Your Mama Can't Dance

For two whole weeks in June I went to the gym fairly regularly. If I had actually worked out while I was there, I'd probably see results. But seriously, one week I actually went three times and could have gone a fourth, but I didn't want to start any crazy precedents. The point is, I was trying. But then I took Zumba.

At 5:30 on Tuesdays and Thursdays my gym offers a TRX class. I'm a big fan of this workout. It's tough, but not extreme. I'm sweaty when I'm done, but I don't actually pass out, so that's a good thing. The only problem with TRX is that the class fills up too fast, given that there's only room for 10. So this particular Tuesday I arrived at 5 p.m. feeling super confident about securing my place, but would you believe 5 was too late? All the spots were taken. My natural inclination was to call it fate and head home, but the woman at the front desk suggested Zumba. I told her I'm not good at Zumba. She said it was a beginner's class. I figured what the hell.

What the hell, indeed.

There's something about Zumba that makes it right for blog post abuse. Maybe it's because...

• I see Zumba as the new Sweatin' to the Oldies. Baby boomers don't want to admit that they've gotten older, so they take classes in which they dance to club music and shake body parts that have no business being shaken at this point in their lives. We are definitely NOT bringing sexy back in Zumba class. 
• Honestly, I think I actually bring down the class's median age.
• Zumba instructors, at least at my gym, appear to be misfits who aren't qualified to teach anything else. They're the only instructors who make me feel good about my physique.
• It's embarrassing. I completely suck at it, but I imagine that even if I was a pro I'd be embarrassed to have those who are "really" working out see me doing this silly stuff that should definitely be reserved for dark nightclubs where alcohol is being consumed.

So there I was in Zumba class. On the side closest to the windows overlooking the gym floor where the real working out was taking place. And naturally there were college-age women watching us with amused faces. And old men looking for a hip swinging honey to take home for the night. I smiled and waved. They moved on. That's how badly I was swinging and shaking. I tried to laugh it off as I improvised the moves, but no one laughed with me, which made me feel even more pathetic.

Obviously Zumba is not a real workout.
I look hot afterward! Or maybe that's just sweat. 

I was sweating and panting about 30 minutes into what I assumed was a 45 minute class. At that point I
decided to just tap my toes and swing my arms around. What difference could it make? Fifteen minutes later I realized that the class was actually 60-minutes long. So I did the only sensible thing. I left. I had developed a side stitch and a stomach cramp.

And would you believe my hip ached for a whole week afterward?

So I swore never again. But then Abby asked me to take the class with her. I figured it is every teen's right to see their mom do something ridiculous, and since I've never done anything ridiculous before, she had earned this opportunity. We went to Zumba together. The teacher was late. I was counting, praying we'd make it to the 15 minute mark when you're technically allowed to leave class. I later found out that that rule doesn't apply at the health club, where you actually can leave class any time.

Turns out our instructor was Alex. I assumed she was the same teacher I'd had a couple weeks earlier. When she turned up (under the 15 minute rule), she was a he. He is the teacher that kicks butt, literally, in Cardio Kickboxing. The class that I tried twice and gave up on. Second degree black belt, my ass. So when I saw Alex I groaned. Outwardly.

And you can guess what happened next. Or maybe not.

I loved it.

My skills weren't any better, but Alex was a much better instructor. And perhaps there was a small part of me that didn't want to appear completely ridiculous in front of my teenage daughter. So she and I still have that experience to look forward to. And perhaps we'll take a few Zumba classes together in the meantime.

The Bruce Springsteen Friend Recovery Program

The Alan Parson Project and I have something in common. We're both wondering,

Where do we go from here, now that all of the children are growing up?

It's been a time of big transitions for the MacShimer family. Abby moved to the middle school, Ian started high school, and Mom started wondering what she's supposed to do with the rest of her life. I'm seeing the future through my children's eyes and it's exciting and full of possibilities...for them. Add to the kids' transitions hitting my almost mid-40s and attending my 25th high school reunion and you probably have a sense where I'm coming from.

Maybe this is why I
haven't heard from anyone?

Like any intelligent, rational, forward-thinking person, I'm using this time of questioning, renewal, and possibility to productively yearn for yesterday. I've become particularly interested in reconnecting with those individuals who touched my life in some way and with whom I've lost touch, including:

• My best friend Laura from high school. I went to her wedding back in the early 1990s. She promised she'd come to mine. She didn't. I never heard from her again. So nostalgic stalker Kim tracked her down on the internet. Found real estate records. Mailed a card to her address letting her know I was thinking of her and asking her to be in touch. No response. 
• My graduate school mentor and friend Susan. I ate dinner with her family, wrote my entire master's thesis at her office computer, and valued her academic and personal guidance. Through LinkedIn I found her husband and he provided me with both her personal and work email addresses. I sent her a message. No response.
• My Scotch Plains, NJ roommate John. He got in touch with me via LinkedIn, suggested lunch. I replied to him weeks ago. No response.

I'm getting a complex. 

The good news is that since these failed attempts I did have a welcome dose of nostalgia. On Labor Day, my friends Dave and Todd showed up at our door before the Springsteen concert they were attending with Rob. Dave and Todd were two of the sales execs at Oldies 99.9 / Hot 99.9, the radio station where I met Rob in 1991. I spent less than a year there, but it was one of the best times of my life. The entire staff was like family. The business manager suggested I marry Rob (my first day on the job). Rob lived with two of our coworkers. And we all spent most of our time outside of work together. It was a really special group of people and I'll cherish forever the memories from those months. Seeing Todd and Dave brought all that back and warmed the cockles of my heart. Thanks, boys.

The lesson learned here is simple and valuable. If you want to reconnect with old friends, offer them tickets to a Bruce Springsteen concert. It's pricey, but it works. 

Finding Your Place

My vision of Ian,
a few years into the future...

My son is a gamer. There have been years months days when I was certain I'd find him slumped over the computer keyboard or Xbox controls, his body weakened by a lack of fresh air, nutritional sustenance, and face-to-face human interaction. Ian's love of the game has caused his poor mother more than a little bit of angst, but now I'm seeing a light at the end of the virtual tunnel. Eighth grade will be remembered as the year Ian found his place...somewhere other than in front of a screen.

During the second half of the school year, it became apparent that Ian's "thing" is music and theater. He's enjoyed singing in the chorus since 6th grade, but more recently I saw evidence of his passion and commitment when he attended, without complaint, daily after school rehearsals for the school musical. These rehearsals ate into what would have otherwise been valuable game time.  In addition to the musical, this winter Ian was asked to join Cantible, the select vocal group he unsuccessfully auditioned for back in September. Turns out someone else in the group wasn't doing his job and Ian was invited to take his place. (They had after school rehearsals as well. Even less game time.) When I recently thanked the director for giving Ian the opportunity, she remarked at how he had blossomed and surprised her with his development as a singer.

This past Friday we received news that confirmed that Ian has indeed found his voice. I had a phone call from his best friend, Noah, around 2:30 p.m. before Ian had arrived home from school. The conversation went something like this:

N: Hey, wanna hear something?

M: Sure, what's up? 

N: I think Ian made the Silvertones.

M: What? No way. Where did you get this information?

N: Someone said they saw the list posted at the high school and Ian's name was on it.

M: Are you sure?

N: About 80% sure. 

80% was not sufficient with news as potentially big as this. See, the Silvertones is the most select singing group at our high school. Only 36 students from grades 9 through 12 will make the cut. I had been hoping Ian might make it by his senior year (oh ye, of little faith). I waited anxiously for him to get home from school. Fifteen minutes later, he came to the door with a shocked, disbelieving, over the moon smile.

Me: Is it true?

Ian (playing dumb): What?

Me: Did you really make Silvertones?

Ian: I think so. That's what Henry said. 

Henry is one of Ian's friends. His dad happens to be the director of the choral and theater program at the high school. This meant Henry was likely to have insider information. But still, Ian warned me, "Do not post this on Facebook." He expected a letter from the high school to arrive that weekend. A few hours later, a congratulatory phone call came from the Silvertones coordinator. And the postman delivered a glorious letter also confirming the good news. Ian was one of only two freshmen/women) to be selected. The letter also provided valuable details, including:

• Ian's strengths (excellent resonance, placement, and relaxation throughout) and weaknesses (precise independent intonation and reading)
• The requirement for Silvertones members to be in all three high school choral groups
• The immediate start of 7 a.m. rehearsals, daily.
• An upcoming introductory meeting for parents...to include discussion of the group's spring trip to Italy.

My son, the gamer, a latecomer to finding his voice, now a member of the Silvertones. We're still in shock here, but I couldn't be more proud.

Seeing your child "find his place" in the world---his gifts, a sense of accomplishment and joy, a circle of friends, belonging to a community---is one of the most amazing things I've experienced as a parent.

Thanks for allowing me to share the experience with you.

Five Reasons I Dislike Stadium Concerts

Way back in the early days of this blog, I wrote a post about music and how my enjoyment of it can be corrupted by overzealous listeners. In that post, I noted that my husband is a big Bruce Springsteen fan. For a while, Bruce was really grating on me, but once the overexposure was dealt with, I came to appreciate him. His songs are relevant, timely, and passionate and The Boss puts his whole heart and soul into them.

Naturally, when Rob learned that Bruce was coming to Philly for two performances in March, he and his friend bought tickets for both nights. At the last minute, however, Rob decided one performance would be enough, and he graciously offered me his seat. My interest in going was of the "take it or leave it" variety, but ultimately I decided I had to see the man so many Philadelphians worship. So last night I saw Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band at the Wells Fargo Center.

I can now officially state that I am not a fan of concerts. Stadium concerts specifically. 

Here are five reasons why:

Just the view from the nosebleed section.

1. The wait. Seriously? The guy's been performing live for decades. He should know how long it takes to get ready to go on stage. Assuming you know the starting time printed on the ticket, you work backward from there. Not rocket science. It irritates the crap out of me to wait 45 minutes for some diva performer to grace us with his or her presence.
2. Unless you're in the first few rows on the floor in front of the stage, stadium seating sucks. I was in the third row from the top with the common folk. (This is new territory given my connections for seating at the ballpark.) The air is thinner and the seats are smaller up there. And the floors are sticky.
3. I like the polished version of an artist's song better than the live music. All you musicians are aghast right now. Sorry. But in the studio version, I can usually understand the lyrics because the instrumental isn't overwhelming the vocal. Also, in the studio version they don't go off on these guitar riffs or extended drum solos. They annoy me.
4. They're boring. I need to do something when I listen to music. Like yard work or house work. Or at least dance. There's no room to dance at a stadium concert. 
5. They're loud. I can't hear myself sing. And when I can't hear myself sing there's an excellent possibility that I'm out of tune. Rob says I sound abysmal when singing with headphones on.

This is my fifth stadium concert experience in the last few years and all but one of them was dreadful (I kinda liked Tom Petty the first of the two times I saw him, but I may have been drinking for that one). In addition to Tom, there was Hannah Montana ('nuff said), Taylor Swift (dear God!), and Jimmy Buffett (no thanks). None of these was my choice.

From now on I will restrict my concert going to small venues like Tower Theater, the Mann Center, Scottish Rite Auditorium, or Longwood Gardens. In those settings, there's a sense of intimacy with the performers, the seats are all the same size, and I can hear myself sing. Of course, those venues are also where I'm most likely to find my favorites, the Indigo Girls, and others like Paul Simon, David Gray, and Elvis Costello.

So let's have a conversation about concerts. Where is your favorite spot to catch a show? Who's your favorite performer? Who will you see every time they're in town? Any pet peeves about the concert experience?

Don't Mean to Be Dissing Swift, but...

In what can only be described as a suspicious set of circumstances, I ended up at the Taylor Swift concert on Saturday night. My plans for the evening had included a Drum Corp International competition with Ian while Rob took Abby to see Tae Tae in a Phillies client-entertaining outing. As it happened, however:

• My drum corp show was rained on
• Rob's client decided to send his kids to the concert without him
• Rob's back just happened to be killing him

So yours truly got drafted into seeing TS.

I didn't think I minded; I like those "Love Story" and "You Belong to Me" songs, after all. But then I sat in stupid traffic trying to get there. And they took my umbrella at the security checkpoint (???). And I saw throngs of young girls with their super short jean shorts and their cowboy boots and they made me feel old. And I sat through one boy band followed by some rockabilly band. And I waited another 30 minutes after they finished for the main attraction to appear.

Her signature smile

And then Taylor over-the-top flirted with the audience (making my flirting look amateurish) with a phony looking smile and Bambi eyes that said "I know I'm insanely beautiful." And she shared a bunch of sensitive, "I love you guys" stuff that I wasn't buying couldn't make out because I'm losing my hearing. And she tossed her hair about a zillion times for God knows what reason. And I decided I'd much rather be listening to Taylor Swift on the radio than watching her there in Lincoln Financial Field.

Given that my idea of a perfect concert is an Indigo Girls performance, I should have known the TS event wasn't going to be my thing. Yes, she's a good singer with decent lyrics (if you think getting the boy to belong to you/marry you is the answer to all your problems), but her show was just that. A show. It was as much about the set and costume changes, the back up dancers, the lighting, and the fireworks as it was about the music. Every tilt of her head, every smile, every bat of her fake lashes seemed choreographed and artificial. Had she been in a Nashville bar, stripped of the spectacle, I probably would have enjoyed listening to her.

So many of today's performers are packaged. Put in their money-making box and dressed up and trotted out as the music executives see fit. There's little that's authentic about them. Little that says they sweated and failed and worked hard in rundown bars to make it to where they are today. Compare that to singers and bands like REM, or Bruce Springsteen or even the Dave Matthews Band. While they put on impressive "shows" it's still about the music.

And then there are my Girls. The Indigo Girls. Their concerts are no more (and no less) than listening to great music, with powerful lyrics, performed in perfect harmony by two incredible guitar-playing singer-songwriters, surrounded by a few thousand of their loyal fans.

I'm sure everyone has an opinion on this topic (particularly you rabid obsessed  big Taylor Swift fans), so let  the debate begin!

Familiarity Breeds Contempt

1992: New York City

• Tiny cubicles
• Boss from hell
• A meager $21,000 with a master's degree
• Neil Young

It was my first job out of grad school and I was working for one of the leading ad agencies in the world. I hated my boss. I hated the corporate environment. I was stuffed into an itty-bitty cubicle with the rest of the underpaid peons. Life just couldn't get any better. But then it did. My cubicle neighbor decided that Neil Young needed to be played daily. Not just once a day, but all day. Every day. That voice was like nails on a chalkboard. To this day, when I hear a Neil Young song, my blood runs cold. Could I have ever liked Neil Young if I hadn't heard him on repeat for about a year? Sadly, we'll never know.

That was my first experience with musical over-kill, but it wasn't to be my last

1994: Avalon, New Jersey

• Blue shag carpeting
• Bodies everywhere
• Counting Crows

One summer before we got married, Rob and I shared a beach house with a few dozen of his closest friends. And that was the summer I despised the Counting Crows and their first CD, "August and Everything After." Like Neil Young, someone felt the Counting Crows should be played over, and over, and over, and over, and over again, ad nauseum.  So I grew to absolutely hate them and that CD, and was generally miserable for the entire summer (his friends wondered why he was marrying such a b*tch). It took several years before I could listen to the Counting Crows without wincing, though in this case I eventually grew to love that CD.

2010: Wallingford, Pennsylvania

• Two kids, a dog, a cat, a guinea pig, a husband
• 2nd degree black belt
• Freakin' Angels blog
• Bruce Springsteen

My husband is killing Bruce for me. Unlike in the case of Neil Young and the Counting Crows, I used to like Bruce Springsteen. A lot. But my husband, who's been a life-long fan, is increasingly obsessed. Obsessed as in attends every concert. Obsessed as in listens non-stop to the Bruce channel on satellite radio. Obsessed as in The Gospel According to Bruce Springsteen.

I don't know if it's just me, but there is nothing I can tolerate on such a constant basis. Not my kids. Not the Godfather movie. Not Bruce Springsteen. Heck, not even my beloved Glee, volume one CD!

Who or what has been ruined for you by overexposure?