I'm checking out my new swim cap. TYR. Silicone. The only style I could find at REI. I'm standing in front of the mirror, hair in a bun, stretching the blue silicone cap clumsily over my head, trying to avoid pulling fine strands from my scalp in the process....
The front of the cap is cinching too far down my forehead, pinching the slight frownline in my brow into a much more pronounced furrow with extra wrinkles. Ew. Ok maybe it's supposed to sit higher....
That's better! Who knew? One can actually achieve results similar to a browlift by simply donning a swim cap! Do my ears go inside, or outside? OK time to read the instructions.
"Do not leave in direct sunlight. Avoid contact with sharp objects. Wet hair before putting on cap." Wait a minute. I thought the whole point was to save myself the work of having to totally wash & dry my hair after a swim. What now?
My eyes revisit the mirror. At this special time of my mid-30's life, MOST mornings I am confronted by a reflection that I have a difficult time recognizing. This vision in front of me though, while the royal blue swimcap casts a greenish tone to my skin and pulls my forehead more taughtly than Joan Rivers'; it's beyond comical....
I've decided to take up swimming. Not just the occasional dip in the lake or the pool for summer fun; but rather, a genuine effort to do swimming as cardio & strenghening for my fitness and mental health. From swimming, I bet I can even progress on to some of those goofy aerobic-fitness classes in the pool at the gym. I am gonna buy goggles, sporty one-piece suits, the whole deal. It seems the most logical thing to do, both pre-and-post-bunion surgery. I am feeling pretty strongly that I'll go for the Scarf-Akin bunionectomy, on both feet, simultaneously, as soon as possible. Perhaps 2 or 3 weeks after surgery, I'll be allowed to swim, to keep myself fit and happy.
Why does it matter so much to me to aspire to such lofty goals of physical fitness? I mean why's a few months' recovery from foot surgery got to be so hard? Why not just go the easy route and sign up for NASA's bed-rest experiment, wherein participants are paid up to $17,000 to stay in bed in the Human Test Subject Facility at Johnson Space Center for 90 days (read a lot of books, perhaps write some short stories, do some meditation, get all mushy) and aid their cause of studying the effects of microgravity on the human body? OK I ADMIT, I DID CONSIDER IT. http://blog.wired.com/wiredscience/2008/05/nasa-offers-500.html
Alas, I would more than likely not pass the Airforce Medical Exam. Aside from whether or not I could even qualify for this study, I can say with uttmost certainty that it would damn near kill me to sit still for that long! It would be depressing, and - I'm willing to bet my right foot- also counter-productive to the healing process.
Beneath all of this reasoning (reasons disguised in terms of health and fitness and a seeming obsession with staying in shape), then there is my Real Reason for fearing foot surgery. For mourning the end of my pre-surgery era. For my dread of the recovery time. The Real Reason, in my heart, at the core of my being, is that I'm a dancer. I always have been. Not professionally, but personally. I began studying ballet at age 7, and then moved on to other forms of dance after age 12 when it was determined I would never be a ballerina with these feet. Dance is a large part of my extracurricular activities. It's something I've been passionately drawn to, from a young age, and even during the long phases I've tried to give it up. It may appear to friends and co-workers as something on par with a hobby or sport. It may look that way on the outside. On the inside, I can't quite part with it though, no matter how hard I've tried.
Unfortunately, Genetics Did Not Get That Memo. So they gave me the "wrong" feet, plus a few other "wrong" things, like poorly aligned knees and short achilles. In return, I've made the best of enjoying what I've been given, to explore dance and music as much as I possibly can.
It was with this focus in mind, and fueled by my anger and trepidation toward my impending bunion surgeries, that I decided to go to San Francisco last month (instead of my usual NYC trip) for summer dance classes & workshops. It was a feast of dance class experiences.
The San Francisco contemporary dance community has a LOT to offer. The mainstays are Lines Ballet/SF Dance Center, and ODC Dance Commons. There were Graham-influenced modern classes, there were Dunham-influenced modern classes. There were Cuban-and-Brazilian-influenced contemporary classes. There were Horton technique and contemporary ballet technique classes. There was such a plethora of choices that I can not possibly explain them all here. There was a very comfortable open attitude, and talented dancers ranging in age from teenagers to over-40's. Paco Gomez, Katharina Worthington, Antoine Hunter, and Robert Moses were stand-out teachers of my selections for the week. Each was incredible in his or her own way. Each tested my limits. I had merely 6 days; but I blissfully overloaded myself.
On my last evening in town, I found my way into a family-owned Venezuelan restaurant in the Mission to enjoy a steak dinner after class at ODC. After dinner - charmed, stuffed, and physically exhausted - I wandered in and out of shops on Valencia to finish gathering gifts for friends before making my way to the BART station under a quickly darkening sky. Time to get back to my friends' home in Oakland. It had been a beautiful day. A beautiful week. And suddenly, I realized I had no idea exactly which train stop would get me anywhere near my friends' house (I'd been taking the transbay bus all week), and my cell was completely dead. It was a mini-panic. Who could I call? How could I call? As if an answer delivered by the Universe, in my periphery, I noticed Antoine, one of the ODC teachers from Brazilian-Modern class earlier in the week. He was very kind. He let me borrow his phone. He sat with me on the train. I told him the story of my vacation week, and of my feet. He told me about his work, the hectic schedule and many different schools where he teaches, and shared his website. www.antoinehunter.com
Probably 85% of our exchange, this late summer night in a BART train speeding toward Oakland, took place via pen on note paper; Because Antoine Hunter, master dancer and dedicated dance instructor, is deaf. Now if that's not inspiring, then I don't know what the hell is.
