Holding on

My amazing revelation of the day: there are muscles in my love handles. I know this because I have pulled one. And smack dab in the middle of my left calf muscle, which I not only know exists but can also tell you is called the gastrocnemius, I have pulled another. My rhomboideus is a bit sore, but no real damage. And my big toe nails are a lovely shade of purple. It can only mean one thing.

I'm fencing again.

I'm not training to regain some former glory. Once a week I'm showing up at a Bulgarian coach's club in the basement of the Polish National Alliance to be cannon fodder for tall, thin, leggy teenage girls with no vowels in their names. My ego can take it. Little do these hot shots know that they lunge upon these hallowed strips, but for the likes of me and my generation of women saber pioneers.

It's a good kind of pain I'm feeling. It is the pain of moving dormant muscles. It's the pain of regaining my youth, reclaiming my old energy levels, and rekindling the spark in my spirit. Not bad for a two hour commitment once a week. I bear the pain in my love handles with pride! In a year I'll be eligible for veteran's competitions. Ten years ago those women seemed so old to me. Serves me right.

This winter break has been all about reclaiming my youth. This past week my family and I journeyed through white-out conditions to the Wisconsin Dells to attend a family winter camp at the Perlstein Resort. The five of us arrived, after a harrowing journey, minutes before candle-lighting time. In a frenzy of unpacking and dressing, we prepared for Shabbat. We didn't quite know what to expect. All I knew was that for five days I didn't have to cook a meal, wash a dish, or make a bed. Everything else was just icing.


My expectations were vastly surpassed. The days were packed with fun-filled activities for my children, including sledding, arts and crafts, and Gaga. In the evenings they had family activities, including a juggling show, New Years Eve parties, and movies. After hours, they provided babysitting for the children while parents were treated to a poker tournament (my hubby came in second place!), a concert, and a New Years party of our own.


We took advantage of the prime Dells location to take the kids snow tubing and to a waterpark. Both were intrinsically weird experiences for me. Tubing conjures images of blazing hot summer afternoons floating down the Guadalupe river in a big rubber tire, getting dehydrated and burnt to a crisp. Snow figures nowhere in my memories. But there we were dragging snow tubes to the foot of a hill where a young man with a beard and a woolly knit cap hooked the tube to a lift which dragged us, our behinds bumping on the tightly snow-packed ground, up to the top of the hill. A second young man unhooked the tube and rushed us out of the queue. "Other people need to get off, too" he'd admonish me as I tried to hoist my less-than-sprightly keister out of the oversized tire. We dragged our tubes another couple of feet to the top of the hill, and jumped in. The tube would whizz and veer down the path, and ten seconds later, we were at the bottom doing it again.

My camera battery pooped out on me before I could take a single picture. The kids lasted an hour.


We lasted considerably longer at the indoor waterpark. The kids had a blast, and I, surprising myself, did, too.


After we pulled off layers of jackets, hats, mittens, long underwear, and a deep-boned chill, we put on our swim suits and jumped in. The girls and I played for hours in the toddler section, sliding down small slides and splashing in slightly warm fountains. Before long, the baby and I were shivering and turning blue. We found the heated spas and thawed out there for ten minutes before meandering down the lazy, artificial, indoor river.


As warm, wet, and wild as we got, I couldn't help but shiver every time I peered out into the snowy scene outside.

My son was oblivious to the obvious contradictions. He just wanted his Mommy to take him on the fastest, wettest, and craziest slides. I was thrilled to drag the oversized two-man tubes up four flights of stairs, and clench my son between my ankles as we tore spiralling down the rushing waters, or cradle him on my lap as we zipped down splashing slides.

I gladly snorted gallons of highly chlorinated water up my nose to hold my growing boy so tight.

But, as I'm constantly reminded, all good things must come to an end. Camp ended with a small bang. The kids each had their own New Years Eve bash, complete with streamers, balloons, noise makers, and a DJ party.

The noise was a bit much for my son who played in an adjacent room. My party princess didn't leave the dance floor, except to make herself a proper tiara.

The grownups had a party, too, with a college pride theme.

My husband wore his colors proudly, as did I.

The baby got into the spirit putting up her index and middle finger and declaring, "Hooka Horns!"

The dining hall was festooned with streamers, balloons, college banners, and a couple who made the unfortunate choice of showing up in togas. A DJ blasted us with predictable party music, and several couples obligingly danced, but not us. "I'm not comfortable with mixed dancing" my saintly husband informed me. None of the other orthodox husbands were, either, so the other long-skirt draped, head-covered women and I stood on the fringes longingly swaying to the beat, singing along to the party tunes. This party needs a Mechitza I muttered, referring to a divider to allow women to dance apart from the prying eyes of men. My new friends nodded in agreement.

Finally, we had to say goodbye to our new friends,

The snowy lake,

The piney woods,

And our vacation.

All good things must come to an end, but some things I'll try to hold onto a little longer, like the memories.

Maybe even something more concrete, like my glorious fencing career, if my quadriceps will let me.