Paris is.......

They call it the City of Light. Whether you subscribe to the theory that it was named so because it was the epicenter of learning during the Age of Enlightenment, or because it filled the night sky with light, is immaterial. Both have meaning; both tell us something about the character of this place. For me, there is another meaning of “light” for this wondrous place: it has a levity to it, a lightness of being, a certain buoyancy to it. I'm sure there is a certain amount of self-induced imagery playing with me here, but it is hard to deny the beauty, the elegance, the energy, and the gaiety of Paris. It is hard to know where to begin.

Paris is Sundays at the Jardin du Luxembourg where the feast for your eyes includes glimpses of a variety of exercise classes like tai chi or kick boxing, people picnicking on the grass, impossibly cute kids using long sticks to push their sailboats around the central man made pond. Or, folks just settling back in the many chairs and benches that dot the scene taking in the sun after a long, chilly winter.

Paris is the hot chocolate at Angelina. To be fair, it is almost an insult to call it that because the label of hot chocolate conjures up images all of which are woefully inadequate to describe what it is that is served there. It is far better to think of it as molten chocolate – a rich, thick, hot, sweet, aromatic concoction that explodes with chocolateness as you let it swirl in your mouth now replete with a dollop of fresh whipped cream. They call it Le Chocolat Chaud d'Africain. I call it heaven.

Paris is Rue Mouffetarde, or, as some smilingly call it, The Mouff. It is a street that dates back to Roman times as the beginnings of the pathway back to Rome from Lutecia, as Paris was called then. It is a narrow street that wends its way down a gentle slope from La Place de la Contrescarpe to the Square Saint Medard at the bottom. In between is a narrow street often blocked off to car traffic that is lined with open markets, cafes and small shops. On weekends, it must appear from a height as we view an ant colony: a narrow path ablaze with chaotic pedestrian traffic that darts from market to market, shopping bags overflowing with baguettes, cheese, produce and wine. It was also the location of the apartment we rented, a small but amazingly charming place in a 400 year old building overlooking the Mouff. A pied a terre in the truest sense of that phrase.

Paris is Saint Sulpice, the city's second largest church where on Sundays one is treated to an organ recital that fills the chambers of that edifice with music so full and so rich it seems to take on its own shape, its own visceral identity. Close your eyes and swim in it.

Paris is fashion. The women in their tight jeans, tall boots, Hollywood-esque sunglasses, and scarves perfectly looped and knotted. And the men? Tight jeans, pointed shoes, Hollywood-esque sunglasses and scarves perfectly looped and knotted. I'm telling you, if you're looking for a wise investment, think scarf industry. Don't say I didn't tell you.

Paris is where Lily's heart lies.

Paris is the Ile de la Cite and Ile St. Louis, the beating heart of this city. It is where it all began here more than 2,000 years ago. One is dominated by Notre Dame, allegedly visited by more than 14 million persons each year. It is grand; it is imposing; and it has a wonderful park behind it where one can pass the time reading, people watching, listening to street musicians, or just leaning back and taking in the periodic chimes from the towers. The other is a far quieter universe marked by narrow streets, beautiful residences, epically good ice cream, and one of our favorite restaurants, La Reine Blanche.

Paris is, of course, the Eiffel Tower. As touristy a spot as it is, it is nevertheless as awe inspiring now up close as it was when first erected a hundred and twenty-five years ago. It stretches up over a thousand feet and, with the vast clearances around it, it stands alone eagerly accepting its role as an icon of the city. As we dined at a nearby bistro, we were entertained by the tower as it came to life with thousands of blinking lights that seemed to fill the night sky with a silent fireworks display. The blinkies, as our friend Wayne calls it.

Paris is baguettes, croissants, cheese, wine, creme brulee, mussels, croque monsieur, salmon terrines, truffles, falafel, escargot, onion soup, steak tartare, cassoulet, crepes, and soufflés.

Paris is Blue Bike Tours, which, as the name implies, takes you around the city on two wheels. Having started riding a bike barely five weeks earlier, I embraced (potentially foolishly) the chance to take on the craziness of this city when my only prior experience was on the deserted streets of the Isle of Palms. It was as if I subliminally thought that when you're on vacation, nothing counts – not the calories, nor the possibility of getting steamrolled by a Citroen at a particularly busy intersection. But, on we went on a four hour journey through the Latin Quarter, Le Marais and delightful points in between. All seen before, but never quite this way. As luck would have it (and I can't emphasize that enough), my ride was mostly error-free, crashing only once. In between, however, it was hard to avoid the conclusion that Parisian motorists and pedestrians alike have a very firm grip on who has the right of way, and it was almost never me.

Paris is the Place des Vosges, as elegant and picturesque a town square as ever was. As you scan the early 15^th century architecture, once home to Victor Hugo and Cardinal Richelieu, it is impossible not to want to stop and just gaze. Maybe sit on the grass nibbling on your falafel letting it all seep in. Slowly.

In Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris," the Owen Wilson character, Gil, says it all.....

You know, I sometimes think, how is anyone ever gonna come up with a book, or a painting, or a symphony, or a sculpture that can compete with a great city. You can’t. Because you look around and every street, every boulevard, is its own special art form and when you think that in the cold, violent, meaningless universe that Paris exists, these lights. I mean come on, there’s nothing happening on Jupiter or Neptune, but from way out in space you can see these lights, the cafés, people drinking and singing. For all we know, Paris is the hottest spot in the universe.

Well said, Gil. Well said.

Defending Mojo -- A Short Story

Last night, as I always do, I let Mojo out to do his business before we all retire for the night.  It was pitch black dark out there.  As Mojo -- who, as you know, is also pitch black dark -- got to the bottom of the steps he took off like a rocket in pursuit of some moving object.  I suspected a deer.  Although I worry about his dashing out into a dark street and go unseen by passing motorists, I knew he would return  -- at some point.  And, sure enough he did, about ten minutes later.  Seemed innocent enough.  He came in to the house without any indication that anything other than an innocent chase had occurred.  He slept well.

This morning, as we were about to head to the beach, I got to the bottom of the steps from our deck, and there at the bottom was a dead squirrel.  I looked at Mojo who just looked back at me with a clueless, vacant stare.  As if he were suggesting he knew nothing about this incident.  Could he have done this?  Dare I consider the possibility that this loving dog, this tail wagging, lighthearted creature could have committed cold blooded murder?  I tried to banish the thought.  Maybe the squirrel had fallen to the ground from the bird feeder we had attached to our living room window which I knew from first hand observation was a very popular place for the local squirrel population to hang out.  Maybe this one had lost his footing and landed awkwardly killing him instantly.  Maybe, in a fit of piggishness, the squirrel had gorged himself to extreme at the bird feeder buffet and had died from over consumption.  Or, was there another, darker, explanation?

We walked to the beach, Mojo seemingly without a care in the world peeing to his heart's content, pulling me onward knowing where we were going.  But, in my head, I kept going back to the scene we had just left wondering, wondering.  There were no witnesses to this incident.  Evidence was merely circumstantial.  There were other plausible explanations.  No jury could convict him, could it?

I hesitated, but upon our return home, I decided to bag up the squirrel and toss him in the garbage.   But, I agonized.  Was I covering up a crime?  Was I tampering with state's evidence?  Was I now an accessory?!

I decided not to tell Lily.  Some things are left better unsaid.  

But, I am left to wonder.

A Two-Wheeled Dream

Back in the days when I could legitimately say I was young – somewhere this side of the Mesozoic era – my “Leave it to Beaver” neighborhood rejoiced with the sounds of kids. There were many in the streets around me, and the shouts and taunts and laughter emanating from us all provided a steady soundtrack to our lives. Oftentimes, it was street games of various sorts that would raise the ambient decibel levels, but just as frequently it would be the incessant chatter one would hear as groups of kids on bikes would streak through the neighborhood. Kids would be on their way to other kids' houses to play, or perhaps be riding to pick-up baseball or football games, or maybe just a casual sortie down to our local store to pick up a pack of baseball cards or, perhaps, a candy bar. But, my participation in these events was limited. I did not own a bike.

I wanted one, of course. It would have provided me with a level of social acceptance which I dearly would have loved. It would have enabled me to become one of the group and to participate first hand rather than as just a drop-in on those sporadic occasions when I would walk to ball fields or the store and catch up with the others. The reason I did not own a bike was not a mystery to me, but it was no more satisfying knowing the reason. My mother made it known to me that I would never own a bike because of the sadness she still harbored from a point in her life long past. In her youth, her younger brother had been killed in a cycling accident, and, understandably, that loss left an indelible mark on her – one that would give life decades later to an indomitable fear of having a son who would be out on the streets facing, in her mind, constant mortal risks. My mom was upfront about all this. She fully conceded that her fears were irrational and overblown by the power of memory and time. But, the bottom line was no bike for me. End of discussion.

My best friends, Leah and Greg, both had bikes. They knew of my desires and encouraged me to try riding their bikes on the street in front of our houses. But, my efforts were hopeless. Once I was finally able to get rolling, I had no clue how to steer, let alone stop before I faced an inopportune obstacle like a tree, a street curb, or a fire hydrant. I still recall rolling down the gentle slope of Ogden Avenue, gaining speed, and having no idea how my ride might finish. As if in surrender, I would take my feet off the pedals and let the bike go where it wanted. It controlled matters, not me. I felt equal pangs of exhilaration and terror. My screams, I'm sure, could be easily identified with either emotion. Most frequently, my brief rolling adventures would end with me involuntarily grabbing the trunk of a tree I had just unceremoniously crashed into, or would end with me laying prone on a neighbor's front lawn after a curb had insidiously intersected my path and thrown me clear of my ride. My mother knew none of this.

We now flash forward several decades. I have had an absolutely wonderful life but it has been virtually bike-free. I am now Medicare eligible and am ready to take on life's new challenge: to successfully ride a bike. That is to say, to complete a ride without serious injury or worse. Yes, I have had a few misshapen adventures with bikes over the years, none of them ending well. I have a clear memory of the bruises and indignities that have served only to reinforce my logical side that I should consider other pursuits, ones less grounded in the needs for balance and sharp reflexes.

But, I have a specific reason to turn my attention to this decades-old mission of mine. We have a trip planned to Tuscany this summer and our stay will be in Lucca, a fabulously charming old walled city. Atop the walls is a park, complete with greenery, folks strolling with young children, and animated bocce games. Best of all, you can rent bikes and circumnavigate the city from above taking in all the wonderful sights of the park and the city below. But, as I sit here now, I am seriously ill-equipped to even think about doing this aboard a bike lest I have an unscheduled run-in with a bocce participant or, perhaps, a turret.

For this reason, I have acquired a bike. It's a basic beach cruiser – no gears or other paraphernalia that might mistake it for serious hard-charging wheeled pursuits. But, it is a bike and, as is true for all bikes, it must be ridden with balance and without the wobbling and tentative decision-making that is my current signature for this activity. I bought a helmet. Smart. Now that I have learned which end of the helmet faces which part of my skull, I feel oddly protected. Fortunately, our community is relatively deserted this time of year which means I can wobble my way down neighborhood streets without an ever present fear that I might have to dodge oncoming car traffic or innocent civilian pedestrians. With each episode out on the streets, I constantly remind myself of the helpful advice given to me by Lily and others: look up, don't look down at the wheels, and when attempting to turn, lean into the turn with my body, not a turn of the front wheel. Sounds easy, right? In the two days that I have ventured out to ply my new craft, I have only crashed twice. One incident was entirely my fault, but the other was clearly due to a tree that rudely got way too close to me.

On to Tuscany, I say. Just please do me a favor and don't alert my insurance carrier. I'd appreciate it.

A Close Call; Way Too Close.

We hear it all the time: how would you really react in a moment of crisis? Would you react sensibly or would you do things that you would heartily scoff at in a calmer, more deliberative moment? Are you really prepared to act in a rational, constructive manner when all your instincts are flailing around in total chaos? I remember a few years ago watching in abject horror as Mojo dove into the ocean to confront a shark as the saner dogs and people scampered in the opposite direction. As Mojo mounted the shark and rode on the back astride the dorsal fin, I found myself marching into the water armed with my “chuckit,” the device I use to hurl tennis balls far out into the ocean for Mojo to retrieve. In that moment of crisis, I foolheartedly concluded the chuckit was the ultimate anti-shark weapon and went into the surf to do battle. Stupid, ill-conceived, not helpful. Fortunately, the shark was as freaked out as I was and made haste to return to deeper waters leaving Mojo behind wondering where his ride went.

But, Saturday morning presented a different sort of events. For a couple of weeks, Lily and I had been hearing odd, loud puffing noises coming from the kitchen. For some totally inexplicable reason, we both attributed these noises to a new device we had which makes club soda with the assistance of a bottle of compressed gas. These air gun-like sounds were surely emanating from this new fangled kitchen gizmo. On a couple of occasions, we even went so far as to take the device outside thinking that if it were to explode at least it would be outside where the harm would be less traumatizing. Sadly, we were mistaken, and hugely so. The club soda device had been improperly accused and was blameless. At ten past seven, when even Mojo is still asleep, the loud puffing noise re-appeared, but this time in earnest. It awakened me with a start. Why? Because the now more urgent puffing actually blew open our bedroom door! In a stupor, I went to the door thinking that maybe it was our guest, young 6 year old Marley – our niece – visiting for a week from Florida. Maybe Marley had gotten up early and had opened our door just to see if we were awake yet. I went out of the room and, thinking I was looking for Marley, headed to the kitchen. There, everything changed. As I stumbled into the kitchen, still half asleep, the smell of gas was overpowering, and it was not the kind that emanates from a club soda making machine. It was the gas cooktop. How did I know? Even in my stupor I could see that the cabinet doors below the cooktop had been blown open and there, underneath, were large blue flames shooting out left and right from the junction box like some kind of demonized, blue-haired Medusa.

What to do? They say that the mind sharpens in its most trying moments. I'm not so sure. Coming out of my stupor at warp speed, my first instinct was to go for the fire extinguisher which, naturally, was buried somewhere in one of our kitchen closets. Hadn't seen it in years let alone have any notion of how to operate it. As I turned toward the closet, seemingly a thousand micro-thoughts crossed my brain: do I immediately awaken everyone in the house and get them out; do I put in a quick emergency call to the fire department; do I just try to blow out the arching flames; do I try to smother the flames; do I have time to read the fire extinguisher instructions should I find the damn device; how many seconds or minutes did we have until the house exploded; do I scream?

Somewhere in the midst of this frenetic exercise in weighing my options, my mind screamed at me, “turn the gas off, stupid”!! Of course, kill the problem at the source. The source in this case is a propane tank that sits outside our house, seemingly miles away in those frozen seconds that I thought could spell the difference between life and death. Clothed in nothing more than my underwear, I sprinted for the door, threw it open, descended the steps and ran around to the side of the house to the tank. I opened its lid and – not having much experience with this mechanism either – looked quizzically and impatiently at the various knobs on top in urgent search of the main shut off valve. I figured which one it should be, turned it viciously, and then spun around to make my way back into the kitchen. Bursting through the door again, I saw instantly that the flames were still having their way, snaking their way around the kitchen cabinet beneath the cooktop. Why, I thought. Had I turned the wrong valve? Do I run out there again? Do I hunt for the fire extinguisher this time?

Don't ask me why, but I decided the better course was for me to dive my head into the endangered, flame-filled cabinet and attempt to blow the flames out. Maybe the flames were still thriving solely on whatever remnants of gas remained in the lines and could be subdued as one might blow out a match. A very large match. I dropped to my knees, stuck my head into the inferno and started blowing. Only later did I reflect on this strategy and, as I have in the past, said to myself: stupid, ill conceived, not helpful. Certainly, this would have been the case had the system decided to explode in my face in that moment, but, then again, I wouldn't have been around to hear the scorn heaped upon me for making such a misguided judgment. Once again, we never know how we're going to react in those moments of crisis. One tries to be level headed, but being level headed is often a function of dispassionate analysis – a luxury, methinks, at times.

As luck would have it, my efforts at a manual solution worked. I got the flames to stop. I stared at the junction box certain it would ignite again. I waited. And, blessedly, nothing followed. Just the sounds of my gasping for breath, something I believe I had neglected to do in the previous minutes.

At this point, I returned to the bedroom where a still sleepy Lily listened in horror to my little drama. Marley, in the next bedroom was wonderfully oblivious to all that had transpired. Mojo wondered what the hold up was in heading for the beach.

I walked to the beach with Mojo still shaken, still wondering what might have happened. I second guessed almost everything I did.

Upon our return from the beach, I found the fire extinguisher, found a readily accessible place for it, and read its instructions. Now, that's something smart, well conceived, and helpful.

Music To My Ears

Bob Marley once said, “One good thing about music, when it hits you, you feel no pain.” The man knew something. Is there anything that soothes without physically touching like the tones, rhythms, and lyrics of music? Is there anything that transports you a zillion miles from wherever you are and yet, at the same time, paradoxically, drives you to live in the moment? I readily acknowledge that arguments can be made for other artistic expressions whether it's poetry, a movie or even a breathtaking work on canvas. All of these have the potential to strike us in a way, at both an emotional and even visceral level, that is disarming, revealing about our inner natures, and a source of wonderment. But, music – at least for me – is a cut above other art forms in its ability to move, to turn on the emotional faucets. It stands alone. Many have said over the centuries that this is man's greatest gift – the ability to move one's soul through a progression of notes that, in the abstract, are just random sounds that, when laced together in a certain order, create the ability to have one experience the deepest joy or sorrow, energy, euphoria, reverie, or love.

And, so it is with me. As with most folks, my yardstick for musical magic is a fluid one. What drove me to run five miles once or to dance with unabashed abandon years ago doesn't necessarily do that for me today. I'm not sure why. Have I tired of the old classics; have I heard them too many times? Greatness is greatness, right? Whatever the reason, it is an unending joy that there is seemingly always something new to transport us, to lift us to new heights, to make us want to get out of our chairs and just move. I say these things knowing that what strikes a responsive chord in me is likely musical gibberish to others. Or worse. Just like tastes in food, clothing, friends, or soul mates, we all march to our own drummers that often bear simply no resemblance to another's tastes in the same things.

Take “Red Hands” by Walk Off The Earth, for example. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1bt-FHaFVH8). Here's a tune that no doubt goes unnoticed by many barely raising an audible ripple to the casual listener. Or, just as likely, the song falls on almost deaf ears and disappears as a thousand other forgettable songs do. But, for me, I hear the first few bars and my head is already nodding, my shoulders almost imperceptibly start moving up and down, my fingers unconsciously tapping. If I'm running, “Red Hands” makes me feel like my feet are moving perfectly in time with the music. My feet are transformed into metronomes. I feel I am moving forward effortlessly. Whatever fatigue I might have been experiencing vanishes. For three minutes plus I am transported, flowing with the music forgetting where I am. If I'm cooking, “Red Hands” unconsciously leads me to wave, baton-like, whatever spatula, knife, or tongs I may be wielding in those moments as if I'm leading a phantom musical ensemble or hitting those drums with a fervor that anticipates every beat. And, whether I'm running or cooking, I'm glad I'm standing because I could not be sitting down for this one. No way.

In a much deeper way, I am seriously awestruck by Per Byhring's "Mr. Wednesday."            (https://soundcloud.com/perbyhring/mr-wednesday). Perhaps like no other piece of music in my memory, “Mr. Wednesday” takes over my soul. Completely. I'm not sure where it takes me, but I know it's not where I am. It is evocative; it is uplifting; it allows me to think back in time over my life and ahead to wherever it is I might be going. It starts slowly, softly, hypnotically. But, at the two minute mark, it opens up with brassy pronouncements and, if you close your eyes, it does not take great imagination to see the gates of heaven or to imagine an epic moment in one's life filled with all that is important. Indeed, I often say to myself that when I listen to “Mr. Wednesday” I feel something important is happening. For others to whom I have introduced “Mr. Wednesday,” this piece of music often strikes them as slow, repetitive, even boring. I get that. I'm okay with that. Maybe I would react to their own choices in similar fashion; that's not important. And, I also feel that, although it would be interesting to me, I believe it is irrelevant what Mr. Byhring had in mind when he wrote this piece. I know what I'm getting from it, and that's plenty.

And, for crying out loud, if you listen to these musical moments, turn up the volume!

A Brush With Reality

Much to the disdain, dismay, and even disgust of my family and some friends, I have been a devotee of certain reality TV programming for the last decade or so. The eye rolling and tongues in cheek of these loved ones is so exaggerated at times in reaction to this foible of mine that, I fear, could lead them to permanent disfigurement.  Yes, truth be told, I have been a huge fan of Survivor, the Amazing Race, American Idol, Top Chef, and others for years. And, yes, I have often been forced into seclusion to give full vent to my fandom or risk expulsion from the family Golland/Matheson, but I have done this without flinching, without complaint. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary. After all, I have even applied and auditioned for more than one of these shows. My devotion is beyond reproach. But, let me be quick to say that I am, I believe, selective in my viewing choices. Kim Kardashian and her ilk will never cross my TV screen, nor will the unhappy housewives of Beverly Hills, Atlanta, or Mongolia, for that matter. I will not indulge former football players or over the hill entertainers as they prance across the stage as dancing “stars.” 

But, watching these reality programs on TV and being there in person to bear witness are two different things, however. Which is why I lunged at the chance to attend a screening of The X-Factor, the johnny-come-lately to the singing competition universe, courtesy of erstwhile American Idol judge – Mr. Simon Cowell. I saw this as a way to immerse myself in the experience, to have my own brush with reality, you might say.

The lines were long at the North Charleston Coliseum. While I got there an hour before they recommended, the place was already crawling with sun-dressed young ladies replete with fancy sandals and the ubiquitously displayed cell phones, sometimes in the company of an occasional adult chaperone. The male species was represented too, but with only a slight sprinkling throughout the lines. A very slight sprinkling. Hazarding a guess, I would say the median age of attendees was maybe 16. Folks of my ancient ilk were few and far between. Let me just say that there weren't a whole lot of folks who could lay claim to being born in the first half of the last century.

After standing outside the arena for more than an hour, we were blessedly ushered into the arena away from the searing sun and the avalanche of Facebook traffic, where I took my seat seven rows back from the stage, about 15 feet from where the inestimable Mr. Cowell would be seated along side his fellow judges. The host of the event – a very able and amiable fellow named Frank – guided us through the pre-program do's and don'ts, encouraging us to boo what the judges say, but not to boo the contestants who were, after all, already exposing themselves to public ridicule to millions of viewers. Frank also directed us in a walk-through of how we should execute our standing ovations, which, he enthusiastically intoned, would be done in waves depending on one's birth date. Who knew? We were also advised never to stare into the camera and warned us that cameras were everywhere – that nothing would go unnoticed. A nice lady named Amy – one of the crew – came out to test the sound system while simultaneously getting the crowd warmed up through a rousing rendition of “Rolling On The River.” Her skills were passable, but would never pass muster with these judges were she a contestant, but you had to give her props for her energy and enthusiasm.

The tension mounted. When would the judges appear? The pre-pubescent teens would scream whenever they sensed the judges' appearance, and, through the cacophony they created, they could get the entire audience to swivel their necks at all manner of awkward angles – much like the Linda Blair character in “The Exorcist” – whenever they thought the moment of their arrival was at hand. And, finally, an hour after being seated, they did arrive amidst all the fanfare normally reserved for national heroes or epic pop icons. In they walked to swirling lights and deafening screeches: Demi Lovato and new judges, Kelly Rowland and Paulina Rubio (apparently a mega Latina star). But, wait. No Simon? No, no Simon. Where was he? Demi announced to the crowd that Simon was “running late” and would arrive....uh...."soon."  In the meantime the three “awesome” ladies, as Demi humbly described the lady judges, would carry on. And, so they did. For an hour, performer after performer marched on to the stage trying to look their perky best and sound the most professional they have ever sounded. Some had success, some did not. Country singers, hip hop artists, church singers, groups, you name it. Judges got booed, contestants did not. One husband and wife team performed, and it was clear to the judges that the husband had a terrific voice while his spouse most definitely did not. When the husband was asked whether he would consider going on as a solo act, he said “in a heartbeat” whereupon the judges passed him on to the next round. I'm thinking, my oh my, that should make for an interesting, if awkward, ride home for the two of them. One lady, a professed hip hop artist, said she was 38 years old, but I wasn't buying it. Notwithstanding her metallic mini-skirt and stiletto heels, she was 50 as sure as the sun sets in the west. She didn't get the judges best wishes although the crowd tried its best to convince them otherwise to send her on as they chanted her key lyrics and stomped their feet to no avail. As was true for all the contestants, as they sang, you could watch the judges for their attempts at seeking a conspiratorial consensus off camera. Their smiles or frowns, their nodding heads and winks spoke volumes as they tried to minimize their own embarrassment at appearing fragmented and without support.

With an hour left, Simon Cowell entered the fray appearing in his traditional white t-shirt. He blamed his late arrival on Demi's erroneous advice that the afternoon session began at 4 rather than 3 hours earlier. Right. Simon's apparently been eating way too well and seriously needs to consider upping his shirt size which, given his outsized ego, may be hard to do. But, I must say, his one line zingers to the contestants were vintage stuff, and he very quickly asserted his dominance over the panel.

After almost four hours in our seats, Simon announced the afternoon session was over. A break would be taken and the evening session would begin. I would not be there for that. I couldn't wait to get home, pour myself a nice helping of rum and put my feet up. I had no idea this day would prove to be so taxing.

The X-Factor season on TV is coming this Fall. Plenty of time to perfect my couch potato credentials.

And....so much for reality.

 

In the Hothouse

For many years, folks who know me well sometimes refer to me as the reptile. While I have not encouraged this nickname, I have come to understand that it is not wholly inappropriate. I don't tend to sweat very much. I tolerate very warm temperatures without great effort. While others are swimming in body soaking perspiration, my body tends to dampen only slightly even during intense physical activity which has prompted my friends – out of jealousy I am quite certain – to liken me to a lower strata of animal life. Which is why I was curious how I might respond to a taste of Bikram Yoga. Bikram is that version of yoga that requires you to spend 90 minutes in a room heated to 105 degrees and 40 to 50% humidity while you twist and turn and bend your body in ways that make you feel like a first cousin to a pretzel. Its benefits are legend ranging anywhere from stress reduction and enhanced flexibility to a sense of well being and injury repair. This is, of course, if you can steer clear of blacking out, crumpling over from dehydration, or succumbing to fits of nausea. I'm just sayin'.

I confess to being a bit wary of this experience. Lily has done it for a long time and, while she returns from class looking like she's been for a marathon swim, she swears she feels like a million bucks afterward. Since I have all the flexibility of a telephone pole, I concluded my time had come to turn over a new leaf and get my body to do things not previously witnessed by humankind.

We arrived at the bikram yoga studio and Lily, perhaps sensing my less than robust confidence at what would follow, generously found me a spot for my mat at the rear of the room where I could do my contortions in relative anonymity. And, as a bonus, there was a slight leak at the rear door that permitted the merest suggestion of cooler air to extend to my ankles. The room filled with persons that I immediately concluded were seasoned veterans of this discipline. I announced for all to hear that my goals were limited: don't die, and try beyond all measure not to leave the room, no matter how close to fainting you might be, no matter how nauseous. That latter issue is sort of an unwritten rule.

Our instructor was Amy Lane, a petite and energetic young lady who does several of these classes daily: a pro's pro. Amy Lane speaks at a pace that would shame an auctioneer. She belts out direction and helpful guidance at an alarming clip which, at first, seems so at odds with the uber-tropical atmosphere. But, Amy Lane is monitoring everyone with an eagle eye and a finely balanced sense of humor. Sadly, for me, I am so focused on just breathing and trying to bend my body in oh so unfamiliar ways, that I find myself watching other classmates to see what it is I'm supposed to be doing. I'm just trying to keep up here.

As my body swoops and stretches, bends and creaks, I find that I only feel like blacking out every now and then. My lightheadedness comes and goes. Man, it's hot. The trick is to stay under control keeping your breathing even and slow and not give in to open-mouthed gulps of air which, let me tell you, can be very tempting. Amy Lane says it's far better to suppress this urge for open-mouthed breathing lest your body lunge into a panicked fight or flight mode. Comforting. And, I find that whatever reptilian habits I may have inadvertently developed over the years are briskly out the window. Gone. I am shvitzing as I never have in my life. Even my ankles are sweating. When I reach down to grab them in one pose, they simply slide off my already liquified hands. Sweat is flying off me. My shirt, once a light gray when I entered this place, is now almost black and drenched. I reach for my water bottles and gulp what I can without losing the rhythm of the program.

When the clock strikes twelve – the moment when the 90 minute session is reportedly over – I suppress my almost overwhelming drive to urgently advise Amy Lane that she can stop now. But, I swallow that urge and melt into shavasana or corpse pose where you can lie still on the floor giving full surrender to your exhaustion. Amy Lane passes out chilled washcloths which, when resting on one's forehead and eyes, provide a sort of outsized pleasure that, in that moment, is pretty much what you want in life above all else.

I have survived! I am not dead; I did not black out. I am not nauseous. True, I am wondering what the quickest route to the North Pole might be, but I am more than relieved; I am energized by my modest success.

I will return! Isn't that what reptiles do?