What word has the most definitions in the dictionary?
R U N
(if my app let me write RUN in 72 point, I would)
I run and it has 179 definitions. A mile for every definition? I think so.
P.S. I love dictionary.com
I’m three to five hours from entering THE VORTEX. The windows are down, the music is cranked, it’s hotter than heck, and I am dancing in my seat. I may not be entering the vortex at that moment, in fact, I’m driving in the opposite direction, but the Vortex knows I’ll be entering soon. Just to make sure I don’t change my mind, it calls to me like a sweet siren. It sings all my favorite party songs through the radio. One after another. I’m acting like a sixteen year old with a freshly minted license that promises a summer night of freedom and adventure. If the truck driver stuck behind me in the construction traffic could see me better, he’d classify me as a forty year old having a mid-life crises. But, I don’t care. He’s never been to Garezers. The music and the hot air whipping hair into my face promise a Garezers filled with late night music and adventure. A place you never want to leave once you enter. The vortex known as Garezers.
Since the first time I entered the Vortex, I knew, the entry is important. You don’t just drive into Garezers. After all, Garezers isn’t just a camp ground. It isn’t even just a Latvian cultural center. It is a VORTEX that calls people home from California to Latvia (even as far as Australia). When you enter Garezers, you make a pledge to dance. To sing. To keep people awake until 6 am! You don’t drive into the Vortex, you make an Entrance.
I’ve had some spectacular entrances into the vortex. Back in 1996, the news of my engagement to PK (he proposed a half hour earlier) spread from the entrance to the lake before we got the entire Blazer through the gate. ABBA piloted us into Dzintar after a 12 hour pilgrimages from Pennsylvania. Maybe a few not so loud entrances if we were lucky enough to have sleeping babies.
Now, this minute, I anxiously wait for my ride to Garezers. I anticipate my entrance into the vortex. There’s only one thing to do, act like we are in the Vortex. Let’s dance!
Tell me, how do you enter the vortex known as Garezers?
Check out this YouTube video. These people know what I’m talking about. It’s not my video so I can’t control the angles.
And, I can’t resist this face!
All three of my frequent readers can tell you that I talk about shoes I wear but I’m not really a shoe review blogger. I more or less have an obsessin with my feet when they are bare. I don’t care that much about shoes and I have no plans to purchase any until the ones I have fall apart. I wear Merrell Pace Gloves and Merrell Serene Glove. I introduced my son to the Merrell Barefoots for kids. He loves them.
So, why the link to Barefoot Angie Bee’s review? I don’t want to become a door-to-door sales person but a girl has to do what a girl has to do.
Leming is having a give away and the kid needs new shoes. School is starting soon and as much as he loves the Merrells, they stink! His feet are now bigger than mine. I’d love to try a pair of Leming shoes on him to see if we get better results. With school starting in a month, the timing couldn’t be better for the ol’ pocket book.
So, I’ve tweeted, facebooked, and emailed. Now, I blogged. I have about 1 in 900 chances of winning.
Since I’m not going to win, can anyone else tell me about the Leming shoe?
“We are stopping at the next rest area in 2 miles to use the bathroom. Get everyone ready to go in,” my husband informs me.
I looked down at the floor of the car and see nothing but clean grey carpet.
“Where are my shoes?” I wondered out loud.
Back up about a couple of hours…
When I got home from an excruciating half-day of work, I threw down my dress shoes (Merrell Serene Gloves), took the obligatory pee, and climbed into the car without recognizing I was shoeless.
Being barefoot wasn’t going to be much of a problem for me, if I was desperate, like needing to pee at the rest area, I’d borrow my son’s gigantic shoes. Most of the time we’d be at Gaŗezers Latvian camp. No shoes required.
If I hadn’t planned a spectacular day in Saugatuk to show off the spenders of Michigan to my kids, I would have just said forget it. But, I was wary of entering the Coral Gables restaurant without shoes. Fortunately, my sister loaned me a pair her of sandals.
Unfortunately, those sandals sucked! As in, every time I took a step I made a farting noise from the suction between the arch of my foot and the sole of the shoe. So much for sophisticated browsing through rich, quaint shops. I tried carrying the sandals except when inside of stores or restaurants but it was a 100+ deg F day. I only went five steps on the docks at the yacht club before feeling a burn blister form. I was stuck wearing the sucking shoes.
Ironically, a few days later, my husband and I went to watch a friend’s son’s band play at a bar near the camp. I wore the sucking shoes. 90% of the college kids in the bar with their sun-kissed noses and beach wear were shoeless. Well, when in Rome!
I’ll admit it. I have preconceived notions about massage therapists.
No, not that kind. Get your head out of the gutter.
It’s not all my fault. They play soothing music in the rooms, and decorate the offices with water fountains and symbols of earth, wind, water, and whatever. They preach harmony, balance and drinking 60 gallons of water a day. This was the kind of person I sought.
I perform self-massage to my legs and feet on a regular basis as part of my tendonitist treatment/prevention. One morning, I found a knot that I just could not get the right leverage to work out. This was a case for a professional.
Again? Really? Not that kind!
I called a new therapist located in the next town. She was recommended by my hair stylist. I heard she worked together with other healing arts therapists.
The therapy room had all the right elements. It had natural light, music, ying and yang. It made me need to pee when I arrived and a bottle of water to make me pee again later.
It had been over a year since my last massage. I anticipated it like it was a three week vacation. However, I was there on a mission, not for relaxation. I needed healing.
Cue the car crash.
Can you imagine how much effort it took for me to not jump off the table when she told me she never, ever goes barefoot? Not even in her own house.
Look, I’m not against shoes or anyone who wears them. It’s just that I need someone who is going to understand my point-of-view so that I can get unbiased treatment. I have a hip out of sorts and a knot in my leg that directly radiated pain in the top of my foot. These are causing pains in my foot. Not the other way around. I was hoping that someone so in touch with Mother Earth would, you know, actually, touch Mother Earth.
“Do you wear good, supportive shoes when you do wear shoes,” she asked?
“No, I wear minimalist shoes by Merrell. No cushion. No support.” I replied.
“Well, it’s a good thing you do a lot of sitting at work then.”
I know, the barefooters reading this are thinking that I should have enlightened her on the merits of barefooting but, I’d heard enough about why she didn’t go barefoot to know that she was a lost cause. I am back on the market for a massage therapist. It was just so disappointing to find out my stereo-type was all wrong.
As a young girl, I would sit on an oak rocking chair in front a xanthous vanity mirror my father constructed for my sister and me. The dainty climate fueled fantasies about what I would do when I grew up.
When I grew up, I was going to be a cheerleader. My mousy, boy cut hair would transform into a lush, perky ponytail with curly ribbons cascading everywhere. I’d wear a custom, pleated skirt. The pleats would hide excess yards of material to allow the very highest of high kicks. I’d brush away offensive lint from the pure, white sweater with the gigantic blue embroidered P on the front. My feet would be encapsulated by meticulously folded white socks peaking out from extra bouncy shoes. I and ten of my best friends would bring school spirit to hundreds of cheering fans. The smile on my face would be genuine and generous. I was confident that it was going to be so much fun.
Except somewhere between my elementary years and high school, were the worst years of my life. My confidence and drive to follow my path, my dreams went out the window like the gum wrapper I tried to throw out the school bus window. Five windows behind me, it blew back in onto someone else’s lap.
I conceded the cheerleader dream. I never even bothered to try out for the squad. Or, maybe, I was intimidated by the sleek (tight fitting/flaw emphasizing) modern cheer skirts. Either way, I treated cheerleading like it didn’t exist.
I wouldn’t have admitted it in high school but I envied our cheerleaders. When one girl had a near miss in a fall from a formation, I rallied with the others to the call, “Cheerleaders Are Athletes TOO!” Then I went back to wishing I was more confident, braver or more poised.
My guilty pleasure in recent years was watching every season of Making The Team, the show on the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders. I was mesmerized by their poise, grace, and lack of body fat. Mostly, though, I was impressed by their strength and endurance.
I now find myself with an opportunity to be a cheerleader! I don’t have to be apprehensive about a lack grace or confidence because it’s only for about 45 minutes a day in the privacy of wherever I happen to be. Thanks to Charlotte at The Great Fitness Experience and her report on The NFL Cheerleader Workout, I’ve reverted to my childhood.
Cue the cartwheels.
This workout promises a much better outcome than tweendom could. Because, here, I have to develop a rock solid core to make everything else look easy. Tweendom told me a honeybun would make everything easy.
Don’t be fooled by your stereo-type about cheerleaders. This is an athlete’s workout. I have yet to complete all 24 exercises in one workout. However, the exercises are more fun than trying to build up to 100 pushups in a row. I like the variety and the sweat. I just won’t be wearing the make up.
photo from http://www.Vikings.com