A (Workout) Room of Her Own

I've never really been a beauty parlor kind of gal. There's just something about all that female bonding over finger nail polish and permanent waves that makes me feel ... well ... that one of my DNA polymers must have misfired a time or two somewhere down the road to adulthood.

I'm just not good at chit-chat. Too serious, you know.

So you have to wonder why I joined Curves--the beauty parlor version of a gym ... without the pesky hairdryers, nail stations, and clouds of perfume.

Case in point: During my workout yesterday, the ever-polished and very sweet employee who signed me up (let's call her Sweet D) kept up a steady banter with the other clients doing the circuit ... all about whose husband had had a stroke ... did you see x's new haircut ... no not that one the other one ... is that a new workout suit ... where's your mom this week ... aw, what anniversary is it ... and so on. And on. And on.

Me? I just worked the machines and concentrated on muscle groups. I was probably frowning the whole time. It's my native state, I'm pretty sure.

Later, when I finished my workout, Sweet D, who had led me through the maze of machines and "recovery stations," called out, "Jennifer just finished her first work-out, y'all!"

And everyone applauded.

And it seemed like they really meant it, offering congratulations and encouragement. And they were all smiling and laughing. And I don't think any of them were on drugs.

Seriously.

I'm going back this afternoon. To get in better shape. And maybe learn a new language along the way.

It's never too late, they say, to open the door ... to a new room.

Thoughts Along the Way

It's been a month since I've written last, it seems.

A month of coughing, laughing, crying ... of good deeds and rainy days ... of sadness so deep it doesn't seem to leave ... of tired eyes, cheating students, and second chances ... of a new sweater, slacks, and shoes that make me smile just looking at them.


Life.

It is. What it is. It is.

Some see the fall as hibernation time. For me, though, it's the time of rebirth. Spring is lovely but too ... garish ... for this lover of taupe and ecru, pumpkin and cumin, faded crimson and washed out blue. In the autumn I can relax and breath more easily than in the hectic oh-so-bright-and-cheerful spring. The light is softer ... the sky offers a palette of ever-changing weather ... soon favorite holidays will arrive ... and family ... and love.

The sun's out this morning. Yesterday was filled with rain and dark skies. Tomorrow? Who knows. I hear cooler days are coming, more rain perhaps.

More dreams.

More hopes.

More life.

I Survived ... Barely

It's been a while, hasn't it? Just wanted to let you know that I survived my very first ever (and maybe one and only) art fair. But I caught something over the 2 days I spent outside ... in the muggy heat ... mold or ragweed, a cold, I'm not sure. I just know it migrated from my head to my lungs this week, and I'm still coughing up a storm. And I haven't even finished unpacking.

And ... I came upon an injured little doggie on the side of a busy street last Tuesday, and all I can say is it's a good thing I did well at the art festival because, 345 dollars later, she's still with me ... getting well ... before she goes to a good home. That I still have to find before my cat kills this little one or runs away from home.

Oh, you wanted photos? Here are a couple of pre-opening bell shots of my booth and one of the pooch (who looks majestic buy weighs only 17.5 lbs. She's a cutie). The earrings from my collages were a bit hit. Look for more on Etsy soon!

Embracing the Mess

Here's a little bird's eye view of what my home looks like these days ... T minus 9.5days until I have to load up the car and take my stuff to the local art festival.

Yikes.



I haven't wanted to spend a lot of money--in case I really hate hawking my wares in person--so I've been putting together display items like these old shutters, old cookie sheets for magnets, and the like. Shoot, just setting up the booth is going to be an exercise in creativity, perseverance, and duct tape 101.

I bought some 12 x 36 inch boards yesterday, and I'm going to do a simple monochromatic collage on them and then hinge them for items that need nails to hang. I've gotten boxes for cards, foam core board for little gift cards and earrings ... and so on.



The trick will be to tie it all together with color, use of space, depth. I'll try to remember to take photos when it's all set up. Before the winds come. I'm just hoping it doesn't rain that weekend.



Whew.

I'm Pretty Sure There's a Moral Here

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/object/article?f=/n/a/2009/08/26/national/a101304D17.DTL&o=0&type=bondage

Now all I need is a ladder. Anyone? Does the police department do angst calls?

Analysis, Please

I had the craziest dream last night.

In the dream, I was organizing my collage art cards, talking with a friend, when I suddenly realized that I had quit my job and had to come up with money to pay the mortgage.

"Oh, I can teach part time," I exclaimed.

So I rushed to a college I used to teach at (which shall be known as Big Fish CC), where I ran into former colleagues who offered me a course teaching Troilus and Cressida (I kid you not) to a group of reform school drop outs. Or something like that. You know--gun-toting . . . gum-smacking (or was it smack-shooting?) . . . who-the-hell-is-Troilus? . . . and as if I should care To Sir With Love morphs into 21-st century students coming to class heavy. Who, actually, were pretty fun and interesting in the dream.

Still with me?

Oh, and the class was offered in the attic of an old house near campus (although I don't think there actually are any old houses with attics near the real Big Fish CC). Whatever that means.

One morning before class, other adjunct faculty and I were standing around on the balcony waiting for our attic classes to begin when a big school of people on Sedgeways rode past. One of my colleagues bowed sarcastically as they rode by us (even though none of them even looked in our direction).

"Who is that?" I asked.

"The full-time faculty," she said. "Lairds of the castle. Or so they think."

OK, so being a full-time, tenured faculty member in my waking life, I have to wonder about that coming out in my dream. Hmmm ... the subconscious can be a pest, can't it?

The best part of the dream? I did it. I made a living by teaching part-time, selling my collage cards, and doing other odds and ends. And I was happy.

Even without a Sedgeway of my own.

And So Another Year Begins ...

Last night, for the first time in 29 years of teaching (HOW is that possible?), I wasn't nervous the night before the semester began. "It's time to quit," I thought to myself. No anxiety generally equals no interest. Time to move along and let the young 'uns take my job, I guess.

But then this morning, while walking up the stairs to my first class, I realized my old familiar butterflies had arrived after all, aflutter and afire at last, prepping for a transatlantic flight across the semester. Facing a new set of students can be scary for teachers, too. Everybody wants to be liked.

We spend the first day asking and answering questions about the class. Mostly their concerns are in the "will we have homework?" vein (duh--it's college, I wish I could say). But each year brings a new set of questions, a new batch of concerns, things I never even thought about before. Take the group from my 8 a.m. class who asked, "What about phones?"

"Well," I said, "I like mine. How about you?"

The class laughed, and the student tried again: "We mean do you mind if we use our phones in class."

Sigh. "Why do you need to?" I asked. Seriously, folks, if you can't go 80 minutes twice a week without being hooked up to your phone, you're addicted and need to seek help. Thankfully, they laughed. But then the I-Pod and laptop questions came, the I-need-to-listen-to-music-during-class concerns, the desire to do whatever they can to preserve who they are outside of class even when they enter our little twice-a-week ecosystem.

"Learning is violence," once wrote Peter Elbow, a scholar in the teaching of composition. That's because to be open to learning (not rote memorization but learning) means to be open to change. We can't experience and learn new information and skills without somehow losing some parts of who we were before each new encounter.

But isn't that the point? Isn't that why we go to college--or take any class--a photography workshop, for example? To be different than we were when we came in?

That's why it's scary. And exhilarating. And wonderful.

Even when it's not.

All summer I've thought about how I didn't want to come back this fall. Yet here I am. Faced with the same choice as the students: I can simply be the "this is who I am" me and bludgeon my way through the semester, or I can be the "I'm willing to learn and grow" me and ... well ... let go of my self as static, as tired of teaching, as wanting to be something different. I can be different here.

"If you are not happy here and now, you never will be," says Taisen Deshimaru. I guess I'll let the butterflies show me the way.