My first experience with makeup was at the age of eight when I covered my prepubescent lips with the entire contents of a tube of mother’s “Reckless Red.” Swirling in front of the mirror with a yellow sweater tied over my not very glamorous hair and a couple of tennis balls tucked into strategic places under my shirt, I fancied myself a great, albeit swarthy, imitation of Marilyn Monroe.

Sometimes I’d jazz it up by drawing a beauty mark on my cheek and hanging grandma’s rhinestone earrings from my ears. A really racy night included bright blue eye shadow smeared on my lids and a scarf tied around my finger.  I continued this madness until I entered junior high.

My first mistake was going to see “Bye Bye Birdie.”  I wore my hair in what is now recognized as Ann Margret’s worst look. To try and achieve the correct color I would rinse it in a combination of lemon oil, vinegar, mayonnaise and hydrogen peroxide to render it copper. Instead, it was odd shades of orange. I smelled like a 121 item salad bar.

I left this phase when the Liverpool Look landed. Let me describe what I looked like in 1964 and what it took to get me there.

My long, straw like hair, rendered 17 different colors by every item in my mother’s pantry, was washed and rolled on tomato soup cans. I dried it under a machine that looked like some futuristic gas mask and then ratted it into a tower that defied gravity, not dissimilar to the structure in “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.”

One can, yes, one CAN, of Just Wonderful hair spray was used to keep the edifice in place. Next, tubes of white lipstick and green eye shadow made their way to my face.  Black eyeliner and mascara completed the look. Staring at the photo now, I am reminded of a Picasso print I once owned and gave away.

Makeup. My history has been long and sordid. It’s a history born of a deep desire to have a face that looked like everyone else’s - something that in my mind could only be accomplished through the miracle of cosmetics

And that’s how I wound up at one of those makeover counters. After too many years of fixing my face with the dexterity of a monkey with a paint by numbers set, I figured it was time to let a professional take over.

First she handed me nine different liquids and asked me to remove the caked pancake from my face. I wasn’t wearing any pancake. Then I was told to remove my shadow, liner, mascara and under-eye concealer. The last time anyone saw me without shadow, liner, mascara, and Lord knows under-eye concealer was after the birth of my older daughter and at that time the only thing missing was the liner.

But I digress. I was shown how to “pinken” my sallow skin with toner. Then I had to tone down the pink with a yellow base. After that was a regimen that included powders, concealors, highlighters, blushers, shading and contouring. Next was the light eye shadow, the dark eye shadow, my upper lid, my lower lid, my upper lashes, my lower lashes and my brows. Finally came the lip liner, the lip cream, the lipstick and the lip gloss

I had to put on all this stuff by myself so she could see my “technique.” Of course, I kept doing things like missing my eye, not blending the base into my neck and stopping more than once to wonder if I tied a yellow sweater on my head these days would I resemble Marilyn Monroe?

Actually, I wanted to finish up looking like Michelle Pfeiffer in any one of her films. Unfortunately the only movie that comes to mind is “The Wizard of Oz” and the amount of paint Wardrobe needed for every single actor in the scene when the Wicked Witch melts.

Catching a glance at myself as I leave the counter, I realize that all of my makeup is in various shades of purple, similar to a grape gone bad.  I am a nuclear accident.   I go home, head for the shower and watch the makeup rinse off into the drain. As it spirals down I realize that there is no way I can look like everyone else. I can only look like me. 

So now I’m back to my three minute makeup ritual and the only thing I have left to say about makeup is that somehow we need to maintain a delicate balance between too much and too little.  Or, to quote a friend of mine after seeing someone wearing, shall we say, more than her share -   “She has a lot of class. And all of it’s low.”  

-30-

 
The first time I left my abusive former husband it was Thanksgiving eve. I was cooking a turkey and he became angry because I didn't put enough onions in the stuffing. He took the turkey out of the oven and threw it at the wall. I went to a friend's house and spent the night. I returned the next day and finished making dinner.
 
The second, third and fourth times I left I went to my office, shut the door and spent the night. Embarrassed, ashamed and frightened, in a high level job and an elected member of the school board, I wanted to hide my shame. I knew if I let anyone in on my secret and then went back to my abuser I would be ridiculed and misunderstood.
 
The press is filled with articles about domestic violence victim Rihanna returning to abuser Chris Brown. Unfortunately it’s not a novel story...only this time the characters are famous.  There is a cycle of violence. The cycle includes a seduction, a building of trust, a feeling of security, and then, out of the blue, a smack down. 

I don't know what will happen to Rihanna. I know in my case what finally got me out was the care and compassion of friends who understood that for me to break the cycle I needed to be listened to in a nonjudgmental, caring way. I had to know that my story, while harrowing, would not stop people from being there for me when I was ready to leave. And leave I did. 
 
Perhaps we all should take a step back and understand exactly what happens during the cycle of violence. And make a promise to be there for any person who must go at her own pace from victim to survivor. 

A friend and I drive down the street and look at the campaign signs dotting the landscape. The Web, newspapers, television and radio are also jam packed with information. “Frankly,” says my friend. “I am bored with the whole thing. I don’t even feel like voting.”

I nod my head and time travel back to high school, landing my thoughts in another intense election year. My U.S. History class was taught by a young and idealistic teacher. In the tension filled ‘60’s he was a calming influence on us. He also felt it was important for the members of his class to “experience” what we were learning. He used that election as a starting point.

“OK kids, what do you think about the Presidential election?” he asked us. 

“Who cares about it?” said a voice from the back of the room.

“Neither of those guys is any good,” commented another.

“At least we get the day off from school,” said someone else.

The wisecracks went on and on.

“Well look”, said our teacher, “maybe this election stuff is outdated. Let’s figure out other ways of finding leadership for our country.”

“Yeah, yeah,” we all shouted. We sat upright in our seats. NOW he was talking.

“How about doing away with elections altogether?” he asked. “Let’s see. How about maybe the best minds in the country choosing our leaders?”

“Good. Good.” We all answered. This was one bright guy, our history teacher.

“And of course, we wouldn’t need more than two or three great minds to pick the right person. Right?”

“Right. Right.” we echoed.

“And, naturally, we could tell those smart people if the person they choose isn’t right, they can throw them out immediately and just put someone else in the job. Right?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes,” we screamed back.

“And then, if that person was not good for some reason, why, those two or three smart people, they could call one of their friends and ask that person to step in. Why should the public be bothered with this nonsense? What a waste of time and money to have an election.” Our teacher looked expectantly at the class

“Right!”  We began to chant louder. We clutched our desk tops and sat all the way forward. Our eyes were glazed over. He was correct. We were all sick of the process. We were sick of hearing about Lyndon Johnson and Barry Goldwater. It had been said the election of 1964 was the first election since 1932 that was fought over true issues, and brought ideology into Americans politics. We didn’t care. We were tired of it.

We just knew that doing away with the whole crazy process was what this country needed.

“So, said our teacher. “You all think my proposition is the best way?” His face had changed.

“Almost 200 years ago, our forefathers gave their lives to make sure that we, the people, would have a say in how this country is run. They did that by fighting for our right to vote - our right to live in the land of the free.

“In 20 minutes time you have given that away. You have abused the very thing that makes America special. Don’t throw it away”

Just then, the bell rang, signaling a change in our classes.  We filed out of the class silently, our heads bowed.

I have never forgotten that history lesson. And so now, when I see the signs, read the ads, hear the commercials, I look beyond the hype and the spiffy photos and the slogans. I go to the heart of it all.

I brought my thoughts back to the Presidential election of 2008, turned to my friend in the car and nodded.

“I know it’s a lot of stuff, “I said. “But it is our privilege to vote. We shouldn’t abuse that. And we should never throw it away.”

WUSA9.com | Washington, DC | Perfectly Imperfect

      Perfectly Imperfect
      Posted By: Madeline LaCore     Date last updated: 9/15/2008 3:30:40 PM
              Smaller Larger Print Article Close Page
                  
            There are some people in this world who can take a milk bottle and
            turn it into a lamp.
            There are others among us who make bird cages out of coat hangers,
            end tables out of tree stumps and bracelets from toothbrushes. I am
            not in this category. When I was a Brownie I made a jewelry box out
            of Popsicle sticks. It was distinguished from the other craft
            projects by its remarkable resemblance to a waffle iron abandoned by
            my mother in 1960. Once I tried to crochet. I finally mastered the
            chain stitch and in fact, made a chain that could wrap twice around
            the Washington Monument. I never could figure out how to do the
            second row.
            But all that changed a few years ago when I decided it was time I
            had to overcome my fear of creating something with my own two hands.
            And what better place to do that than at one of those do it yourself
            frame places? Understand we're talking about more than agile
            fingers. We're discussing self confidence. Have you ever been to one
            of those frame stores? They are only for tenured architects or
            perhaps tag team wrestlers. Everyone there knows what to do. They
            get their supplies from the drillmasters who are in charge of making
            sure you build your frame correctly. Then, in fact, they build their
            frames right.
            And then there is me. First of all, I had no sense of color, and
            truth be known, no sense of taste. The young man ordered to help the
            likes of me winced as I held a white backing against my poster,
            Another guy rolled his eyes in despair when I picked up a blue
            piece, and yet a third person looked as though he wanted to find a
            bathroom fast when I admired the mauve. They all breathed a
            collective sigh of relief when I settled on basic black.
            At my work station I was handed four sticks of wood. I started to
            rub them together, kind of like a frame maker genie releaser. My
            taskmaster gently slapped my hand. "Put the long stick on the left
            side of the vise and the short stick on the right side of the vise"
            he ordered. "Then glue the sticks together. Put the short nails in
            first, then the long nail in the middle, Use this other tool to bury
            the nails in the wood after you've hammered them in, once you've
            made the drill holes a quarter inch apart."
            I tried. Heaven knows I tried. I hammered the two short sticks
            together and did it backwards. My long stick had a nail coming out
            the side. I glued my shirt to my skirt and misplaced the drill.
            It took two and one half hours to do the frame skeleton, I believe a
            world record. "How much will it cost to have you do these for me?" I
            asked the staff. They all shook their heads and led me back to my
            stall. I thought about the frame and I thought about all the years
            of being afraid I would do something wrong. I thought about all the
            years of worrying that people, actually even strangers, would think
            badly of me if I wasn't the most wonderful worker on a project. I
            thought of being scared of being imperfect. "I'll be back next
            week," I said. Seven days later I showed up. My team worked with me.
            They handed me paper, razors, wires and nails. It took hours, but I
            knew it was more than a frame I was building.
            In time I was finished and we ceremoniously put a sticker on the
            back of the project. It has the inscription, "this was framed by
            Cheryl." It's a nice touch and a nice affirmation that I kept on
            trying. I need to remember that.

DVM Our Time 
by Cheryl Kravitz

I know a bargain when I see one.

When I was growing up at least once a month my mother and my grandmother would dress me in a frilly pinafore, enough crinolines to make me look like Disney’s Magic Mountain, white gloves and a flower laden hat and drag me on three buses to downtown Chicago.

We’d start our journey at Marshall Fields and work our way across State Street to Goldblatts, buzzing from one store to the next with a frenzy reserved these days for teens trying to get into a Jonas Brothers concert. We were looking for sales.  And we were looking for them in what was affectionately termed the “bargain basement.”

I was 12 before I realized that the escalators and elevators actually went up from the first floor of these establishments.

In high school I worked at two department stores, mainly to get the employee discount. During my 15 minute breaks I would make a beeline for the sale racks. My friends never visited me at work. They would sooner be tied to a chair watching Lawrence Welk reruns than be seen in my company, madly doing an assessment of the reduced goods.

I know there are some folks out there who claim to be bargain shoppers. They think a good deal is purchasing a $600.00 dress for $300.00.  They are all wet.

Let me tell you about bargains. A bargain is a dress that was originally $300.00. Then it is marked down by 30 percent, then 50 per cent after that. This is when the untaught will most likely purchase it. No. No. NO. We wait. We wait until it has red lines through the price tag. We wait for the seasons to change. We wait for the coupons in the mail. We wait.

At this point, you understand, everyone else has given up on that dress. They figure if it was marked down that many times, something is very wrong with it. It’s at this point I try it on. When it is finally moved to the last chance clearance rack my wallet comes out. It is mine.

I have perfected the art of finding this stuff. I walk into a store and can immediately find THE rack.

I admit it. I make mistakes.  I once bought a gold lame pants suit for $7.00 that made me look like a tuba. I have a red jumpsuit that gives me the proportions of a fire hydrant and a perfectly beautiful off the shoulder lavender gown that would look stunning if I could grown seven inches by December 1. BUT, each of these items was under $10.00.

This kind of shopping can get out of hand. Sometimes when I am in a store, at the rack, staring at little tags laden with numbers, covered with red slashes, I don’t think of the consequences of my actions.

Which is why, when I cleaned out closets a few weeks ago I found a box of eight track tapes of singers whose names you never heard of, books that authors paid to have published, and perfumes that smell like something washed up after spending years at the bottom of a faraway sea. I found dusting powder that might have been used for the extras in “Tales from the Crypt” and hairspray cans that streamed out a substance that looks like volcanic ash.

And the clothing.....clothing I bought because it was reduced. Clothing that never fit me even when it was supposed to fit me. Marilyn Monroe gowns and Nehru jackets. Liz Taylor blouses and Ben Casey shirts. There isn’t a living, dead or fictional figure that is without an article of clothing named after them that is thrown into a box somewhere in my house. 

It was time to purge. So I sat in the middle of this heap of nonsense and put it all into garbage bags under my husband’s watchful eye. Where he took the bags no one knows. My fantasy is there is a place inhabited by living fire hydrants and breathing tubas just aching for those dresses.

However, now that it is over, I am reminded of a message learned at the feet of my late grandmother.  “Even if you never use the thing....it’s such a bargain.”

WUSA9.com | Washington, DC | "On the tip of my tongue"

                 
                   
            I was at an event and a woman flew across the room to say hi.
            "Cheryl," she exclaimed, "How great to see you." "It's wonderful to
            see you too", I gushed back, thinking to myself as I hugged her,
            "whoever you might be." I did my usual trick when my husband joined
            us. "So, have you two met before?" leaving it to my spouse to stick
            out his hand and introduce himself, knowing that she would
            automatically say her name to him. Gah. She was part of a workshop I
            attended just a few weeks ago. As soon as she announced her name, I
            remembered.
            This is such a nasty characteristic to have. I remember the entire
            1959 lineup of the Chicago White Sox, and every word to the song
            "Different Drum." I know all of my old phone numbers, every address
            in every city where I've lived and, unfortunately, the recipe for a
            concoction called "Gift of the Chocolate King."
            What I don't do well is remember names. I've read dozens of articles
            about how to do this and do it right. I know many folks who are able
            to remember names with ease, most of them teachers. I am absolutely
            convinced, in fact, that if my high school algebra teacher ran into
            me at the grocery store he would start right in on me. "Cheryl",
            he'd admonish, "Why were you drawing girls with beehive hairdos
            instead of completing my mathematics assignment in 1965"? Actually
            as I write this, I realize that I can't remember his name. Mr.
            Integer? Mr. Exponent? Mr. The symbol, usually a letter, represents
            an unknown number?
            After I ran into my colleague I read more articles about remembering
            names. The weird thing is I do pretty well most of the time. Here
            are some of the best tips: 1. Repeat the person's name during
            conversation
            2. Associate his or her name with the person they are with (if you
            know that person's name).
            3. Link their name to a characteristic or something they look like.
            4. Associate the name with someone famous.
            5. Ask for their name again when you see them (or get someone to do
            that for you).
            They all sound great, right? Well, here's a little cautionary tale
            for you. When I was 14 my family drove from Chicago to Union Pier,
            Michigan for a week's vacation. We stayed in a small cottage that
            could best be described as "camp" using every connotation of the
            word. I was in full adolescent angst that summer, convinced no one
            liked me, my parents were embarrassing, I had a pimple on my cheek
            and a hairstyle that can only be described as daunting.
            There was a family staying at a fancy resort near our cottage. The
            resort was where I aspired to be. The family's eldest daughter,
            Judy, was everything I was not. Tall, blonde, clear complexion; all
            of my anger and insecurity manifested itself in my dislike of this
            girl. Judy Brodsky, Judy Brodsky, Judy Brodsky. Even today the name
            stays with me. I cannot forget it. And this is where my current
            problem comes from. My mother also had a hard time remembering
            names. She would try to use a mnemonic device as an aid. Mnemonics
            are words used to help a person remember something, many times a
            name. The example I think of right away is Shirley Temple. She had
            curly hair around her temples. Shirley - Curly. Under the right
            circumstances it works.
            When I talked about Judy I always called her "Judytheslut." Yes, I
            know that isn't nice. Yes, I know I shouldn't have done that. Yes, I
            know. Nevertheless, Judytheslut she was. One day my mother and I
            were walking along the beach and Judy and her mother walked towards
            us. "I hate her," I hissed to my mother. "I hate Judytheslut. And I
            hate Mrs. Brodsky too."
            My mother stopped me in my tracks, gave my arm a tug and said I
            needed to learn to be polite, to be kind to everyone, to mind my
            manners. In fact, she was going to show me just how it was done.
            I watched as she made her way over to Judytheslut and Mrs. Brodsky.
            In a loud, clear voice, she extended her hand. "Hello Judy Slutsky.
            And hello Mrs. Slutsky. Isn't it a beautiful day?"
            I watched in horror as my mother realized her error. I wanted to
            sink in the sand when she made her way back to me. When she got to
            my spot she looked at me with piercing eyes and said, "When you grow
            up you'll be cursed like I am and not be able to remember names."
            And that's the way it happened. --------------------
           

I'm not a hero. I didn't do anything you wouldn't have done if you were in the same position. The only difference might be that I knew what to do because many years ago I took a course. And twice now I've been able to help someone in need because of what I learned. 

In the 80's I worked at the American Red Cross in Oklahoma. My boss at the time was a wonderful, caring man who insisted that every one of us knew how to perform first aid and CPR.  I couldn't imagine anything more time consuming than learning how to wrap bandages and administer help to someone we might or might not actually know. And I certainly couldn't wrap my arms around the idea of helping a choking victim, even though, of course, that's what you're actually supposed to do. 

I took the course and passed, never giving another glance at the instruction manual. Once in awhile I'd remember the cadence of CPR breathing or the position to take in case of choking. That was it. I was sent to a Red Cross meeting in Albuquerque and had dinner with my aunt and uncle at a Mexican restaurant. My uncle talks the way I do, wildly gesturing while making points. While telling us a particularly intriguing story, he put a piece of sopaipilla in his mouth, laden with honey and sugar. He began to choke, and after gasping a couple times was flailing his arms and not making a sound. Some guy began to run over with a spoon, presumably to perform an emergency tracheotomy.  Everything I learned came back to me and I jumped up, gave him four quick blows on the back and a couple abdominal thrusts. The food flew out of his mouth and we all started to cry. The restaurant owner sent me over a margarita.  

The years passed and I moved to Washington. I packed my CPR and First Aid manuals and gave them a cursory glance when I threw them in the box. When I thought about the experience with my uncle at all it was thinking about what a fluke that was. I never put it in the context of the 10 or so years he lived following the incident.   

A few weeks ago I was in Arizona visiting family. On vacation with my older daughter and sister, I barely kept up with the news. Coming home I heard stories of blatant disregard for people in distress, like the elderly gentleman in Connecticut who was struck by a car and left in the road. I also read an article about an incredible young woman who gave CPR to a fellow student and saved his life. These stories and others floated in my consciousness, and I didn't even think that the difference between tragedy and hope could intersect with me again. 
 
The day I flew home from Arizona started like any other. The tasks of throwing stuff in a suitcase, driving to the airport and then waiting in security lines took up most of the morning. The five hour plane ride to BWI was uneventful. I finished a book, listened to my I-POD and tried to decide whether to get highlights in my hair the next day or over the weekend. Boring. 

My husband and younger daughter met me at the luggage carousel and for a brief time we thought my luggage was lost. "What an awful day," I thought to myself. 

 On the way home we decided to stop at a nearby restaurant. We perused the menu and gave the waitress our orders. I thought I heard some commotion near the restrooms but wasn't really paying attention, and then we heard the noise. It was the horrible sound of someone choking. We could hear somebody yelling "she's choking."  That's all I can tell you is this....in about three seconds I was out of my seat and at the woman's side. She was no longer gasping, just choking. In another second I could figure out it was something stuck in her throat and not a heart attack and in another second I could begin the back blows and abdominal thrusts.  

After a few thrusts whatever was stuck flew out and she started to breathe. No one else knew what to do. Later on she came to our table and with tears in her eyes thanked me. My husband and daughter were wide eyed. I didn't get her name. I didn't need to. She walked out of there alive.  

So why am I telling you this?  As I said earlier, I am not a hero. I did what I was taught to do. There's only one thing I have left to say. If you were in a restaurant, or anywhere else, and needed my emergency first aid help I could give it to you.  

My fervent wish is for you to be able to say that too. 

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, to coin a phrase.

You've heard this kind of story before, I'm certain. Newly divorced, I moved to this area for a new job in 1986. Didn't know a soul. Didn't know how to get on (or off) the Beltway. Didn't know folks were lying when they said "everything is only 25 minutes from your house. Really." Didn't know that a single person over the age of 35 was considered "too old" in some circles.

I began the process of acclimating to my new lifestyle. Alone, depressed, I began my new existence in Maryland. Slowly but surely, I built friendships, male and female. The months passed and my circle of companions grew. I found an exercise class, a neighborhood deli, theaters with vintage films, out of the way diners, bookstores to buy poetry, places to have quiet times by myself and places to have not so quiet times with my friends. In short, it was the right time to turn my life upside down.

"Why aren't you dating?" asked one friend after another.

"Met anyone yet?" asked Mother,

"The place must be crawling with men", observed my out of area friends.

"Not interested" was my standard reply. The few times I was fixed up on dates (whatever that means) they were disasters. My life was serene. I was comfortable. How dare anyone suggest that I was perhaps a shade too leery of jumping into the fray. Again.

In the early summer of the next year, I visited a friend of mine in my hometown of Chicago. Waiting for her to get ready for our excursion to the beach I picked up a book of e.e. cummings' poetry from her coffee table, Reading his poem "somewhere i have never traveled," I felt (can it be?) a tear on my cheek. Uh, oh.

Back in Maryland I went to see "Hannah and Her Sisters" with one of my male friends. In one scene Barbara Hershey read a poem written by e.e. cummings. Yep. You guessed which one.

Time passed. Another friend suggested I take a look at the personal ads in a local Jewish newspaper - the Matchmaker ads. "Oh, alright," I yelped at her after weeks of nagging. "Alright, already."

Flipping to Matches for Women I spotted an ad with a heading in bold letters - "Hannah and Her Sisters" it proclaimed. A sign. I decided to answer. Only because of the salutation. Only because of the movie. Only because of the poem. Only because my Hebrew name is Hannah. Only because deep down I knew it was time. .

Pulling out a piece of paper, I wrote..."somewhere I have never traveled....."

I copied the entire poem, signed my name and stuck in my phone number. That was it. Unbeknownst to me, the author of the ad, Michael Kravitz, was a huge trivia buff. I had presented a challenge. He called me and asked, "That's the e.e. cummings poem, isn't it?"

We agreed to go to a Judy Collins concert the next weekend.

There are those who would say I am making this up after the fact. Others would scoff at the idea of predicting the future. And yet, when I opened the door that night I knew. We would be married.

We dated for 10 months and in May of 1988 we became engaged. Our 20th wedding anniversary is this December. In our wedding program we thanked our newspaper matchmaker, Judy Collins and e.e. cummings. We have a daughter who is turning 15, have had a series of not very bright pets, and are still as happy as we were on that first date, all those years ago.

So what does this mean?

It means you have to risk a little of yourself. It means you have to have faith that your dreams can come true. It means you have to let your heart guide you. But even if it means none of the above it means YOU HAVE TO ANSWER THE AD.

All I Ever “Kneeded”     DVM OUR TIME

By Cheryl Kravitz

My first foray into exercise was at puberty, when I joined a bowling league and believe that to this day I’m the only person ever to get a high score of 11 at the West Lawn Bowling Alley. In my teens, while others were playing sports, I stood in front of a mirror applying black eyeliner and “ratting” my hair.

In my 20’s, working out consisted of getting off the couch and grabbing a little something from the kitchen.  Living in a neighborhood where we blew whistles to thwart muggings, I figured I had a good excuse not to join the jogging craze. In the winter it was too cold to go outside, and in the summer it was too hot. Basically, I lived the life of Goldilocks.

When I finally decided it might be time to actually participate in an exercise program I went to one of those health club places. My size 1 teen age daughter joined me.  She wore silver tights, a blue leotard, silver and blue shoes, a blue sweatband and a silver necklace. The only clothes I could find to put on were orange terry cloth shorts and a black tee-shirt, emblazoned with the legend “The Loop, Where Chicago Rocks.”  The first thing that struck me was the entire place was blue and silver.  The decor, including, for some reason, a disco ball, was blue and silver. In fact, the single incongruous thing in there was me.

Time passed. I enrolled in Jazzercise. I stood in the back corner. My instructor wore a red velour warm-up suit.   She went through some impossible routines and then slipped out of her pants and jacket.  She was wearing shiny red tights and a red and black leotard.  “Aha,” I said, eyeing her in her form fitting leotard. “Aha! She has a stomach!”  “See what you can do when you’re six months pregnant?” she innocently asked. 

I was determined to get serious.  I bought proper fitting shoes and realized no one was actually watching me and laughing. They were focusing on themselves. I began to enjoy it. I started going three, four times a week to Jazzercise. I felt better than I had in years. I stood in the front row.  I became a believer in the joy of movement.  And then........

My family went on a trip.  We took a carriage ride and the driver stopped so we could see some sites. My family jumped off and ran. I didn’t notice the exit stairs curved and fell, slamming the pavement with my left knee. My knee felt on fire. It clicked and clacked when I walked.  Exercise?  I couldn’t move. I saw an orthopedist, knowing full well the diagnosis. My knee was shattered.     

We tried everything to avoid knee replacement surgery. The doctor said that if I wasn’t better in six months, there wouldn’t be a choice.  There wasn’t.  I had a unicompartmental replacement. In the pain filled weeks after surgery my dreams were filled with silver and blue exercisers.  Depression doesn’t begin to describe the hurt in my mind, let alone the healing that had to happen in my knee.   

I was sent home from the hospital with a walker I refused to use.  A certified Baby Boomer can think of few things worse. I relented and bought two psychedelic canes. I swapped those for a seven foot tall “Moses Stick.”  I tried to part water. I could barely walk.    It was the time from Hell. There were a variety of other stressors going on in my life, and all turmoil was manifested in my knee.  The days of wine, roses and Jazzercise became the pinnacle of what I wanted to achieve again.

I called my surgeon.  I needed to go to Jazzercise and prove something to myself, something more broken than my knee had ever been. My doctor said it was fine, as long as I didn’t jump. I wrote my old instructor and started class once more.  Nowadays, I am proud to report that every week I go to yoga twice and to Jazzercise three times.

I know that in the scheme of things, this probably isn’t the most important thing I’ll ever do in my life. But it’s something that’s made me whole.

 And yes, once again, I am in the front row.