Homage to a hero

I managed to reach middle age(yes, smartasses, I do expect to live to be 120,) without even a minor brush with the law, if you don't count that 1970 anti-war demonstration when I, whose most foul words to that date were "damn" and "lousy," repeatedly screamed, "fuck you, Agnew" at the top of my lungs and was forced to run at my top speed of 3 mph to evade arrest, making my first "fuck you" ever particularly memorable. I had intended to go to my heavenly reward sans rapsheet, but Sunday those plans were thwarted. By way of background, let me explain that I have always revered Pete Seeger. So when I heard there was a concert at Damrosch Park to celebrate his life, how could I not go? Pete was the epitome of sincerity and goodness. Would I be able to look at myself in the mirror on Monday if, instead of going to the concert, I stayed home to view cat videos? No. So I and another ardent fan, E, agreed to go. The concert was to begin at 4 p.m. We got there at 2 p.m. The line for seats in front of the stage stretched from 64th Street, up Amsterdam Avenue to 69th Street. Pete was 94 when he died. I presume people began to line up when he turned 90 just in case he might die in the next five years and there would be a memorial concert. It was clear we wouldn't get any of those seats. The area in front of the Beaumont has comfortable, movable woven metal chairs. We sprinted there to grab some. The chairs, although movable, were not exactly easily portable, weighing 20 pounds each and having no hand holds. I had grabbed a smaller chair, which I carried across the front of the Metropolitan Opera to a perfect spot in the shade at the rear of Damrosch Park, without maiming myself or anyone else. E, on the other hand, had taken a winged armchair, which was bigger than she was, and in lugging it to our shady refuge,did not collide with anyone, but may have incurred a latent back sprain. Our spot was delightful. Shady, breezy. We ate our lunch. We chatted. We had been seated no longer that 10 minutes when a uniformed guard approached us. "You have to put those chairs back." Me: "I'm not putting the chairs back. I'm staying right here." Guard: " You have to put the chairs back."Me: "Well I'm not going to." E: "Why should we put them back." Guard: "Because you have to." A round robin of this confrontation ensued. It was evocative of "You must pay the rent." " I can't pay the rent." "You must pay the rent." "I can't pay the rent." The guard walked away, perhaps to get reinforcements. Inspired by the concert honoree, I said to E, "I'm not moving." E agreed and broke out in a hearty rendition of "We shall not be moved," to which I joined in. I like passive resistance because it generally means "sitting," which is something I do well. Unfortunately, this passive resistance created a problem. I couldn't get up to pee because I was afraid either that the guard would take the opportunity to grab the chair or, as there were no other chairs in our vicinity, a standing audience member would grab the chair. I have been to many outdoor concerts, and no matter where I sat, even if it was 12 blocks away, I needed earplugs. And we were perfectly positioned at the rear of the park. At 4 o'clock the concert was to begin. We heard nothing. There was chatter all around us. "Is anyone singing?" "Do you hear anyone?" "I don't hear anything."I should point out that the entire audience was comprised of people who could have been at Woodstock. The woman sitting on the concrete in front of us had her lap top open and was live streaming the video of the concert. "Judy Collins is singing," E said to the people near us. "Oh, Judy Collins," every sighed as they said,"I love her." We saw Arlo's daughter and Harry Chapin and his daughters. We saw people dancing. We heard not a note. This was the only underamplified concert in the annals of concerts. Our seats were terrific though and the audience was very congenial. We would have stayed until the end of the concert, but I was afraid that I might have to pee in situ, which might give the guard good cause to arrest me. We left at 6 and were among the first to leave, which was odd considering, everyone had come for the concert, but no one could hear the concert. We were not arrested, but it was as close as I hope to come to prison. E and I did Pete proud. We stood up for what we thought was right. Well, we didn't exactly stand up, but you get the idea. Had a NYC Police officer asked us to relinquish those chairs, would we have stood our ground? Are you kidding? I'd die if I had to share a bathroom.

Never Gloat

In zumba class I'm the oldest by 25 years and the fattest by 25 pounds. In ballet class I'm the oldest by 35 years and the fattest by 35 pounds. But water aerobics, as I found out today, is an alternate exercise universe. No one in that class had looked down towards their feet and seen anything past belly since Nixon was in office. And everyone in that class was on social security before the ballet dancers were a twinkle in their parents' eyes. I was Jennifer Aniston in a pool of geriatric Melissa McCarthys. I gloated. The gloating was short lived. The shallow end of the pool had a depth of 4 feet. I'm 4'10". If I stood against the wall at the shallow end, the water was up to my neck. If I stepped two inches away from the wall, the pool's floor dropped off by 6 inches and the water was up my nostrils. Realizing this was a potential problem, I resolved to do all the exercises as close to the wall as I could, moving my legs laterally only, keeping my neck extended upward as if doing the sun salutation. Picture a very short delusional giraffe wearing a shower cap(mandatory for health reasons,) grazing for leaves on a branch no one but she can see. Nathan, the teacher, started us out by jogging. I jogged very well, if I do say so myself. Then we did knee lifts, which I also excelled at. I know these classes are not competitions, but I was certain I was doing better than my classmates. It was only an educated guess, though, because I couldn't risk lowering my head to look around for fear of drowning. Then Nathan said "Grab a noodle." Everyone in the class was using a white noodle. Nathan had provided me with both a white and a yellow noodle. I assumed he thought I was in such good shape that the white noodle would be too easy for me. I grabbed the yellow noodle. We were supposed to push it under water. I couldn't get it to budge from the surface. I stood on my toes and looked around. No one was having trouble with the white noodle, so I reached for it. Nathan, shook his head and handed me an emaciated hot pink noodle. I was pleased that I got it to go under water by heaving my entire body weight on it, but was chagrined that 80 year old two ton Tessie standing next to me who had no difficulty whatever getting the white noodle under water and probably could have pushed a whatle under water said sympathetically, " Go at your own pace. Don't push yourself." The noodle was sufficiently mortifying. I did not need the wuss weights. Everyone was given white weights. Nathan gave me red ones. They were very pretty, but I suspect he didn't give them to me because I was teacher's pet. After ten repetitions, my shoulders were killing me, but no one else seemed to have a problem, so I was too embarrassed to stop. The class lasted 47 hours. Was it fun? Remember when you were in elementary school and there were two reading groups--the robins and the bluebirds? The robins were the good readers and the bluebirds were the, shall we say, dopes. I was always a robin and could not have imagined what it was like to be a bluebird. Now I know.