Rude Society - Part One

When did it become okay to hit/slap/push/kick or otherwise assault strangers?

Last week, my regular yoga instructor was out of town.  Since I'm not keen on the person who was replacing her, I decided to try a #Zumba class.

The Zumba class meets an hour earlier, immediately ahead of my regular yoga class, and it looked fun.  Interesting movement, upbeat music (a lot, but not all, of it Latin), high energy.  Some of the choreography seemed a little tricky for a newcomer, but I figured my dance background would lend itself to picking up combinations relatively quickly.  And, based on how people looked when they left the class -- smiling, sweaty, satisfied -- I thought it would be a good complement to my overall fitness regimen.

Typically, the first two rows are filled by regulars who show up well ahead of class time to claim their spots.  The people in the next two rows are also regulars, but they don't get there early enough to earn a spot up front.  The last row is mostly older women who are content to do whatever they can, even if it has nothing to do with the choreography.

I scanned the room as soon as I entered and decided the best place for me was in the center, the best vantage point for seeing the choreography.  I didn't want to get in anyone's way, so I found what looked like the best place -- the middle of the last row.

Before the class began, I went to the front of the room to introduce myself to the instructor -- an adorable, petite woman named Bebe, whom all of her students adore -- and let her know that it was my first Zumba class.  She told me to grab a spot exactly where I had.  "The choreography can be a little complicated," she said, "so don't worry about it.  Just do the best you can."  I said I would.

By the time I got back to my spot in the back, the music had started and she was giving instructions.  It all made sense.

The first fifteen minutes were fine.  I can't say I got 100% of the choreography, but I was doing well enough.  I could see Bebe most of the time, and was at least able to get most of the footwork.  I have pretty good musicality and rhythm, so even when I missed a step I managed to stay with the beat and not completely screw up.  In other words, I didn't Zumba into anyone.

Then Bebe paused the class to demonstrate a new piece of choreography.  A large man -- easily 350 pounds -- in the second row was blocking my vision, so I moved up a row and slightly to my left to better see what Bebe was doing.

Before I could get my bearings, an older man on my left pushed me and said, "Get back to where you were."  Without taking my eyes off Bebe, I responded that I wasn't stealing his spot; I was merely trying to observe what the instructor was demonstrating.  "Well, get back to your own spot," he said.

At that point, I had missed the entire combination.

"Fuck you, asshole."

Which, of course, is what the entire class heard.  The only problem is that nobody knew what had happened.  An overweight guy in the second row said, "No fighting, no fighting.  If you want to fight, go home and watch the news.  But no fighting in Zumba."

Bebe said, "Enough.  Let's just get back to what we're doing."  And with that, the music started anew.

I had missed an entire section of choreography at that point, so I left the group exercise room, found an available treadmill and satisfied my fitness goal for the day with an easy, 40-minute run.

When I was done, I headed back to the classroom.  I wanted to confront the man and apologize to Bebe.  I waited for the class to end, approached the man and said, "You might want to think twice before you put your hands on anyone again.  Next time, you may not be so lucky."  Seriously, next time someone might push him back or, worse, sue him for assault.

"I didn't touch you," he snarled.

He had, but what was the point of arguing?

A minute later, I was apologizing to Bebe and explaining what happened.  She told me several other women had complained about that man for the same reason.

And yet...

Three women approached me in the locker room to tell me they had variously been hit, pushed or kicked by this man, yet nothing had been done about it even though one had complained to management.  (#24-Hour Fitness, look out: Your day of reckoning may be closer than you think!)  

Have people lost their marbles?  Are they so immersed in their own electronic universes that they've already forgotten how to be civil, how to interact peaceably with each other?  Are we being reduced to toddlers in a sandbox, tossing sand at each other when we can't get our way?

What the hell is going on?

More on Rude Society in my next post.

Why Simon is my American Idol

I'm a newcomer to "American Idol," but I haven't exactly been living with my head in the reality t.v. sand like some media ostrich. I know who Jessica, Clay, Reuben, Fantasia, Carrie, Kelly and the others are, am aware of the various dramas that unfolded during the previous seasons (including those that presumably involved the judges), and am familiar with the celebrity and success of some of contestants, flash-in-the-pan or otherwise. I just haven't watched any of it.

The fact of the matter is that I was too busy. And when I wasn't, I didn't care.

But for reasons I haven't fully analyzed yet, this season I'm watching. And frankly, I don't know what all the fuss is about regarding Simon Cowell. In all honesty, his honesty is refresing.

We live in such a psuedo world. So much of what surrounds us, of what we take in -- intentionally or not -- is so superficial.

All these paparazzi-pursued celebutantes complaining about their privacy? Please. Who doesn't know by now that their publicists choreograph these "chance" encounters?

All the fake perfection thrust at us: Botox, plastic surgery, hair extensions, flawlessly airbrushed faces. It's no wonder we no longer know what a real person is supposed to look like.

And it all filters down into our daily lives. Others seem less concerned with who we are than with what we do, where we live, what we drive.

So it's no surprise that the people who vote for contestants on "American Idol" often don't get it right. And by "right" I mean that they don't know talent from their elbow.

Which is why Simon Cowell is my American Idol. Say what you will about Simon, but he does know talent when he sees and hears it, and he's not afraid or shy or embarrassed to put the truth out there. His no-nonsense, don't waste my time attitude is a relief, and not just from the genuinely awful performances he (and we viewers) are required to endure. Simon makes every effort to insure that we (and he) won't have to endure more of that rubbish. But the voting public doesn't always agree. And neither, it seems, do the other judges. But Simon gets it right every time.

Forget Randy with his "pitchy" comments and his "dawg"-edness, and Paula with her redundant "you're a beautiful person" comments. While pitch is certainly relevant in music, and spirit may come through in song, the bottom line is that the show is a singing contest, as Simon so often is forced to remind us. And, in keeping with that purpose, Simon's judging is, first and foremost, about the singing.

But voice isn't all. Presentation has a lot to do with performance, and how the contestants present themselves (or fail to) is not lost on Simon. He comments on all of it: Voice first, then appearance. It's all part of the delivery of the contestants' package.

I do think there were moments in the early stages when some of Simon's comments could have been kinder. But let's face it: When people with no talent put themselves out there what do they expect? After all, it's part of the entertainment platform. The public gets its jollies from some of that meanness. (Admittedly I missed most of that, preferring to wait until the final group of contestants was chosen, but it was hard not to hear about those nutty auditions.)

Beyond that, however, Simon's been spot-on about this group. And when he said, the other day, that if Sanjaya wins he (Simon) wouldn't be back for another season, I hope he was being as honest as he is with these wannabes. As all of us who watch the show know, the final results are up to the public, and the public is not only very fickle but often stupid.

We're not supposed to say things like that, but it's true. Sadly, that stupidity is not limited to voting for the next "American Idol." And, even more sadly, none of the other areas where people behave stupidly -- at least none that I'm aware of -- have a Simon Cowell to adjudicate the procedings.

Which is too bad. The world could benefit from more of Simon's straight-from-hip shooting.

Reinvention

How do I reinvent myself?

There is no doubt that I have to do this. My career in the motion picture business, which I thought would be the one to see me through a comfortable life to a financially secure retirement, fell apart in the early '90s. By then I was already a mature woman, not quite over the hill but old enough to recognize that the people coming up behind me were young and energetic and enthusiastic (read: naive) in a way I could never again be.

I'd been at it for twelve years on two coasts, held on for another eight hoping against hope that it would turn around, would once again bear fruit. It didn't. My contacts dried up, and although I fought to develop new ones I couldn't. The work dried up, too. For awhile there were fewer films, fewer hour-long dramas, fewer pilots because the industry changed, became more corporate. Although production eventually picked up, by then it was too late for me. I'd been out of work, out of the loop too long.

I was depressed and angry and resentful and getting older, falling behind the advancements in technology, the know-how of the work. The last few jobs I had were frightening; I felt as if everything I knew was worthless and that, consequently, so was I.

I tried to turn things around, fell back on a skill I developed when I was starting out: Fitness Training. I actually parlayed this into a decent career, developed a modest clientele. I got certified, became a competitive bodybuilder (a short-lived endeavor, but an exciting one that taught me a lot about training techniques, nutrition, biology, body chemistry, biomechanics -- all the things that make a good trainer better). I worked 20-30 hours per week, a relief from the 75-90 hours I'd put in every week as an Assistant Director. It began to seem I could have a life.

I was wrong.

I was bored. Life on the set may, at times, be the same old same old, but it is never boring. There is always something to do: Wait for an actor to emerge from makeup, prepare a call sheet for the following day, wrap up the production report from yesterday, remind people to be quiet because we're rolling. There's always someone to talk to: A crew member, a background player, a Producer or Production Manager, even another Assistant Director.

As a trainer, I was only busy when I was with a client. When my clients were gone and my own workouts were complete I had nothing to do. Go home, eat lunch, maybe take a nap until it was time to go back to the gym for the second shift of the day. At first it was great, but not for long. I needed something more.

I went to school. It was a way to fill up the time, make use of those midday hours, stimulate my brain, round out my discipline. Study gave me something to do on the weekends, which were suddenly filled with too many empty hours. Reading and writing and 'rithmetic gave me purpose. I didn't know where it was going or if it was going anywhere, but it felt good to be busy, to have a full life.

Eventually it did go somewhere. It led me to an elite university, where I completed my BA in English with an emphasis on Creative Writing.

I've been reading since I was three-years-old, and thoughout my life I've found solace in books, fascination with the places I could go and the people I could meet without leaving the comfort of a soft chair. (Once, when I was ten, I nearly burned down the apartment cooking spaghetti because I was so involved in a book that I was unaware that the water had boiled down and the apartment was filled with smoke! I still remember the book's title, "Hakon of Rogen's Saga," though the narrative eludes me.)

I immediately went on to graduate school, earning a Masters degree in Professional Writing two years later. I wrote a novel, an incomplete one-act play, several articles. People at grad school assured me I'd get published. Not yet. In fact, I had more success with publication before I went to university, let alone grad school, than I've had since then. Go figure.

Recently, I wrote some web content for two different sites. So, now I'm a paid writer again, but it isn't enough work to support or fulfill me. The fitness career slowly disintegrated during my years of study. I began teaching in grad school. As much as I like Academia, I'm not all that thrilled about teaching. Maybe if I taught something other than freshman composition it would be different -- maybe not. Besides, teaching part-time is a thankless task. The pay is lousy, there are no guarantees of employment from semester to semester, and the amount of work required to teach even one course is mind boggling. I think I started teaching too late.

So, there's no question that I have to reinvent myself -- again -- have to find a way to make it through however many years I have left before I draw my final breath. I don't want to be a celebrity, don't want to be filthy rich. What I want is my dignity: Enough money to pay my rent and other bills; see some movies and an occasional play; eat good, healthy food; maybe take a vacation once a year or so. I want time to write, and not just for my blog but for publications. I have something to say, and I need a venue for it.

Life is never easy, and it certainly isn't any easier for a woman of a certain age. The world is so youth-centric. That's nothing new, but it's so in our faces these days in a way it never was before. Ironically, the baby boomers are hitting retirement age and they are living longer with (generally) more disposable income than the average youngster. Yet the world doesn't cater to us or our needs. It doesn't even recognize us. We are resisted or ignored in nearly every facet of life.

Can a woman of a certain age succeed at reinvention against such odds?