Last Wednesday was a good day for George's clinic because I didn't have to go to Boston for the light therapy so I could stay longer. After the nearly three hours of fun, some of us diehards stayed for a game of triples.
Thursday was off to a good start with yoga followed by a visit to the Northampton Farmers' Market and sitting on a step, eating blueberries and talking to a friend from the newspaper. Then pedicure so my toes would look decent for my trip to Jacob's Pillow with Ken Ross, who would be reviewing Hubbard Street Dance Chicago for Masslive.com.
When riding in the car with Ken, I heard the ding ding ding of texts coming in. I didn't want to be rude and look but finally did and saw that it was some of my high school friends talking to our friend Nancy, who had been in Nice and who was in nearby Cagnes sur Mer and heard what she thought was fireworks and of course had to do with the truck attack in Nice.
Luckily Nancy was safe, but having a friend so close (who maybe even would have been there) underlined the horror.
The show was very dark. Here is Ken's review.
The next day my doctor said he would not give most people an antibiotic, but he gave me one because I was so "special." He also told me to soak. The news of the day was so full of doom and gloom that I vowed not to watch my usual Friday night news programs. But when we went out for ice cream, a friend told me that a coup was being attempted in Turkey.
It seems like only yesterday that I was a travel agent handing out brochures about things to do in Turkey at our travel fair in Mr. Saltzman's 6th grade class at P.S. 198. My friend and I ate our ice cream while watching the coup. It was surreal and scary. I could not believe I was staying up late watching this happen but I couldn't take my eyes away.
Saturday, super hard yoga class, super hot day, dog walk and nap.
Sunday, semi-private lesson with George. Really great. Then I came home and got down in the dumps because I wanted the sequence of events to be what it was in Atlantic Beach: tennis, shower, then tuna fish sandwiches made by my mother and served on a beautifully decorated tray in the backyard. "Where did everyone go?," I wondered and got tears in my eyes.
Just then, Katie called. The saying is that the child is father to the man, but don't forget about the child being mother to the woman. She said she knew how I felt and recommended getting out of the house. Just then a friend called so we went for a walk. Then I realized that it was the night for the Ko Festival Story Slam, and thought that would be a great way to get over myself as well as a good time to say hi to my friends Dan Green and his wife, Sabrina Hamilton, Ko Fest's artistic director.
The true stories, told a la The Moth, represented a range of experience, from funny to sad, pointed to poignant. I could not believe that one woman up there was telling my story. It was about a mother's difficult (is wrenching too strong a word?) last days with her daughter before her daughter heads to college, and the last minutes in the dorm when you linger, and then the moment when you say goodbye and realize what a wonderful young woman your child has become.
|Trying out Hoka One One|
Much better and more uplifting than watching an attempted coup in Turkey.
Yesterday before a tennis match (so-so) Jim Bloom took a photo of me in the sneakers that I wrote about in my story for Womensrunning.com. Sneak preview: they are supposed to help runners who suffer from osteoarthritis in the big toe, or hallux limitus, which is threatening my running more than all the serious things did.
Now I'm trying to limit my exposure to The Republican convention. But it ain't easy.