From the archives: My first ever journal entry

Part of the time I was home over Christmas, I had a cold.  On one particular afternoon when I felt like I had no energy, I tried lying down on the couch to read, but I found that took far more concentration and brain power than I had available to me.  So I did what any normal kid masquerading through life as an adult would do in that situation: I asked my mom if she had any 25-year-old coloring books and crayons lying around.  Fortunately for me, my parents' recent kitchen renovations have unearthed a few old coloring books, and so I happy ensconced myself at the kitchen table with a box of Crayola crayons and a Lady Lovely Locks (I had totally forgotten how much I loved that whole "colored squirrels in your hair" look -- totally trendy -- who doesn't want squirrels in their hair?) coloring book while my mom made dinner, effectively time traveling back in time to a simpler age for an afternoon.  And while looking for coloring books, my mom and I also found an old journal of mine.  In fact, I believe it's my first ever journal.  Which makes what follows below my first ever journal entry. And probably my shortest.  But really, who needs long when you can accomplish everything you need to in something short? It's got everything: an introduction, the establishment of suspense, a villain, conflict, and a cliff hanger by way of a last line that vaguely suggests a possibly nefarious intent....

So here is my first ever journal entry:

I love gymnastics.  Today I have gymnastics and I can’t wait! I am in intermediate and there’s a real snobby girl in my class.  She thinks she knows everything but I don’t know her name.  I just can’t wait though.

So my seven-year-old brain has me full of expectation....  I clearly wasn't bothered by the snobby girl -- to the contrary, her presence seemed to increase my excitement....  What exactly couldn't I wait for?  To befriend the snobby girl? (unlikely) To laugh at her? (how mean)  To show her up? (...yeah, that's pretty likely) 

My teacher wrote in the margins, "Oo you'll have to tell me how it goes!"

Me, too. I want me to tell me how it went, too.

The germy paper towel challenge

Walking from Penn Station to a dinner music club last night put me out in midtown for the first time in a few weeks.  As I made the walk, I was harshly assaulted with all the reasons I look forward to the day I move out of New York City.  There was the guy throwing things at cop cars; there was the dude standing in the middle of the crosswalk giving an ambulance the finger as he slowed it getting wherever it needed to go so that he could accomplish his far more important task of crossing the street five seconds earlier; there was the dude who shoved me forward off the curb into a puddle of water; there was the woman who shoved me sideways on the sidewalk under an awning that was mysteriously pouring water (at least I hope it was water)....  By the time I reached the concert venue, ready to enjoy the always-wonderful Denny Laine (Don't worry -- if you're near my age you won't have any clue who he is; if you're older, he's that dude from Wings who's last name isn't McCartney, and if you're older than that, he's the original lead singer of the Moody Blues), I had already muttered "I hate New York City" to myself several times and was dreaming about a nice house in Cabot Cove, Maine (yes, my ideal real estate destination is the murder capital of the world, but I dream of a version of this fictional town without serial killer Jessica Fletcher). 

I found my fiancé already in line to get in, exasperatedly told him to start thinking about other cities he wanted to live in and jobs he could get elsewhere, and was relieved to duck inside the dark, cozy music venue that left the New York City I hate outside and was instead filled with the New York City I love -- a city that gives me the opportunity to see live music and theatre I wouldn't get the chance to see elsewhere.  When I was in middle school and high school, I'd thumb through records at our local used book store, and by the time I graduated high school, I owned every Wings album on vinyl.  If you'd told me then I'd get to see Denny Laine live twice, I'd be totally excited.  I still am.  So, seated in the front row of tables, with over an hour to go before the concert started, we ordered dinner and I let go of the negative experiences outside and settled in, ensconced in happy anticipation.  All was good.  I was safe.

And then I remembered.  I remembered the one thing I hate about this venue.

The bathroom attendants.

I really hate bathroom attendants.  And here's why: You turn on the sink, you soap up your hands, you wash away the germs, you turn off the handle with your sleeved arm so you don't get any germs on your hands, and then... you get handed a paper towel that's already had someone else's hands all over it, so you can rub their germs all over your hands and completely undo the hand-washing.  Someone please explain to me why anyone thinks this is a good idea, or why this should be something you tip for.  Option A: I take a nice clean paper towel from the paper towel dispenser right next to me, or Option B: I take a paper towel that some stranger has had their hands on, and I give them money for it.  Nope.  I just don't get it.

 

I guess I should explain here that I've been extremely prone to infection since I've come to New York, so I'm a germaphobe... I therefore refuse to take the paper towel from the bathroom attendant's hands and risk getting sick.  Plus I work with kids.  So I get enough germs all on my own without having to tip for them, thank you very much.  This leaves me with a few options: 1. I can wash my hands and then when the attendant tries to hand me a paper towel, say, "No, thank you" and bolt out of the room.  If I do this and have to return to the bathroom later that evening, I'm sure to be met with death glares from the attendant, who thinks I've personally snubbed her, so I better not drink anything for the rest of the evening if I go with Option #1.  2. I can fuss with my hair long enough before going to a sink that I ensure I get the sink directly next to the paper towel dispenser.  Then I can grab a paper towel really fast before she has time to hand me one and pretend I didn't do it on purpose.  This allows me to return to the bathroom without getting any dirty looks from her, but then I can't use the same tactic the second time.  3. I can manipulate when I finish washing my hands so that the bathroom attendant is busy handing out paper towels to other people and I can use the opportunity to slip on by and out the door unnoticed.  I'm good at going unnoticed.  Heck, I did it for four years straight in high school.  So I tend to go for Option #3.

So as dinner was winding down and with a few minutes left before the concert started, I announced to my fiancé my intentions to go conquer the "Germy paper towel challenge."  My mission: to get out of the bathroom with clean hands and without the bathroom attendant thinking I'm a horrible person.  He wished me luck, told me to "stay strong," and off I went.

So as I enter the restroom, I see the dreaded bathroom attendant sitting on a chair in there.  She holds her phone in one hand, talking into it, the paper towels in her lap, and she's running her free hand through her hair, along her scalp.  A little cartoon image pops up in my head of all sorts of little cartoon germs jumping off her scalp and hair and onto her hand as she runs it through her hair.  The cartoon germs look a lot like the characters from The Magic School Bus.  This makes me wonder if I dreamt that I saw a poster at a bus-stop a few weeks ago advertising a reboot of The Magic School Bus or if it really happened, and if I did dream it, why am I dreaming about The Magic School Bus? Also, this makes me sad that Saturday morning cartoons are no longer a thing.  I liked Saturday morning cartoons.  Anyway, as I reapply my lip gloss in front of the mirror, plotting my course of action to accomplish my mission, a woman comes out of a stall. The attendant takes her hand out of her hair as the woman is washing her hands, and with that germy hand breaks off a paper towel (and all the little cartoon germs jump off her hand and onto the towel) clutching it in her hand as the woman finishes washing her hands.  And so the unwitting woman, with clean hands, takes the germy paper towel, rubs her hands all over it, then throws it away and opens the bathroom door and walks out.  With germy hands. 

Fortunately for me, a rush of women entered the restroom then, enabling my plan to employ Option #3, and I ultimately managed to escape with clean -- albeit wet -- hands and only a germy sleeve from touching the door handle.

Mission accomplished.

So, in conclusion, bathroom attendants are a threat to public health, The Magic School Bus was just fine the first time around and doesn't need to be reinvented, and Saturday morning cartoons should come back.  Also, Denny Laine is really good: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gKZOeqmqwZs

A proud kid

In November of 2016, I wrote in a blog entry that my dad was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease.  A little over a year later, and this is him:

Yeah, that's right.  My dad's boxing. He boxes twice a week and goes to Pilates once a week. When I was home over Christmas I went to both with him. 

His boxing gym, Rock Steady, is specifically for those with Parkinson's (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ngeihe5MU9U).  And far from being some easy soft aerobics class, a class there is like a boot camp session. We punched bags, we ran laps, we did what they call rabbits and my ballerina self calls chassés, we did crunches and bicycles, we rode the stationary bicycles, we did the speed bag, which I never did get the hang of, we punched bags in a whole bunch of different ways.  And we played with a big blowup balloon, which was my favorite.  While bouncing it around in a circle, my dad said to me he loves that they're probably the only 60 and 70-year-olds around who get to act like teenagers on a beach.  I told him that this was my first time playing it where it didn't turn into a mean game of keep-away, and I much prefer playing with 60 and 70-year-olds than with teens. (Then again, I also prefer socializing with 60 and 70-year-olds to socializing with 30-year-olds.  I never have figured out how to carry on a conversation with someone my own age, so I'm probably weird like that.  Or younger people have forgotten how to have conversations without their phones. But that's a different blog post.)

I have no big point or witty comment with this blog post.  I'm just a proud daughter, bragging about my dad, who, along with everyone else at that gym, fights back against Parkinson's rather than feeling sorry for himself.