On Fridays I pick up my brilliant granddaughter, Izzy, and take her to gymnastics class. She runs off to tumble and flip (and flaunt her leotard-du-jour), while I take my seat in the gallery of relatives-who-transport.
I sit near the window where I can watch my budding gold-medalist's every move, and I day-dream about the '72 Munich Olympics where Olga Korbut (who now lives in Scottsdale) scored a perfect ten on the uneven bars.
When I come back to earth I notice this sign in the Gym and ponder whether to enroll, if only to pick up some style pointers.
It’s been just about a year since I was diagnosed with osteoporosis and asked my good doctor what I should do about it. “Don’t fall,” he said.
I promised I wouldn’t. But I think the statute of ‘liminations is looming. You know, the one that says, "You live in a house with a spiral staircase you must traverse multiple times a day? Really?"
Izzy shows up just in time to spare the receptionist from a confusing battery of questions. I point out the sign to Izzy.
“Bubba,” she says sternly, “they’re talking about FALL … the season. You know - like Halloween. They want people to sign up for classes that begin in October … you know, Fall. Get it?”
“Got it,” I reply, shamed.
I guess it's unlikely there will be a team of judges to hold up score cards when those stairs get me, anyway.