Follow the Belgians

I’ve been sailing Snipes since I was a little kid. I won my first trophy at the tender age of five when my father handed me the tiller and let me skipper us across the finish line during the tune-up race of the Southwestern Championship Regatta. And no, I wasn’t an ultra-gifted natural athlete with an uncanny sense of wind shifts and direction. We were just so far ahead of the rest of the fleet that it didn’t matter if I steered us a little off course. Looking back on that day, I can remember that first thrill of victory, the glory of being the center of attention and the frustration of not being tall enough to see what was inside the cup perched at the top of the oversized trophy. I was hooked. Over the years I grew into an accomplished, and taller, crew, venturing around the country with my dad, sailing in everything from small local regattas to national championships.

In 1999, curious to experience sailing in other parts of the world, my father broke out his passport and with the help of the internet, secured a loaner boat and a crew to sail in a small local regatta in Cazau, in the south of France. Enthralled by the new challenges sailing in a foreign county presented, from language barriers to entirely new weather and water conditions, he decided that he should go again, and that this time, I should come with him. We made two trips to France together in the decade that has just fallen behind us, to sail in the Snipe Open de France, their national championships. It was a wholly different world of sailing. From wine flowing like water, to topless sunbathing sailors, to those Belgians, who inspired the catchphrase that now resides permanently in the Soltero family sailing lexicon, and is invoked frequently. Usually by me.

In August of 2003, we made our way, with the help of a rental car and my stellar map-reading abilities, from the bustle of Paris to Annecy, a tiny town nestled in the Alps, near the Swiss border. The first thing that is different about sailing in Europe, I noted immediately upon check-in. The local inn was a far cry from even your average Best Western. I’d elaborate, but then we’d run out of room for the stuff this story’s really about. The first morning of the regatta, still suffering from a mild case of jet lag, we readied our boat, borrowed from the lovely Romain family, and met our competition. Sailors from all over France, the UK and of course, Belgium. Yes, the Belgians. A married couple, who also happened to be retired professional ballet dancers. Yes, you read that right. And yes, I underestimated them, but not for long.

The weather started out calm, and the biggest challenge was remembering that when it came to sailing terms, we had to yet again, learn a new language. Starboard was now “tribord,” a word that was yelled with increasing gusto by a number of skippers as an unscheduled storm rolled in, as I now know they are wont to do on little mountain lakes, and the calm waters were replaced by some serious chop. By now, those Belgian ballerinas were well ensconced in the first place position and we were somewhere points south and east of the middle of the pack. We had taken a flyer. It did not pay off. Not to mention the fact that amidst the fray, we mistook a horn for a cancellation signal and accidentally abandoned the race before crossing the finish. Hello, DNF. The Belgians won.

The rest of the day was called off and we had to drop sails as we came in too fast to the dock, crew after crew, unfortunately me included, jumping off their boats into the cold water to guide their vessels safely in. After a hot shower, we headed to the dinner. The French drink wine, good wine, quite literally by the box. There was no soda, no water. We might have forgotten that our American tolerance might not be up to snuff. And hey, we’d had a rough day. The next morning brought back the sun, much to the delight of some of the female French crews, who were making ample use of it before the races began, as they stretched out on the dock, topless. You don’t see that everyday.

And as the races began, so did my new battle cry. “Follow the Belgians!” I said it, or possibly yelled it so many times it probably drove my father something akin to insane. But it worked, and since they were so good that there was no way to beat them, that second place was just fine with me. Needless to say, our mixed performance evened out and we finished the regatta somewhere in the middle of the pack, a lackluster performance if there ever was one. But the allure of shouting sailing terms in foreign languages, the thrill of crazy weather and heck, all that wine, had us ready to come back for more.

We didn’t make it back to the Snipe Open de France until 2006 and by then, we were ready for victory. Our second tour of duty together took us to another little town, this one in a basin on the southwest coast of France. Archachon was home to slightly better lodging that our last locale, not to mention a definite beach vacation vibe. It was August again, and the weather was balmy. We would be sailing on the ocean, on the outside edge of the basin. There was just one caveat. When the tide cleared out of the basin each day, it really cleared out. Leaving boats heaving on their sides in the wet sand. That first day, we had to wait until early evening, when a small river would appear, just wide enough and deep enough for us to sail on as we made our way out to sea.

Cue the crazy weather patterns. While it was balmy and barely breezy at the beach, the conditions where we were racing were a different story altogether. I was not dressed appropriately. My waterproof shorty coveralls were no match for the cold winds and the lashing waves. And those fingerless gloves that I thought would be perfect for such a nice August afternoon? They earned me ten bloody fingertips by the end of the first day. I am not kidding. It was worth it – after a respectable fourth place finish in the first race, we pulled out all the stops and crossed the finish line first in the second race. The last race of the day gave us a third and, unlike the prior trip, we finished the first day among the top contenders. But I couldn’t wash my own hair for the next few days, a task that was turned over to my mother, who had fortunately joined us for the trip.

It was approaching 10pm when we sailed back in, bloody and cold, but feeling victorious. And very hungry. The next morning, in order to avoid having to drag our boats back in through the sand at low tide, we started really early instead of really late. Armed with ten band-aids and a borrowed pair of full gloves, I was ready to get back to it, and hang on to our trophy position. We struggled a little on the second day, but in my defense, I was working with a wounded set of digits. During day three, we found our groove again and moved back up in the pack, earning a third place overall in the regatta and a personal victory after our previous performance in 2003. To be honest, I don’t think the French were all that happy to have us Americans in their trophy lineup. Nonetheless, they were ever so gracious, and invited us to return again, if only for another chance to kick our butts.

And even though the now famous Belgians were not in attendance at this regatta, I regularly resorted to my favorite saying. “Follow the Belgians” no longer meant that we should actually follow the Belgians. Fortunately, my father is very smart, and knew exactly what I meant. It means find the fastest boat, the one you know is going to win the race. If that boat happens to be you, this obviously doesn’t apply, and there’s no need to shout it out, unless, perhaps you want to yell it to the boat behind you as a helpful suggestion. Once you’ve found that boat, follow it at all costs. Do not take a flyer and try to get ahead of them. They are better than you. At this particular regatta, the “they” in question was a French father-son team. And they knew those waters a heck of a lot better than we did. But we “followed the Belgians,” and we persevered. And we’ll do it again.

Pain in the Neck

It's Tuesday late morning and about this time, one week ago, I woke up from surgery. There were tubes going in my nose and out of places I'd rather not mention, enough needle marks to look like a heroin addict, not to mention the large bore needle that was still in residence in my right hand and, through the hazy fog of anesthesia, a lingering fear that I now looked like Sally, Jack Skellington's quirky bride in The Nightmare Before Christmas. That despite my doctor's prior reassurance that the incision would be small and well sutured from the inside, I would have a large, stitch-riddled slash across my neck as a result of my single-level cervical spine fusion. I actually still don't know what the incision looks like, as it's still covered with a large white bandage that spans the front of my neck. And honestly, at the moment, that's just peachy with me. But the surgery was almost the easy part of it all, mainly because I was asleep. And as I deal with the after-effects, the part I thought about, but didn't really think about, I keep reminding myself that I chose to do this. That a few months from now, the chronic pain that I've dealt with for years will hopefully have vacated the premises as a result. That I should be grateful the things I'm going through are temporary. And most of all, that I have to be a patient patient.

Oldie But a Goodie

At thirty-five, I'm still more than a few decades away from the golden years, but in the last week, I've experienced a new-found empathy for the senior citizen set. Put simply, a major surgery of any kind makes you feel old. I'm tired all the time, everything aches, I get winded at the drop of a hat. In the hospital, after surgery, they had me hobble down the hallway with a walker. My 92-year old grandmother doesn't even need one of those. Not too mention the fact that the painkillers make me feel as foggy-headed as an Alzheimer's patient and then there's the other side effect that they always fail to mention, requiring me to remember a daily dose of regularity medicine to keep my system working in a general approximation of someone my actual age. Thanks to the swelling in my throat and the inconsistency of my stomach, my food has to be gentle in nature and cut into small pieces for ease of swallowing and digestion. Overnight, I turned into a 95 year old. And I don't like it one bit. At least I'm not experiencing an overwhelming urge to sit around playing Pinnacle and talk about the good old days.

Stop Staring!

I've always been appreciative that my body spends most of it's time in optimum condition, all things being equal. What I mean is, I have all of my motor functions and all of my appendages and everything works like it's supposed to. I've had the good fortune of enough athletic ability and inclination to stay healthy and active for most of my life. Surgery changes that temporarily, making you handicapped. I can't take a shower or wash or style my hair without assistance, meaning I haven't been at my most glamorous these days. And at my doctor's insistence, I have to wear a neck brace when I'm in a car or in a public place where strangers could inadvertently jostle my newly joined discs before they have a chance to fuse. It's ugly, it's uncomfortable and it makes everyone look at me, though it does keep them out of my way, an unexpected bonus in the stores during this busy holiday shopping season. Nothing makes you feel quite so handicapped, or quite so sympathetic to those who live with the issue permanently as being, as my boyfriend called it, "the hot girl in the neck brace," which believe, me is the only compliment on my appearance Ive received all week, so I'm reveling in it. A couple of hours out of the house at Target and Fry's over the weekend, under the curious gaze of holiday shoppers, was enough to make me feel like Joan Cusak in Sixteen Candles or Mira Sorvino in Romy & Michelle's High School Reunion. A friend suggested to my boyfriend that he should pull out his neck brace, from oddly enough, the same surgery two years ago and wear it along with me. Now that would really garner some attention, and definitely give me a moment to laugh at the humor in the situation, though I think it would take the promise of a kiss for him from Carmen Electra to make that happen.

Like Fine Bone China

There have certainly been times in my life where I felt like I could shatter emotionally, but never, not even in any previous surgery, have I ever felt so physically fragile. At moments, I forget, but then a turn of the head or a lean back into the pillow taken a little too quickly reminds me that my new fusion like a delicately crafted teacup. That too much force in movement could render it as ineffectual at holding my neck in the right place long enough to heal and stop the pain, as a broken cup could hold my Early Grey in the right place long enough for me to drink it without having to lick it off my hand. It makes me oddly grateful at moments when I hit a bump in the road in the car or get bumped by an inattentive shopper to have that monstrosity of a neck brace. Like an ugly, uncomfortable security blanket. People treat me as if I'm breakable as well, looking nervously when I flinch and offering hugs gently and with trepidation, something not lost on one who loves and is missing a more exuberant expression of human contact, especially during a holiday season when family and friends are near. It's a sobering thing, to feel so breakable, and will be a true test of my patience to make my way slowly to a place where I'm no longer nervous to look over my shoulder.

It's an interesting thing to be squatting in a body that doesn't work the way I'm used to. And a reality check to stop and appreciate the fact that most of the time, I can run, swim, jump or pretty much do as I please. For many people, a handicap or a chronic illness is a permanent sideline, not just an unpleasant but short time out in an otherwise active game. And someday, I will be a senior citizen, and play Pinnacle (if I ever figure out what the hell it is) and talk about the good old days, but thankfully, I can still say that's a long, long ways off. So for now, I'll be grateful for a very legitimate excuse to take it easy over the holidays, try not to think about the fact that my neck bandage feels like it is trying to strangle me, and appreciate every little hug, however gentle, while I daydream about my feet again pounding against the pavement in what really is the very near future.

Food for Thought

I was wide awake at four am this morning, worried about, among other things, whether or not my turkey was defrosting properly. Sleep seemed elusive and my thoughts slowly wound their way through the food preparations I would need to orchestrate with the talents of a symphony conductor to ensure dinner is both fully cooked and on time, a feat in my small kitchen. As my futile attempts to shut down my brain for a few more hours of much needed rest continued to fail, I started to think about the Thanksgiving holiday itself, how it all started and what it represents to me. And somewhere in there, I finally fell asleep.

According to my very cursory internet research this morning and what I remember from elementary school, besides the fact that you can make a paper turkey by tracing your hand, the first Thanksgiving occurred in 1621, a product of the newly settled Pilgrims and the Native Americans working together over the year to evade sickness and ensure a bountiful harvest. The gist I get from all this, is that the real point of Thanksgiving is to celebrate and remember three important things: that sometimes you need a little help from an outside source - call it whatever you like - Mother Nature, Acts of God or just sheer dumb luck, that through our own hard work and perseverance we can accomplish and experience great things and that as much as we can do on our own, we can do so much more when we work together.

I've seen a small share of "miracles," for lack of a better word over the past year, worthy of receiving thanks. Some are big - like the unprecedented recovery of an extended family member we were all certain was staring down the face of death, and some are so small, I might have failed to notice them if I wasn't actively thinking about them, like the serendipity moment I had last week which gave me a chance to spend time with an old friend. Call these things what you will - kismet, fate, God, even magic, it's all good with me. It's not about what religion you believe in or if you believe in one at all. It's just about believing in the fact that sometimes, when you need it, this world will help you out in little and unexplained ways. Who needs to explain it anyway, that's the good kind of mystery, and I for one, am thankful for it, because it keeps me hopeful, that even when I am at a loss, things can still take a turn for the better.

Life is hard. I think we've all got that by now. So take a moment to give yourself a little thanks for all the things that you've accomplished on your own this year and for the things that you like about you. It's not narcissistic, especially not today, to give yourself a little pat on the back. I'm proud that I've started writing this blog, even though I know it needs some work and I should write more often. But it was a big step to put my own thoughts out in the public forum and I'm happy I finally found the courage to do it. And while I haven't completed triathlons this year like I have the past, I've worked hard to stay healthy and athletic, no small feat in a busy world full of tasty treats and easy distractions. I've worked hard on my creative endeavors, I've helped my friends when I can, and I've loved those close to me - all things that are both challenging and rewarding and worthy of being proud of and giving thanks for. Now go on, it's your turn. Thank yourself for your accomplishments this year, even the little ones. Sometimes those are the ones that matter most.

And after you're done with a little well-deserved self-gratitude, turn and hug the person next to you, or the next one you see if you're alone when you read this, and by all means, your loved ones and friends when you join them later for turkey and all the trimmings. Because despite all you do on your own, you couldn't have done it nearly as well without the help of the people around you. The friends and family and special people who love and support you and make it easier to get through the day. You live your life fuller and richer because you share it with them. The colleagues you work with, not all the ones you work with, but the ones you really mesh with, your teammates. You do your job better because you do it together. And you might want to send up a little thank you to even the folks you don't know, or don't know well, who surprise and help you in little ways, seen and unseen, throughout the year. They make a difference, for sure, and as is often the case, strangers can turn into friends.

In the end, we're not all that different from those first Thanksgivingers long long ago, save for a much better wardrobe and a less smelly mode of transportation. So as you stuff your face with turkey and mashed potatoes, which is reminding me that I need to stop writing and start cooking, remember what it's really all about. Enjoy the magic life brings, tell someone you love that they made your life better this year by being in it and then go look in a mirror and say it again. And THEN go eat some turkey.

Happy Thanksgiving to all MY friends, family, loved ones and those of you that I don't know but who have helped me get through the year.

URPL8SX

An unfortunate by-product of living in a sprawling metropolis like Los Angeles is that often the places you need to get to are not just down the way. Giving those of us who inhabit the city of angels ample time behind the wheels of our cars, amidst the commuter crush. And no, this isn't an essay about traffic. It's about the fact that as I drive around this fair city, I'm constantly reminded that some people have an inexplicable need to convey some sort of message that is of great importance to them via their automobile. That is, if you can actually decipher said message. I'm talking about the aptly named vanity plate.

Now, I'm the first to admit that as a burgeoning teenager, I deeply coveted the personalized licensed plate bolted to the front and back of my best friend's older sister's car, proudly proclaiming the phrase "88 GRAD." I now suspect that a lot of it had to do with the fact that she was a senior in high school and had her own car, but regardless, I was only thirteen at the time, so I think that buys me a free pass. And I'll certainly concede that it sometimes passes the time when I'm doing zero miles per hour on the 405 if I have a car in front of me with some illegible but clearly vitally important cipher I am expected to decode. Though it begs the question, if I can't understand what you are trying to say, what exactly was the point of the hours you spent coming up with your secret spy message? Not to mention the time and energy it takes to apply for one of those suckers.

And what about the ones that are easy to read, if usually poorly mispelled, bastardized versions of your favorite catch phrase? If you've tacked one of those on the back of your car for the sole purpose of making people laugh, then bravo. You win, and I'll happily tip my hat to you. But I'm guessing most of you take those little messages seriously. Too bad for you, I don't. Like the one I saw the other day as I was headed down the 101. "KEPUSHN." Okay, I got it. Keep pushing. If I go with the theory that the name "vanity plate" has any bearing, then this statement is about you. Are you an obstetrician? Do you really need to advertise if you are? Or is this your big motivational self mantra? And if so, why the hell is it on the outside of your car, where you usually aren't looking? And if we forget the whole vanity theory, maybe you're just offering me some friendly advice, in case I'm a little constipated. Seriously.

Then there was the black Mustang, again on the 101, I spend a lot of time on the 101, with a plate that read "O BEHAVE." Props for actually using some correct spelling, but what are you trying to say? Because you are clearly not Austin Powers. I know, because I drove up next to you and looked in the window to check. Finally, because things are always good in threes, I recently saw a plate that read "MMMMGRL." I don't even know how to say that without the image of someone in a dress and a jock strap and size eleven high heels snapping her fingers at me coming to mind. So my assumption is that you're a drag queen. Which does not bode well for your dating career if you're the straight-looking guy who was actually driving the car and you are, in fact, heterosexual. And for the love of pete, all of my gay friends have more class that that, so as far as I'm concerned, unless you are RuPaul, there's just no excuse.

Vanity plates are entertaining, and deciphering them is a hell of a lot more fun than playing the alphabet game when you're stuck in some serious traffic or on a long road trip. But if you have one, you need to understand that most of us, other vanity plate owners aside, are either laughing at you or just shaking our heads in confusion and wonderment at the phenomenon. So if you want to take the piss out of your fellow highway goers, by all means, pull out all the stops, give us a plate to laugh at and laugh along with us. But if it's true vanity your after, just buy yourself a mirror and stay home.

Praise for Pumpkin Season

This past Thursday I woke up feeling normal and then around mid-afternoon it hit me. It was October first. Which might be insignificant to most people but I happen to have an intense dislike for this particular month for one really big reason. The 28th of October will mark the nine year anniversary of the death of my younger and only sister. It should be old hat by this time, but every year, as the date approaches, it gets a little harder to breathe, the smiles don't come as easy and tears flow a little faster. October is also the harbinger of the holiday season, two months filled with occasions that are still joyous but will never again exist in my life without the salty-sour tang of bittersweet. And finally, in mid-January, a season that begins in October with a memorial of her exit from this world, ends with another memorial of the day she first arrived.

A very good friend has often said, in regards to the loss of her own sister, "A world does not exist where my sister did not die." It's a poignant statement, and a potent reminder to me that the life I am living is the only option I get. I'm certain that what I've gone through presents a strong argument for my right to wallow in sorrow and self-pity. To blame everything that is bad in my world on this one defining moment. To let it make me bitter and angry. But that's not really my style. Not to mention the fact that my sister would kick my ass if she caught me doing any of that. So to that end, it's high time I took a moment to remind myself of some of the things there are to like about October.

A Change in the Air
Yes, even in Los Angeles, we have at least a semblance of seasons. And because we have an Indian Summer, with temperatures still peaking in the triple digits late in September, it's usually not till October that we get our first glimpse of fall. Today was just such a day. When I opened the back door to let my dog out this morning, there was a crisp coolness I hadn't felt in quite a while. It lingered despite the sunny day and I found myself reaching for a long sleeved shirt and pulling out my favorite pair of bunny slippers for the first time since spring. When summer comes around, I'm usually ready for warm nights and a chance to pull out my sundresses. But once the soaring temperatures that take up residence in the San Fernando Valley have outstayed their welcome by hanging around in late September, I always find myself yearning for a chance to break out my overzealous collection of cashmere sweaters. I'm probably going on twenty-plus, and yes, I know I have a problem. Sure, we'll probably have a few more warms days ahead, later this week, in fact. But I doubt it'll break ninety, and soon enough, the cooler weather will win out, and my only challenge will be which color to wear.

Tasty Treats
Some of my favorite things to cook require a proximity to the holiday season and the aforementioned declining temperatures. Pies and soups and foods with the rich flavors of sage and cinnamon don't go well with a scorching hot day. October means the start of my favorite cooking time of year. A chance to break out my butternut squash soup recipe, a time to roast, well, anything, and a perfect month for a hot apple pie, fresh from the oven. Plus, October means that Thanksgiving is just around the corner and that my annual Christmas party, which is partially an excuse for me to cook for three days, will come quickly on it's heels. Cooking has always been therapeutic for me. The process both distracting and soothing, and the end result rewarding.

Halloween
It has always been one of my favorite holidays. A chance to dress up and play make believe for a night is a thrill that to be perfectly honest, has not waned all that much since I was a little girl. And in the years following my sister's death, the holiday has provided a welcome distraction. Each year, the challenge of coming up with and creating a new costume has been a creative outlet for my pain. And the Halloween festivities have been a welcome celebration on the heels of a tumultuous day. A chance to let loose, let my hair down, or put it up, and for a few hours, be anyone else but me.

I'm not saying I don't have bad days, because I do. And I think I'm probably entitled to a good cry or a day in my p.j.'s every now and then. But I don't want to throw myself a pity party everyday for what has happened to me. I don't want to let it run or ruin my life. And sometimes, the joy is in finding the little things that make you smile along with the tears. Like a new cashmere sweater on a crisp fall day. Or a slice of warm apple pie, topped with a great big gob of melting ice cream. Or a day when it's okay for even an adult to wear a pair of wings. Reminders that even in this world, the one where my sister did die, there are some pretty okay things.

Taking Flight

So admittedly, it's been a while. Life somehow seemed to get in the way of a regular post to this blog. Which theoretically means I've been out living my life instead of writing about it, and is a good thing. So let's just go with that. It relates to my topic anyway. My current environment, which I'll get to in a moment, got me thinking about the idea of facing fears. Which may mean owning up to exactly what you are afraid of in the first place, i.e. difficult challenge number one. And then it comes down to determining whether or not that fear is actually holding you back in life. If so, it may well be time to face it, head on.

At the present moment, I'm in London, crashing at the home of generous friend, who happens to be off running around somewhere else in the world. Meaning I'm on my own. This isn't my first trip to London, so I'm starting to feel pretty comfy about the place, but there was a time when it was my first trip, and I didn't yet know the above generous friend. Didn't know anyone in the city, as a matter of fact. About four or five years ago, I took my first solo trip overseas. Flying over on the plane, I was terrified. I've had the great fortune to have a wonderful set of traveling companions in my parents. There have also been a few friends over the years with whom I've had great out of town adventures. It's easy to set off for parts unknown when you've got a partner in crime.

But I was writing a book and the story was set in London, so I needed to do some firsthand research about a city I'd only previously dropped in on for a day or two here or there in my family's travels. And I needed to do it alone. After the death of my sister, there was both a fear of being alone and a strong desire in me to fully understand the limits of my own independence. To know if I could really take care of myself when it came down to it. Which meant facing the fear of being able to travel on my own. So off I went and settled in to my tiny hotel room in a nice part of town. Armed with a map and an unlimited pass to the London Underground, I set out each day with a litany of places to visit, sights to see. And I had a brilliant time.

Sure it was scary at first, and I was careful about my outings at night, but I made friends and found my way around. I enjoyed it so much, I've been back several times and now the city is familiar and friendly. And of course, I still love to travel with others and have had some great trips this past year with my favorite partner in crime, screaming children on flights to Portland aside. And yes, even London is better when you have friends, family, loved ones to share it with. But it's also better knowing that I'm sharing the experience because I want to and not because I'm too afraid to go it alone.

There's a bit of a rush involved with facing that which scares the living daylights out of you. I'll warn you, it can be addicting. And might drive you to some interesting new hobbies. Case in point - I have a fear, not so much of heights, but really more of falling. I descend staircases with a death grip on the handrail, though I am neither old or infirm. I am simply terrified I will lose my footing and tumble to my demise. I cannot stand on a fire escape. I don't like high balconies with low railings. You get the point. After my trip to London, I might have been turning into a fear facing junkie, but I still had my limits. I was not, nor am I ever, planning to jump out of a perfectly good airplane to face that particular issue. And let me just say that I think that is completely okay. Facing your fears is not about how extreme you can be, it's about what you get out of the experience, and how that applies to the bigger picture.

So I took up aerial silks. Yes, the kind you see in Cirque du Soleil, though let me please note that I am not, nor will I ever be as graceful as those talented artists. You will also probably never catch me in a shiny unitard. I approached my first climb up the impossibly flimsy looking fabric with sweaty palms and a racing heart. I'm not kidding. My incredibly kind teacher took his time showing me the proper way to climb and was patient when my first attempt took me only halfway up the fabric, not from lack of strength but purely from a desire to not go so far away from the floor.

Over the eight or nine months I've been in the classes, I've climbed my way to the top a zillion times and learned to hang upside down by my ankles and twist the fabric around me so that I can drop through it and still safely end up hanging above the ground. I don't so much fly through the air as I do dangle, albeit as elegantly as I possibly can. I definitely do not have a future as a circus performer, but I've learned to trust that my own strength and skill will keep me from falling. I'll be honest and say that I'm pretty sure I haven't conquered that fear and I'm still not about to strap on a parachute and find out. But I have learned that I can work with it and that it doesn't have to impede me from doing the things I really want to do. Which is a pretty good metaphor for other parts of my life.

Which brings me to the point of writing this blog. I'm literally facing a fear as my fingers fly across the keys of my laptop, and I'll have a minor moment of panic when I push the publish button. Wondering if anyone will read what I wrote and if they'll like it or hate it. I'm a writer with a fear, not of writing, but of having it read. Oh, not my school essays, or business writing - I've always been confident about my ability to tackle a specific topic and wax poetic on it. I'm less confident about my fiction standing up to public scrutiny, and the personal musings of my possibly addled brain? Those are the ones that really make me nervous. But I'm a writer with lofty hopes of becoming an author one day. Which means I can't be afraid to let people read what I write. That's not true. I can be afraid. I just can't let it stop me.

And I think that's the point, really. It's okay to have fears. In fact, it's pretty darn normal. And some of them are good to keep in your back pocket - they keep you alert, they keep you honest and sometimes they keep you safe. But if it's a fear that's ultimately holding you up in life in some way, whether you're afraid to love, or to begin or walk away from a career, or to try new types of food, or whatever it is for you, be it monumental or seemingly insignificant, I say dive in. Face it, embrace it. You might not get over it, but you just might get through it and you'll probably learn something about yourself when you get to the other side. Maybe it'll even be something good enough to make you go back for seconds.

Baring Body and Seoul

Up until yesterday, a trip to the spa, to me, was about big fluffy robes, soft music, dim lights, artfully draped sheets and a nasty dent in my credit card on the way out. But after spending the better part of the late morning and early afternoon at The Olympic Day spa in Koreatown, I learned that I'm more than okay with another type of spa experience altogether. One that requires a little bravery, a dose of open-mindedness and a definite sense of adventure.

Following my visit, I tried to a little research into the history of the Korean bath house experience. Though my Googling revealed that there are Korean day spas in almost every major city in the US, an obvious testament to their popularity, there was little in the way of historical information. What I did discover was that bath houses were first built in Korea around 1925 to cater to Japanese colonists, though they quickly became part of the Korean culture. Families would go to the public bath houses, which were segregated by sex, and scrub the life out of each other around tubs of scalding hot water.

As running water became a more common amenity within the home, bath houses transitioned into luxury destinations, where you could pay someone to the the scrubbing and washing for you. Recreational and communal areas were also added as well as specialty baths and steam rooms for soaking and purifying. The elements of the Korean bath house seem to be fairly uniform from what I could tell, after my cursory research attempt. From the types of soaks and saunas available, and to the overzealous scrubbing techniques, right down to the black bra and panties worn by the little Asian women who are armed with two brillo-like pads, ready to buff you till you shine like a newborn baby. I did say a sense of adventure, remember?

To be fair, I did know what I was getting into. Before I made the suggestion to a few girlfriends that we hit the spa for the day in honor of the birthdays of two of them, I read the reviews on Yelp and checked out the spa's website in detail. I was a little nervous about the descriptions of the scrubbing techniques, but I was prepared for the nudity and even for the ladies in their undies. And I was certainly ready for the Goddess treatment package, which promised an hour and forty five minutes of bliss at a third of the price it would have at Burke Williams.

The lobby of the spa was small, but nicely decorated and filled with high quality products for sale. The women at the desk checked us in, processed our credit cards and handed us robes and towels. The locker room was simple but clean and we undressed, robed up and headed into the actual spa. The Olympic Spa is for women only and once you go through the doors into the wet area, towels and robes become unnecessary, if not impractical altogether. It is customary to shower first so we all rinsed off and hit the pools. This was not all that different from a trip to good old BW as nudity in the saunas and hot tub is also common practice there. The difference here, is that very few women felt the need to robe back up in between pools.

There was a hot tub, a cold water plunge and a tub filled with something called Mugwort tea. It's supposed to have healing and detoxifying properties but all I noticed was that it was really really hot and I couldn't see my feet through it's murky depths. There was also a wet jade stone sauna and a dry sauna. I tried everything but the dry sauna, which has never been my thing, and then wrapped back up in my robe for a nap on the traditional heated stone floor in the dressing area.

I was back in the wet area in time for one more quick dip in the Mugwort tea before a little lady in a black bra and panties called out the number on my wrist band and led me to the treatment area, which consisted of a row of tables covered in vinyl that was inexplicably printed in Burberry plaid. As I lay face down in all my naked glory, I honestly found that I did not care that there were another women doing the same near me, or that I could hear the sound of the water splashing in the pools and the low hum of chatter. As my treatment began, it was both a bizarre and beautiful experience.

My acuma, Noh (acuma means Aunt in Korean) started off by scrubbing the life out of me, not once, but three times over. I'm fairly certain I'll be free of dead skin for a good long time after her attentiveness to practically every, yes every, part of my body. It honestly wasn't that painful, though the stomach was a little sensitive. She thoughtfully avoided my nipples, and each round was finished with buckets of warm water splashed gently across my body, which I found to be a new and lovely sensation. Next she poured so much oil over me that I felt like a baby seal in the Exxon-Valdez spill, and proceeded to knead every last knot out of my body. Between the relaxation and the overzealous oil application, it was a wonder I didn't slide right off the table. Then there was a scalp treatment with more oils and something cool and tingly, a facial with massage and a mask and a thorough hair shampoo and condition, done right there while I was still lying down. She toweled off all the excess oil and finished with one last massage, leaving me covered in a light lotion and something herbal and menthol across my back and shoulders. Ah, bliss. I drifted back into the locker room to change and face the real world.

Okay, yes, it was odd to be that naked during my treatment. It was odd to have my acuma smack me lightly on the butt every time she wanted me to turn over. It was definitely strange to have spa treatments performed by a lady wearing only black Jockey underwear. It all took a little getting used to. But I had such a sense of ritual during the experience, like I was part of a tradition and a community. It also seems like, in Western culture, we've become overly aware of our bodies and nudity. That to be naked is always either ostentatious or sexual in some way. Presumably, as women, we see a naked body at least once a day, maybe less if you have something against showering. So what's really all that strange about a room full of them? For me, nothing.

Don't get me wrong, I still like a trip to a spa that involves big, fluffy robes and water with cucumbers and orange slices. But seriously, if you're watching your nickels, have some dead skin that needs tending to, or just want to try something new, head to the nearest Korean day spa and leave your inhibitions at the door. I can't speak for anyone else, but I'm glad I did.