Thoughts on exercising. . .

It was raining this morning,so I couldn't go out for my morning walk. Since the "significant other" had made his famous linguini with clam sauce, plus garlic bread, for dinner last night, it was imperative that I do something to reduce the calorie damage. I decided to go to the gym in our complex and maybe do a few miles on the stationary bike.

Apparently, Grove Isle has upgraded its equipment since the last time I set foot in the gym. For one thing, what used to look like a mechanical bike that you got on and started pedaling, now has enough controls to qualify as a NASA shuttle cockpit. The pretty young blonde on the machine next to me took pity after five minute when I still couldn't find the start button, much less set the speed and change the channel on the flat screen TV that persisted in listing how fast (slow) I was going, my heart rate and several other frightening numbers. If it asked for my age, I was going to bash it with one of my Nikes.

I managed to keep pedaling through a truly boring Today show interview with Elizabeth Edwards. I would have changed the channel but I still wasn't sure exactly how. The blonde was still calmly pedaling away at twice my miles per hour when I called it quits on that machine, took one look at the new elipticals and decided they would really be my undoing. At this point I was yearning for a nice brisk walk around the island where I'm in total control of my physical well being. This place was starting to scare me.

I marched myself into the next room where the machines looked more familiar, did a few sets on two or three of them, but I could tell I was losing heart. Even here there was a brand new machine that could easily qualify as a torture chamber in some medieval prison. Just looking at it made my latent claustrophobia kick in. I settled on several sets with wimpy 3 lb. weights, smiled brightly at anyone I saw, and headed for home.

Back in my apartment, I found both cats sound asleep in my bed. Next time it rains, I think I'll join them.
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Photo caption: Ginger's editorial comment on exercising.

Ticket to celebrity!!!

The paparazzi came to our art class the other morning. I, along with the three other members of my class, are about to be featured in a magazine article about "active" senior citizens. Would you believe.

Let me give you the back story. My friend Jackie and I go to art class on Thursday mornings at OLLI, an acronym for Osher Lifelong Learning Institute. OLLI is under the aegis of the University of Miami and located on the UM campus in its own building. OLLI offers a full program of classes and lectures, but Jackie and I are only signed up for the Advanced Acryllic Painting Class. She's the advanced one, I'm a newbie, just doing the best I can and having a great time painting away llike crazy.

This week when we arrived at class we found a photographer with a lot of serious equipment and a young woman named Kathleen who represented the monthly magazine published by AV-MED the giant HMO insurance company. Neither Jackie nor I have AD-MED insurance, but that didn't seem to matter, since the article was to be about little old people who managed to stay active and weren't sitting around waiting to die.

Kathleen seemed slightly nonplussed that there wasn't one gray, or better still, snow white "cauliflower head" amongst the four of us. We also weren't on walkers or nodding off as she spoke. As a matter of fact, we are a pretty lively and very diverse bunch, ranging from effervescent red-headed Patt, in her early sixties, who has a penchant for doing marvelous mural sized paintings, to quiet, brown-haired Diane, in her mid-seventies, who does beautifully detailed water colors although this is billed as an acryllics class. Then there is elegant Jackie, who has been painting for years, and just celebrated her really big birthday that makes her the same age as moi. Neither of us has a gray hair on our heads, thanks to excellent hairdressers in the area. (A low bow to you, Louis.)

I think the fact that we were all wearing jeans and tee shirts was also slightly upsetting from a visual point of view, but Kathleen gamely carried on, asking us questions and watching us work.

If the magazine wanted "active" seniors, they got a full dose of them that morning. Danny, the professional photographer, had trouble keeping up with us, but by the end of the session had done an incredible job of catching the essence of each of us as we painted, checked constantly on each other's work in progress, and absorbed suggestions from our instructor Daphne, who is an award-winning artist in her own right.

The magazine article is due to come out in August. I'm expecting a call from a reality tv show, or at least an invitation from MOMA. Actually, I'll be more than satisfied if they spell my name right and use a flattering photo. Just in case they don't, I had the "significant other" take a photo of me with my latest painting.

Title it "The Senior Citizen Artist At Work".

My automotive tale of woe. . .

I've been spending a lot of time worrying about my car. Worrying that it might be time to get a new one, even though I love the one I have. It's a classic little silver sports car, vintage 1999, and Lexus doesn't make this model any more. My grandson's been patiently waiting for me to give it up and hand it over to him, but for the most part it looks great and runs perfectly.

At least until recently.

A few weeks ago the airconditioning in the car developed a strange whistle. My regular garage was digging up their gas tanks and inaccessible, so I stopped by another local mechanic to have him diagnose the situation. He informed me I would have to leave the car and he would have to remove the engine or some such to determine my terrible problem. I saw big dollar signs and decided I could live with a little whistle.

A week or so later, I noticed my regular station had reopened and I drove in to ask their opinion because the whistling was starting to drive me nuts. Angel, the owner, was not available, but an older gentelman who seemed to be Angel's father, asked me my problem. He looked under the hood for a second, sniffed, and slammed down the hood as I anxiously looked on. He then climbed into the car, leaned over to the passenger seat, and flipped open the air vent. The whistle stopped. My jaw dropped open. More than a little embarassed, but extremely relieved, I thanked him profusely and drove away.

This morning being Tuesday, I made my usual 7:30 am drive to WLRN to read on air to the visually impaired. Two hours later when I strolled out to the parking lot to get my car, it wouldn't start. The battery seemed to be ok but the starter was making a weird sound and the steering wheel was locked up. Frantic, I did what any technically challened woman would do. . I called Benard, my significant other, and started to cry. Calmness personified, he suggested I call AAA and in the meantime I should try rocking the car back and forth to dislodge it from its locked position.

Did I mention I am 4' 11" and it had been raining so the car was soaking wet, and by this time it was 90 degrees out, but I gamely tried by bracing my back against the chain link fence in front of my car, standing on one foot and placing the other on the bumper. I know this will come as a big surprize, but the car didn't budge..

In between pushing, I kept trying to call AAA. By this time I was not a happy camper and in retrospect was not handling the situation with my usual aplomb. Actually I was close to hysteria because every time I tried to dial on my fancy new phone, the virtual keyboard kept disappearing. Finally, I got through to AAA and an automated voice told me to press #1 if I needed help. You're damned right I need help, I muttered, but the keyboard was gone again and no #1 was in sight. By my umpteenth attempt to complete the dial, I was hyperventilating and screamed at the operator when she sweetly told me they were having a busy day because of the rain and to expect someone in about an hour.

At that point my knight in shining armor, aka Benard, showed up, and together we rocked the car into submission. Me in the front, he in the back. It must have been a pretty funny sight, but it worked ! When the wheel unlocked and the starter turned over, I once again believed in God.

My car is at the garage as we speak. . Angel says I just need a new battery, there's nothing wrong with the starter. Big deal! Give me the best one you've got. I saved a bundle on the air conditioning whistle, didn't I? I feel like I'm ahead of the game. Sorry Adam, looks like you will have to wait a little longer for the car.
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Photo caption: Home again, safe & and sound!