The Elusive Short-Sleeve Dress

I already blogged about this eleven years ago, so apparently I have a problem. I am haunted by the ghost of a movie star.

“A woman should retire her arms at thirty,” the actress Nina Foch often infused our film class with life lessons and her beliefs about femininity. It was 1994. She was a sophisticated, beautiful seventy. Her teaching uniform consisted of black flowy pants and matching blouses pinned with a fresh gardenia picked that morning from her garden to mirror the white of her hair. Black and white like the films she starred in.

She was of another generation that survived without OrangeTheory, CorePower and 24-Hour Fitness. She stayed thin by a diet of Snapple and Smartfood popcorn because, I recall her saying, she owned stock in them. So, I forgave her for her old-fashioned ideas about beauty.

But I did not forget. Thirty years later, with my invisible biceps and softer triceps, I search for nice dresses with sleeves just short enough to cover them.

Like Ms. Foch did in 1994, I have a uniform – my dog-walking clothes – skort, t-shirt, running shoes. My closet shelves hold books because I collect them, not shoes. Still, when I dress up, I am picky. I want to mix pretty with appropriate, comfortable, and sophisticated. When I find that combination, it is sleeveless. But thanks to the ghost, no matter how good the rest of me looks, I increasingly focus on my arms.

“A woman should retire her arms at thirty,” she said, taking another sip of her Snapple.

The current puffy-sleeve style looks silly on anyone over twelve. Long sleeves are too warm for women suffering from hot flashes and climate change. And who on earth looks good in cap-sleeves?

Of course I see short sleeve dresses out there. Some look like the old Lanz nightgowns our mothers used to wear or camping tents as if those of us choosing short sleeves should hide ourselves completely. 

Some are so short, butt-hugging, and breast-revealing that a woman my age with a normal body and self-respect should probably choose something else. Then there are the very tailored dresses that demand the perfect hourglass shape, requiring a tailor for the tailored. Or the material is chintzy. Or it shows sweat. Or the price is shocking.

“A woman should retire her arms at thirty,” she said.

Now that I’m closer to Ms. Foch’s age than I was when I took her class, I can say I tried. I just can’t find the dress.

Paying It Forward: Another Almost All-nighter

Forty years ago, I worked one night in our basement so that the sound of my Dad’s IBM Selectric typewriter did not wake up the rest of the family. I cannot remember why I fell behind on my work. It was high school, and in the morning, a ten or fifteen-page research paper was due. I do not recall what it was about. Just that my father stayed up to help me. 

The only kids who knew how to type took a class over the summer. We knew one family with a computer. So, when I finished drafting a page, I handed the sheet of paper to my father, and he translated my incoherent handwriting to type it. 

I was the kind of student who would be mortified by a missed deadline. I had probably cried, too stressed to move forward, and he stayed up to save me.

There was no way, really, to pay my Dad back. So, I paid it forward.

Throughout last night’s almost all-nighter, I stayed up to keep my son cranking through a long list of incomplete assignments before the end of the quarter. I learned random facts about the Gospels for religion class, then jumped with him to Black History Month research (a month after Black History Month), then kept him awake to answer cultural questions in Spanish about Argentina, then Puerto Rico.

This morning, on three and a half hours of sleep, I said, “Please, let’s not do this again.”

I hope that the next time he does, it is decades from now when he pays it forward to get his teenager out of an academic hole. And I am sleeping soundly.

To the Drama Kids (or Why I Cried at Your High School Play)

Opening night starts the happy ending of an epic story in which the heroes come together for this adventure – the play – and grow and bond and laugh and love in putting on the show. 

It’s been a lifetime since cast-list heartbreak for Cowboy Number 3, since she finally got the lead, and he realized he had to dance (what?!).

Months of rehearsal, of trying to get off script, of forgetting the steps, of giggling when he stands too close during the song. All else but the play fades to black.

Then, the curtain rises. In the spotlight, he remembers the line he kept skipping. She nails the high notes and the low. Two-left-feet finds her groove. He pauses long enough to hear us laugh at his joke, and stands taller.

The mikes go out, a costume rips, someone actually breaks his leg, and Cowboy Number 3 saves them all from Murphy’s Law.

The show goes on. 

When we cheer at story’s end, standing ovation, the players hold hands, loving this unexpected temporary family. Seniors wipe tears, because this is their last time on this stage. Drama kids cease to act, overwhelmed by relief, joy, sorrow that tomorrow they return to being who they were before the play, but grown – more confident now, resilient, knowing they can shine.

Beach Football

From my beach chair with a book, I watch four men play football on a field drawn in the pinkish sand just above the sea’s edge. All nearing or just past six feet. Two with the same lanky legs. The other two, thicker, step and reach similarly. Voices travel with the ocean breeze in one-upmanship and laughter, ceasing only when the ball spirals in the air, as all four wait to see who will catch it. 

Receivers, jockey for position, shoving, eyes on the ball but aware of the other’s body too close. An arm reaches up, snags it. Or a thud in the sand precedes shouts of “how’d you drop that?” and “I need a quarterback who can get me the ball!” and “in your hands!”

They push, taunt, grab onto one another with a comfort of hundreds of plays together on this field of powdery sand.

From my beach chair with a different book, I watched these four players when three had yet to master the spiral, and the thud of football hitting sand was more frequent. Their bodies little. Then the next game, it seemed, different sizes like steps too high to climb. Their shouts a sweeter sound but the same “how’d you drop that?” and “in your hands!” The fourth player always faster, always on the winning team. The likelihood of the game ending in tears a given.

I watched them as, every year or two, one would master the game and gain on the fourth as he raced down the beach. “Can’t catch me! Not this year!” Knowing that next year might be the year.

Today, the approaching tide erases the sideline. Faded too are the once inevitable sand-in-the-eyes tears or player storming up the beach to hide in the dunes because of a bruised ego. The last play. As one, they plunge into the sea to cool off, the sunlight sparkling on the clear blue water around them.

My boys, men.

Teacher Appreciation Week

At the end of Teacher Appreciation Week, I realize how fortunate I was to have teachers who inspired and cared. 

First, of course, is my mother, who taught me what it takes to be a good parent. Ask a young adult from her decades in a kindergarten classroom if they remember their “Our Friend”, and the poster may still hang in their childhood bedroom. Ask about the Roots project, and they will recall how proud they were the time their grandmother was invited to share the unique and magnificent history of their family. 

She set the bar high, but there are others…

Mrs. Wortman who covered for me in first grade when I had an accident in the back row because I was too shy to ask to go to the bathroom.

Mrs. Jeffrey who turned our classroom into an imaginary city where my aspirations quickly grew from blacksmith’s daughter to mayor. And who unknowingly tempted me to throw our spelling contests so I could have a Dum Dum lollipop instead of the Smarties she awarded the winners. (Yes, I know, it wouldn’t be allowed today, but candy is candy.)

Mr. Millard who knew that a fifth grader who wanted to go home at recess really just needed a Coke and someone to sit with while chaos ruled on the Four Square blacktop.

Mrs. Dater, then still teaching in her eighties and the most challenging, magical teacher ever to teach sixth grade, who taught us more about the continents of Africa and South America than any college course ever did – I still have my Africa scrapbook.

Mr. Wilamowski whose patience I tried every time I broke the jigsaw blade in Shop.

The Team Four teachers who took us on two camping trips a year, sometimes let us sit on the floor, and treated us like leaders before heading to high school.

Mrs. Bralove, Mr. Elko, Mr. Crow, and Mrs. Harrison for letting me in on the secret that acting – which translated to any creative output – is the most fun, scary thing you can do.

Mr. Turner whose American Studies and Sixties classes set the bar much too high for my son’s high school history teachers, who may be good but….

Mr. Herscher whose voice sounded like music when he recited “Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote, the droghte of March hath perced to the roote”, and who, I hope, never caught on that while I could identify a phallic symbol on his impossible exams, I had no idea what one was.

A South Florida Adventure

Where I come from, we call it a “snow day.” Wet snow pants and boots and mittens piled on a towel in the front hall after a sledding expedition. Rosy cheeks and cold fingers. The scrape, scrape, scrape of shoveling out. Funny snowmen with carrot stub noses and Oreo eyes peopling the neighborhood by midday.

Here in south Florida, we apparently call such days “hurricane days” and, as celebrated throughout Broward County this morning, “extreme flooding days.”

The sun shines now as if nothing happened, though an impassable moat and the croaking of frogs surround our house. And yesterday, I left at 2:30 to pick our son up at high school with no idea of the adventure that would unfold. 

With two separate tornado alerts and one flash flood warning blaring on my phone, my little Volvo surfed occasional waves while navigating an obstacle course of stalled cars. On the side of the road, water lapped as high as bus stop benches and at the doorways of shops. A current of rapids ran down the street. 

A mile where we could barely see through the downpour melted into a moment of relative calm before booming thunder and streaks of lightning echoed in our chests.

“Just get me to our street,” “just get me off the main road,” “just get me to the…”

But the evidence left by abandoned cars warned that turning off the busy, main road might prove disastrous. 

“Just keep swimming,” to quote a famous fish.

At 5:00, we turned onto our street. Two long blocks to go.

The steering shut down first. The car fell silent. The rain poured down.

My husband drove his truck to rescue us, barely able to close the doors, knee-deep in rainwater, drenched in seconds. A group of neighborhood teenagers paddled by on kayaks and paddleboards, and recruited to help, they joined my husband in pushing my little Volvo down the block to our driveway at last. 

Arrival, three hours after the school day’s end.

Upon hearing the story, our college son texted, “And the moral of the story?”….

…leave his little brother at school.

The Real Reason to Go College Visiting

A mom, a dad, and their son are about to set out an epic driving college visiting tour, when their little dog loses an eyeball. They decide to bring the dog, her defunct eye now a criss-cross of red stitches. The start of a good story.

A blur of campuses and towns. “Which one had the cool amphitheater?” “That was the one with the funny tour guide, right?” “Which one had the really old dorms?” “And…. like…. three Chick-Fil-As!” 

Then, just when he is most exhausted, emotions swirling, and unsure whether to fear or leap into the future, “which college did you like best, honey?”

He looks at the dog, comforted that at least she understands.

What they will all remember is the patched-up pup curled up on the back seat of the car. Stories remembered and shared by mom and dad. Hours of terrible singing in the battle of Spotify playlists. I imagine the dog, in a burst of post-medicated energy, waddling along on one of the tours. 

For me growing up, it was the nervous tug releasing a string of pearls onto a sidewalk in Connecticut. My mom hilariously inspecting the showers in a dorm bathroom in Pennsylvania when the tour guide admitted they were co-ed. My dad sharing stories of being a camp counselor at Goose Pond, probably the first time I had him all to myself. 

For my sister, a competitive swimmer, it was our mom wondering how they clean the pool in time for practice after the water polo horses play.

Our kids now have the forever ability to make fun of dad just discovering that General Lee did not surrender in an actual courthouse on a Civil War detour in rural Virginia. A memory with mom, carless and shivering at the drive-thru pharmacy window one cold Wisconsin morning to swab our sniffling noses for Covid.

Maybe a few faded images in our brains of a campus, but plenty of good family stories and knowing your parents love you before you venture into adulthood.

Spring Break

On Being a Girl

I am most content to be a girl when I rest in the safety of a lounge chair while my teenage sons and husband “play” in the pool, scratches down their backs and across their shoulders, handprints reddening their necks, gasping for breath after a serious dunking.

A Change

As I head to bed, the college boys grab car keys and head to the grocery store to buy the ingredients for brownies. Not long after, the smell of baking wafts up the stairs. A few months ago, one did not know where the grocery store was, and they never left the house without us. Nice to see a little independence, a dash of energy, the simple joy of doing something together, even if it means they will sleep tomorrow until noon.

Math at the Dining Room Table

Sometimes brothers are the best math teachers. Maybe it is the attention. Maybe it is the ability to make math fun. “Do you want me to show you imaginary numbers? They’re pretty cool.” Maybe it is being forced to laugh at your own foibles. “My man here forgot 9×9… twice.” Or, more likely, “as soon as you’re done, we can order Chipotle.”

Spring Training

Last year’s World Series champs playing the local team on a sunny, not-too-hot day. Second row over the dugout where we can see the frustration of the first base coach when the newbie outfielders shrug off his instructions and then miss the pickup. A group of three old guys with New York accents behind us asking each other why they aren’t sitting in the shade and who’s buying the beer. It is the 6^th inning, and when my niece finishes her Cookie Dough Dippin’ Dots, she asks, “When is halftime?”

Surfing, Yoga and Traveling with Strangers

My mother once joined a knitting club with no intention of learning to knit. She enjoyed chatting with the ladies, who initially offered to teach her. Above the clicking of their needles, and her total lack of interest in their proposed lessons, they enjoyed that she wanted to be a part of things anyway.

I thought of my non-knitting mother this week traveling to Costa Rica with mostly strangers – all women – and my best friend since childhood on a surfing and yoga retreat (http://sistersurf.com). I leapt at the invitation to join, although yoga is not my Zen and my fear of doing anything fast, downhill, or out of my physical control might prove limiting on a surfboard.

It was really about friendship.

I tried both the yoga and surfing.  Not pretty. I enjoyed the surfing – which for me, barely moved beyond the cobra position onto my knees – more than the yoga. No need for me to stand to capture the adrenaline rush of a good wave barreling toward a beautiful, sunny beach. And my yoga looks ridiculously uncomfortable with intermittent giggles at the soft-spoken soundtrack, “find your intention” and “be the tree.”

At first, like my mother’s knitting club, it was probably hard for my Surf Sisters to understand how happy I was just being in their midst, dipping in and out of the day’s activities and conversations. I was passing my own tests of bravery by making new friends, eating raw fish, and jumping first into an ice bath. I easily found my Zen there, though it may not have been upside-down, eyes closed on a yoga mat. 

My best friend and my new friends made me laugh a lot. I read a great book. I walked the length of the beach daily, spent hours in the pool. I had time to watch every glorious sunset.

Mostly, I loved swapping histories with my fellow travelers. I felt a little burst of joy and connection each time someone began theirs with “it’s not that interesting” and then realized, in the sharing of it and our appreciation for it, that they have indeed had a unique journey worthy of the telling. 

Occasionally, someone talked about their mother, and I was grateful that mine once joined a knitting club. If she hadn’t, I might not have gone.

The Girl with the Cast

Our fifteen-year-old admits that he cannot remember our birthdays. He will guess, but it is usually off by a few days, or he gets the right day but wrong month.

But there was this girl in first grade.

“She lost her first tooth on my birthday.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t remember her name. And then hers was four days later, and I lost my first tooth on hers.”

“Which girl?”

“The one who always had a cast.”

There were two tomboys, the most likely candidates and his favorite girls back then.

“Not the one I hit with a truck in the sandbox. The other one.”

He will remember her birthday forever.