SON MIS LOCURAS

Under a crisp, white-collared shirt.

I went to a fundraiser for a presidential candidate last night.  It was held at a club that has been described as “Hollywood’s one-stop shop for conspicuous nightlife consumption.”  On a regular night, I could never get into that club. 

The candidate spoke about changing the country for the poor, to people who’d paid more than a week’s wages to see him speak (and oddly, try to touch him) for 20 minutes.

It made me sad to be there. 

I always hope for someone who is different, who really wants to try something different.  And always there is just so much talk, so much talk.

© Laura Genao 2007

A colleague recently wondered how my risk-taking manifests itself.  He said I seemed like someone who would bungee jump, or sky dive, or hang glide. 

I started to respond with “Yes, I jump off of cliffs into rivers and from rocks into underground caves,” when he again asked, “Do you hang glide?”

I was forced to admit my Achilles’ Heel.  “I get horribly motion sick.  The one time I wanted to go, the curvy drive to the top of the mountain would’ve killed me.”

There you have it, I would be more daring, if only the earth stopped moving.  Anyone else care to admit to a hidden weakness?

© Laura Genao 2007

Things I learned (or had reconfirmed) today:

• I don’t like salads that contain lettuce;
• It takes more than four days for the horrible bruise caused by snapped resistance bands to go away;
• “Blondie” is never the wrong answer to give when someone walks into your office and asks what’s on your iPod (I mean, it’s an answer that even makes grown men smile); and
• It doesn’t feel so good when, after an especially tough workout, your trainer says “have you thought about adding a nutritional element to your program.”  (Note to Nick–love me, love my lonjas).

© Laura Genao 2007

So, I’d finally gotten back to working out four days a week, running three miles each of those days, and doing a 40 minute core workout three days a week when my back injury remanifest itself.  I took it as a sign and decided no more three mile runs. 

This week I started the modified workout regimen.  I run a mile, do 40 minutes of a core strengthening workout, and then walk backwards for 15 minutes. 

Because I am a little uncoordinated, I wasn’t surprised to get shot off the treadmill (I didn’t fall, just ended up off of the treadmill unexpectedly) on my first day of backwards walking.  Fortunately, the only person I knew at the gym was too busy working his belly on a stability ball to notice. 

When I mentioned my little incident to him later he said, “I apparently missed that.  I did see you walking backwards on the treadmill and just reconciled that it was something you would do.  I don’t even ask questions.”

For all of you other smart alecks out there, backward walking and running are in fact recognized (if recognized means you have a Wikipedia entry) and beneficial forms of exercise.  You can look up the articles yourself, but the major benefits are the strengthening of leg muscles otherwise ignored by running and the promotion of balance (which, as I’ve said before, is something I need). 

© Laura Genao 2007

One of my favorite mental scenes is that of a mother trying to keep her young child from being injured while learning how to ride a bike.  The child is in long pants, long sleeves, a helmet, wrist guards, gloves and everything but a facemask.  Inevitably, el mocoso falls face first and ends up with a scraped nose and no more bike for two weeks.

Thinking of that scene today, I came up with a mostly-benign history of my blemished, scarred, pock-marked self.    

1. Two-inch scar on my right pinky from where they put a pin in my finger after I broke it grabbing a groundball with my hand, not my glove while playing softball;
2. Half-inch scar on my left index finger from where I ran it across a fence (that had a hidden barbed wire);
3. Quarter-inch scar under my right eyebrow, from trying to catch a glass Pepsi bottle before it struck the ground; I missed, it shattered;
4. Nickel-sized scar on my right knee, from repeatedly scraping the knee across sidewalks (no more skateboards);
5. Three-inch scar on my left shin from shaving accident (note to self–no more cheap razors);
6. Three missing front teeth (and you thought they were just perfectly straight teeth) from trying to guard a kid’s forward basketball progress with my face; and
7. Most impressively, not a single scar from falling body-first into a gnarly rosebush from an 8-foot high fence.

© Laura Genao 2007

I’m crazy busy, pretty exhausted, and still, in a very good mood.  Must be my superhero shoes. Can’t be sad with those on.

© Laura Genao 2007

So, I just got the official invite e-mail for my 15th college reunion.  One of the events it promises is an evening of “celebration of our classmates’ work and artistic talents.”  

The e-mail promises “a unique way to welcome back the class and share our interests in a creative setting!  Anything and everything is welcome – sharing your writing (academic or creative), talking about your research, talking about work you’re doing for the government, performing a dance, reading poetry, playing music, or showing a clip of a film.  Each person will have up to 5 minutes approximately.”

Back when we were in college, my roommates and I once talked about doing “Girl for All Seasons” from Grease II in the Senior talent show.  I think sobriety caught up with the group and it was never, EVER, discussed again. 

I’m half inclined to organize an effort to finally pull out my inner choreographer and try to do it at the FRIDAY NIGHT EVENT–just as a reminder that there is no academic paper or description of government work that compares to the spectacle of six (one of them pregnant) women in their late 30s channeling bad Michelle Pfeiffer.

If all else fails and we end up doing “Cool Rider” in a karaoke bar in Boston instead, be assured, I’ll take pictures.

Yeah, college was fun.

© Laura Genao 2007

Years ago, I applied to a bunch of colleges.  Most were on the east coast.  My mom indulged my fanciful idea of an eastern college experience because she didn’t have to pay the application fees and because she had no idea that they actually admitted kids from poor, immigrant families.  Well, they did.

The day after I got in, she took the “certificate” announcing my admission to the class of 1992 to her ESL class in Bell Gardens.  She showed it to the teacher, who asked questions like “Where did you get this?” “Is this real?” and “Do you know what this means?” 

My mother didn’t.

So, when I got home from school that day, she asked me “en que me has metido.” Translated, “kid, what have you gotten me into?”  I explained that it was a pretty good school.  She pulled out a map and asked me to point out where it was. 

“California is here,” I said, “Boston is here.” 

She sat there quietly and tried to figure out how that distance related to the distance from California to the town she had left in Mexico 20 years earlier.

“Are you sure you want to go that far?” she asked.

“I figure, you left your country when you were my age, at least I’m not doing that,” I laughed. 

My decision at 18 years of age exposed me to some of the smartest, funniest, most talented, and creative people I’ve ever met.  They are, to this day, the ones who most readily inspire me and who most consistently remind me of how fearless I have been.  

A lot of schools sent out their admissions letters (or e-mails) this week.  I’m glad that at least one student from the neighborhood where I grew up got into my alma mater. 

His parents are, no doubt, in for some new experiences.  But, if his four years turn out to be anything like mine, he’ll come out really believing that he can make every door in the world open for him and, hopefully, figure out ways to make sure that they stay open for those who follow. 

© Laura Genao 2007