Woman replied that she wanted to come to the hospital, but was at the dentist.
Courtesy DC Comics
FER then texted us all again saying that her colleague, Penelope Pitstop, had taken her to the hospital and planned to stay with her, so there was no need for anyone else to come.
Courtesy Hanna-Barbera
Yeah, right! You can’t tell a bunch of Super-Friends not to come when you’re in the ER. It’s what we live for. I’ve heard urban legends about women who have dashed out in the middle of a “bam” or “crack” during a Mahjong game to come to the aid of a fellow FER.
Like I’m not going to go to the hospital? So, I rescheduled the dogs’ vet appointments,
which turned out to be a good idea because another text arrived from Penelope. She was in peril because FER’s car was stranded at work. She needed to take someone with her to pick it up. I texted back, “I’m on it.”
Admittedly, my Super-Powers are pretty super, but even I can’t drive two cars at once. I needed back-up, and I needed it fast.
Courtesy DC Comics
I knew Captain Marvel would jump to the task. In a flash, she arrived to give me a lift. I had just enough time to grab my cape before leaping into the Marvel Machine.
Upon arrival, The Captain rode shotgun with Pitstop. I asked to be let into the ER, just as a courtesy; I’m so well-known there, I really didn’t need to ask. After all, I’ve seen almost every episode of Grey’s Anatomy, which practically makes me a doctor, and, I’ve been to Highland Park Hospital’s ER so often, I know where the warm blankets are kept.
As Penelope sped off with Marvel, I scrubbed in and yelled, “I need a bag of O-neg, people. Stat!” I received the attention of no one, so I just asked where I could find FER.
FER told me she had tried to reach her husband, but he said he had a crisis at work. She said, “He has a a crisis at work? I’m his wife, and I’m having a crisis,” at which point she showed me the gash in her hand. I started to turn green and wished I had opted to go with Penelope.
Just then, FER received a text from her son at school in New York. He’s handsome, extremely smart, and has a great sense of humor. He also has almost magical powers when it comes to calming down mothers, and his teeth actually sparkle when he smiles.
Don’t worry, Mom! Courtesy tvtropes.org
His text advised his mother to, ”Drink plenty of fluids, rest, use ice, and take Advil. Oh, and gargle with salt water,” wise words he had learned from FER over the past twenty years.
One of the doctors came in to see if the bleeding had stopped. When she saw me she said, “Oh, you must be her daughter.” I didn’t correct her because, after all, FER is five years older than I, plus, the fact that she thought I was FER’s daughter quelled my nausea and my face returned to its natural color.
A very cute male Resident brought in a tray that contained a suture kit, a bottle of local anesthetic, an assortment of needles, and very much gauze.
Courtesy Disney
“Nicely done,” I thought to myself.
I held my BFF’s hand and told her she could squeeze mine as hard as she wanted. She began to squeeze before the very cute male Resident even touched her. I excused myself for a moment, re-shaped my hand back into a hand, and put on the fuzzy gloves I had in the pocket of my cape. I told FER the gloves would feel good when she squeezed my hand, but I really wore them to put a layer of fluffiness between my hand and her grip.
As the very cute male Resident cleaned the wound with Betadine solution, I held FER’s hand again, this time cleverly placing my hand so that, if need be, only unnecessary bones would break.
I swear, she needed about 8,000 shots of anesthetic to numb that puppy up, which, obviously, equaled 8,000 squeezes. I felt bad for FER because of the pain, and because hospitals are definitely not her favorite milieu.
When FER declared that her hand felt as if it weren’t attached to her body anymore, the very cute male Resident and I exchanged nods. It was time to suture, and suture fast. We both knew we had a limited amount of time before the anesthetic wore off.
Luckily, at that moment, Supergirl, a mutual friend, who happens to be a nurse, walked in. She knew how to distract a patient AND watch every move the very cute male Resident made.
Courtesy DC Comics
Meanwhile, Captain Marvel returned with FER’s car. Knowing FER was in the capable hands of Supergirl, I went to the parking lot to bring FER’s car to the ER entrance, so she wouldn’t have to walk very far. That’s what Super-Friends do.
Unless a certain Super-Friend had no idea how to start FER’s car. My car, which is normal, has a key that you put into the ignition and turn. My husband’s car has a BOBB or FOOBY-THING that only needs to be close enough to the car so upon entering, all he has to do is push a button.
FER’s car also had a FOBBY-BOBBY-THINGY, but there was no button to push. So, I began to try to surgically separate the FOB-BOB, thinking if I pulled it apart, one side would reveal a key because, after all, there was a slot for a key in the ignition.
Nothing worked. I began to wonder if I was missing the key and that the BOB-FOB only locked and unlocked the car.
Captain Marvel to the rescue! She knocked on the driver’s side window and said, “I knew you’d never figure this out.”
“Really? You don’t know how to start this car?” Courtesy DC Comics
What a Super-pal. She explained that in order to start FER’s car, I only needed to have the BOFFO on me or in the car, and then turn the ignition, like I would if there were an actual key in it.
I began to question why cars can’t all just start the same way, when the ever-vigilant Captain Marvel reminded me that I needed to pick up FER stat.
Captain Marvel followed me as I drove FER home, and then took me home. We contemplated getting coffee, but felt our Super-Powers had been so depleted not even a Starbucks could perk us up to full-power.
We both needed to go home to recharge. After all, tomorrow was another day, and, because we are members of The Super-Friends, we must always be ready, even if we’re a little late because we have to apply another coat of lipstick.
I would like to thank Captain Marvel for her marvelous input, and help with editing this story.
For as long as I can remember, we’ve gone ice skating at Watts Ice Center in Glencoe the day after Thanksgiving with our friends, also known as The Buddies.
I became an honorary Buddy when I married Richard in 1986. They’re his friends from elemenary through high school who adopted me as one of their own, even though I grew up in Highland Park.
Since many of the usual characters were unavailable to participate in this year’s annual skating event due to disturbances in The Force, such as knee surgeries, bursitis, and sinus infections, a new Alliance was formed, calling themselves “Just Everyday Dudes Iceskating,” or JEDI.
Terry, Richard, Lucas, Daniel, and Coach “Sofshu” Grandmoff Lorraine.
Since Daniel is from Florida, he took a lot of photos and movies to send to his friends back home who have never seen snow, or an outdoor ice rink. The things we take for granted …
I tried to help by taking snapchats with his phone, but I have no idea how they turned out and, because he’s so polite, he wouldn’t tell me if I ended up snap chatting a tree. By the way, what is a snap chat?
While explaining the difficulty of a triple Lutz to the JEDI, Luke finds Richard’s lack of faith disturbing. Fighting the Dark Side within him, Luke stops short of giving him a Force Choke when Richard keeps repeating, “Luke, I am your father.”
Luke scans the ice for signs of danger. The words of Admiral Ackbar, “It’s a Trap!” keep him ever vigilent.
Fellow JEDI, “Buddy” Williams arrives at the rink, and stealthily glides onto the ice. He scans the perimeter, as Richard prepares to fulfill his destiny by performng a move he refers to as “Warp-Speed-Sky-Walking.” Sadly, it was not Jason Brown “Riverdance” quality.
I have no idea who this Dude is, but I like his “Do. Or Do Not. There is no Try.” swagger.
Luke is pleased with the results of the JEDI Men’s Short Program, even though he wishes he could have recruited Highland Park’s own Jason Brown, 2014 U.S. Olympic Team Bronze medalist and 2014 U. S. Silver medalist.
Daniel prepares to execute a flawless Tountoun Spin.
Pleased with his performance, Daniel smiles at his adoring fans. The Force is strong in this one.
Before entering hyperspace, Richard and Terry skate another round on the Planet Watts.
Terry flashes his signature smile, driving the fans wild!
Overall, Luke is happy with the JEDI’s efforts, and ready to board the Millennium Falcon with them to return to their home planet, Highland Park.
Daniel, Terry, Lucas, Richard, and “Buddy” relax after a great day of skating, with Coach “Sofshu” Grandmoff Lorraine.
This post was originally a photo album I made for Facebook. Since not every person in this galaxy, or even galaxies far, far away, uses Facebook, I turned the photo album into a post for my website. The Force is strong in this one (me) because my husband, Richard, has been an avid Darth Vader collector since the very first movie was released in 1977. One must know the ways of The Force when married to one whose alter ego is Darth Vader.
Before pulling up my “Not Your Daughter’s Jeans” and putting on the flowy, red top from my “all-boho-chic-all-the-time” collection, I placed Kineseo-Tape up each side of my left knee cap, slapped seven Salonpas patches on various parts of my body, stuck a ThermaCare 8-hour Heatwrap on my left hip, and tightened my back brace. I was so excited I could hardly contain myself.
We were finally going to do a Flashmob!
According to Wikipedia, the Internet’s most trusted source for accurate information*, “A Flashmob is a group of people who assemble suddenly in a public place, (to) perform an unusual and seemingly pointless act for a brief time, before quickly dispersing.”
Unusual? Maybe. Pointless? Hardly.
And let’s not forget the element of surprise.
After binge-watching a video of more than 20,000 audience members surprising Oprah Winfrey in the streets of Chicago by performing a Flashmob while The Black Eyed Peas sang “I Gotta Feeling,” I was struck by the feeling that someday, somehow, I had to find a way to be a part of a Flashmob.
But how? Since Flashmobs are by nature surprise performances, you don’t find many ads in the paper or on your favorite radio station.
So, I asked, pleaded, and begged my friends and family to help me stage a Flashmob at Highland Park’s upcoming Annual Tree Lighting Ceremony two years ago.
Richard, begrudgingly agreed to take part in my latest goofy idea. He sat and watched my friend, Carolyn, and me choreographing, and said, in the nicest possible way, “That’s going to be too hard for people to do.”
He then explained the way he’d do it, and before you could say, “jazz hands,” we elected him to be the official choreographer for our Flashmob to Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You.”
Out came the clipboard and whistle from his years as an assistant director at Camp Kawaga. Being in a position of power is one of his favorite hobbies.
Rehearsals took place weekly in our family room. We ended up with a group of about 20 people, enough to be considered a “mob,” not that I know the precise number of people it takes to be called a “mob.”
After one last rehearsal in the lower-level parking garage at Port Clinton Square, as Bob Fosse says throughout the movie All That Jazz, it was “show time!” We emerged from the parking lot, ready to fulfill our destiny in front of the throngs of people gathered at The Square.
Only there were no throngs of people in The Square. There was nary a throng. Not even a “thro.”
The lighting ceremony had already taken place and everyone had left. Beautiful, colorful lights reflected off the Public Works Trucks as they hauled off Santa’s throne.
Across the street, pre-teen ballerinas were pirouetting behind the windows of the Uncle Dan’s store, as their parents video-taped them.
I couldn’t, I wouldn’t steal their thunder. I was not about to step on anybody’s toe-shoes. After all, I had once been a ballerina whose family came to watch her dance.
But my family laughed so much at my feeble attempts to pirouette and finish in an upright position that any videos of me dancing look like they were taken during an earthquake.
We watched the ballerinas take their last bows in the windows across the street, and then ran to take our places in The Square. But, by that time, The Square was dark, empty, and cold.
We had a choice: we could go big or go home.
You know the saying, “Dance like no one’s watching?” Well, we did.
Flashmob-forward two years:
I received the phone call I’d been waiting for since first seeing the Oprah Flashmob in 2009. Would I resurrect “The Routine” for Highland Park’s Holiday 2014 Tree Lighting Ceremony? Code word: Lightning.
You betcha, especially because this time we had the assistance of The City who had contacted the groups who would already be on the Plaza performing for the occasion, and ended up with nearly 100 people who wanted to participate.
Bryce Johnson, and Karen Berardi, of The City of Highland Park, became my “Mission Control.” If I had a question, they had the answer. First order of business: one of the dance studios asked if we could stop by to demonstrate the routine.
Richard, my friend Roberta, and I went to the North Shore School of Dance, owned and operated by my friend, Lisa Gold, to demonstrate the dance steps for 40 dancers of all ages. As they entered the studio, with grace and perfect posture, I appreciated a few impromptu Arabesques and Grand Jeté’s.
So, it was hard not to giggle when Richard asked the group, “Does anyone know the G-R-A-P-E-V-I-N-E step?”
Richard, Roberta, and I demonstrated the steps, which the dancers picked up after one run-through. When Richard announced the name of the song, some of the dancers screamed, “that’s my favorite song!”
Even though they had already memorized and begun to put their own spin on the routine, they asked us to stay and practice with them several more times. And then they got down on their knees with their arms overhead, and bowed to the Lord of the Dance that is Richard.
It was at that point(e) that I began to refer to him as, “Mr. Fosse,” and sometimes, “Bob.”
In an e mail to Karen and Bryce afterward, I said, “We have created a monster, albeit one with jazz hands.”
When the Lake Forest Country Day School Chorus wanted to learn the dance, Mr. Fosse leapt at the chance to teach them, too.
Roberta’s husband, Warren filmed us in what is by far “the worst instructional video ever made.” The quality of the video was fine, but the contents were embarrassing. We decided it worked, and that’s what mattered, so I sent it via a super-secret You Tube link to all the groups to use for their own rehearsals.
On Wednesday, Roberta got a cortisone shot in her shoulder. The next day I got cortisone shots in my left hip and knee. Since Mr. Fosse had things well under control, all Roberta and I had to do was pack ourselves on ice, like shrimp cocktails, and rest for two days.
After putting on my flowy, red top, I slathered on matching red lipstick, and placed a Santa hat on my head. Richard and I drove to Port Clinton, parked in the underground garage, and emerged onto The Square where throngs of people were watching brilliant dance and chorus productions.
Little did they know what we had in store for them. And little did I know how nervous I would get. I was quite relieved that the Flashmob was in the capable feet of the dancers and Mr. Fosse.
I danced in the Flashmob, just as I’d always wanted to, but off to the side where no one would see me. Mission accomplished.
All I can say is, “Bravo,” to The City of Highland Park, North Shore School of Dance, Lake Forest Country Day’s Chorus, and everyone else who showed us how to really put on a show. The best part was that it looked like the dancers were having a great time which, for me, is the best reason to do anything.
On our way home, a triumphant Mr. Fosse quoted my father’s famous line, “Dancing is my life!” While the night was young for the dancers, who would probably head out to dinner, or a movie, we walked into the house, set down our Santa hats, and fell asleep.
Bob, Me, Roberta, Warren (photo credit: Rosa Machabanski)
*Fact not established as fact, but chosen by the author because she thinks it’s funny.
