Datebook : July 21, 2008

We are into the “Dog Days of Summer” although recently I am not sure if this should not read “Daze.”

The highlight of each day seems to center on if I should have Honey-Nut Cheerios or settle for the more sensible plain, whole-grain variety.


My son, home for the summer from his freshman year at college, announced last week that he wanted to spend an afternoon with me for some “quality time.” I packed a travel package of Kleenex for our outing and my new Coolpix camera anticipating in-depth conversations and photo-ops at the city museum. “Quality time” to an 18-year-old turns out to be a stop at the local running-shoe store for new Asics ($132.00), a haul from Office Depot for second year school supplies ($84.00), and a jaunt through the aisles of Target ($76.00). We had more of a Saturday Night Live spoof for a MasterCard commercial than soul searching discovery. It was, however, time with my son who will now deny that he ever skated, let alone had the leading role in the ice version of “Peter and the Wolf”—an off-Broadway production to say the least.

As usual, the high drama in my daily existence is anchored to my daughter and all things skating.

My aforementioned promise to my daughter to complete a novel this summer has been productive. It is a work of fiction but, of course, some truth may have layered itself into the plot and characterizations.

“Mom, you Cannot Use these names!” my daughter editorializes from the bottom of page three.

“They are just ‘working names,’" I explained. “It helps me keep things in order. ‘Brock’ was actually a name from a popular soap opera. I think he was a bit of a cad for at least one season but may have redeemed himself. I’m not sure. I stopped watching.”

“Don’t you think it is a bit drastic to have the murder plot center around the three positions for the Olympic team? Is that going to be believable?”

“Sweetheart, it will be so believable. You were too young to remember the mother of girl who was trying out for cheerleader; she killed the mom of a team member hoping the daughter would be so distraught it would open a position on the squad. In real life things are not so tight. In fiction anyone with any sense would have realized that would not work.”

My daughter looks at me with a slight elevation of her eyebrows. (As she advances toward the end of her teen years this seems to be a more fashionable conveyance of annoyance or vexation than the previously moderated eye roll.) She has added more capitalization to her speech patterns however.

I try to placate her.

“I toyed with centering the plot around a costume ordered from Russia that had real diamonds smuggled in instead of the ever-glued Austrian crystals, but that seemed so, I don’t know, trite and expected.”

“Ummh…well, you aren’t using any character names that might cause me Embarrassment, are you? You don’t have any minor characters with extraordinary skating abilities covertly named ‘Chuck Black’ or ‘pixie’ girls with oxymoron names?”

“Sweetheart, this is a work of fiction. Of course there will be some truth to it—the training schedules, the friendships, the moms sitting in the stands. The actual sport itself will be clarified and researched. Some things have to be changed of course—I cannot divulge the price of skating costumes or the hourly rate of skating coaches—to do so might launch a horrific fluff piece regarding Lycra and spandex before the Cleveland Nationals and commence an IRS investigation into unreported income, or at least padded expense accounts.”

She sighs and closes the manuscript.

“I think I will wait for this to come out in hard cover. When do you think this will be published?”

“Well, I’m thinking they might wait until right before the 2010 Vancouver Games. It can be part of the pre-hyped press. Maybe it will even get a bit of play like the Harry Potter series, or the new Twilight books. Oh, not in sales of course, but that the book stores will open at midnight and fans can come dressed in skating costumes.”

“That is an image I want to erase my mind. There should be a weight restriction on Lycra.”

“Well, it isn’t that far-fetched. Remember you went to see Blades of Glory a few years ago with about twenty of your fellow skaters, and you were all decked out in glissenette, rhinestones, and beads.”

“Yes, well, that was a bit different AND several years ago. I think we’ve all grown a bit since then.”

“Of course you have dear, and I would never reveal secrets like that in my novel. No one would believe it anyway.”

Mombo

Datebook: July 14, 2008

So for the second time in the last two years, Miss U.S.A. has tripped and fallen at the Miss Universe pageant. I mention this because Matt Lauer informed me of this monumental fact this morning on the Today show.

My heart goes out to Crystal Stewart’s mother.

The parent of any skater understands the significance of this blip.

We live in fear of “the fall.”

We become superstitious about it. We bring our “lucky” bits of personal flotsam to ward off slipped edges and caught toe-picks. We learn to hold our breath and increase our lung capacity as the program length moves from two to seemingly 84 minutes.

During the last few competitions, I have watched the parents in the audience and am amazed at the varied degrees of watchability.

Some parents sit calmly, a few even sip coffee during the twizzles. Some sit on the edge of their seats with clenched hands, seeming to go through each jump and spin with their team. Some secretly gulp a few swallows from silver flasks.

I am a little suspect of the parents who can watch calmly with a sweet smile of their face. These are the same people who say things like, “Oh, I don’t mind what birthday is approaching, I’ll be just as happy at 70 as I am at 30.” And “no, you eat the last piece of cheesecake” or “you go ahead with your full grocery cart; I have plenty of time.”

I am suspect because I have also sat like that, but it was with the aid of whatever tranquilizer one of my friends brought to the rink. Seriously, I who in real life hesitates to take even a Tylenol, open my mouth for whatever my RX-savvy friends choose to pop in.



Oh, it wasn’t always like that. I used to feel a bit stronger than the parents who had to wait in the lobby or on the outer concourse of the arena. But, I secretly envied them and as my daughter got in the opening pose I longed to make a run for it myself. I devised ways to watch by not watching. I would cheer and clap for them as they entered the ice and then when their music started, I would close my eyes. I would then listen to the music and play in my head what they should be doing—and trust me—they had all level fours in my version—while asking my friend and partner’s mom repeatedly, “How is it, How is it?” (She is in banking and therefore steady as a rock—she typically can run a spreadsheet at the end of each program and know the variables to compare to previous performances.) I would open my eyes during parts of the program--inching out to the edge of the cliff so to speak (well, squinting just a little)--allowing my eyelashes to shield any potential for disaster.

This descent from pseudo-watching to being tranquilized did not occur naturally. No, it happened after I witnessed a 2-fall event. That’s right---I have heard the gasps two times in the same program and opened my tangled eyelashes to a double splat-fest.

The lowered scores aren’t the worse part of the falls. The worse part is coming up with what to say to your offspring when they finally make their way to the stands.

Nothing works of course. (You can discard these as tried but not successful: “That didn’t go as planned;” “I wish you could skate that again;” “Well, except for about eight seconds, that was a great program!”)

The side effect, of course, is that once there is a fall, you as a parent fear the reoccurrence.

This morning, Matt Lauer confirmed that fear. I didn’t watch the Miss Universe pageant (although it is a great event to get costume ideas!) but now I know the fallee’s name and propensity of the U.S.A. candidate to fall on the steps. Matt called Crystal this morning and asked her what happened and she was forced to come up with an answer.

But sometimes there just isn’t an answer. It just happens and we’ve seen it chip away at dreams big and small.

So, as the skating season nears (two weeks and counting!) I might recommend the Jimmy Buffet/Alan Jackson approach to watching—It’s Five O’clock Somewhere!

Maybe Ann could sell decorated flasks at Lake Placid (to adults of course).

Mombo

Datebook: July 7, 2008

In these few weeks prior to Lake Placid, we are captivated each night for two hours of prime time coverage by the summer Olympic trials and awake each morning to guttural grunts from the grass courts of Wimbledon.

It is amazing.

First of all, I am shocked at the technology that has raised the bar, so to speak, with these athletes. Seemingly, for swimmers, this new “onesy” swimsuit is shaving seconds off of world records. Don’t get me wrong, the great ones are still great—in fact they are now seconds “greater”—so, it makes you wonder how much time and effort goes into developing new ideas for athletic wear. Speedo and Nike are certainly leading the race in innovative results-based products. They have second skin swim suits, golf clubs with whatever metal du jour is hot right now, shoes that have allow one to jump higher, land softer, and run faster.

Why then, has there been no advancement in skating product lines?

In a sport that roughly captures several hundred thousand participants (recreational and competitive) in our country alone, we are still living in the dark ages metaphorically speaking.

When my daughter was nine she moved into the much-feared category of “custom skates.” Before this, I had heard this mythical process whispered around the rink as a journey that equated to the sixth level of Hell. Let’s be honest, ordering “stock” skates involved a process that can only be compared to selecting the local Motor Vehicle Administration as the destination for your next weekend getaway in that it is long, it is boring, and it is never worth the wait. When our coach uttered the words, “I think she’s going to need to get customs,” we all paled even a bit more than our normal five-hour-inside-sunless-ice-rink pallor.

We made the appointment. This was a bit like getting an audience with the Pope—or getting an appointment with a dermatologist in the summer. We were given a window of time for the next month that had an “r” in it, and at an hour that is typically used as the pivot point of horror films.

My daughter was given a stock boot that was roughly her size—6 ½. She put it on. The “pro fitter” asked a pro-guru-type question that translated to “How does that feel?” My daughter would clump around the room in this cement type boot and announce: “Good.”

The fitting genius would then have her sit on a chair and remove the boot. He would then bring out the tools of his trade: a magic marker and a sheet of paper. He then traced the outline of her foot with the accuracy of a blind 4-year-old.

He then brought in his prior knowledge and developed area of expertise. He had her stand up and he reviewed the foot corpse outline, making the marker lines a little bit darker in some areas.

The foot schematics were then shipped to the boot-maker and in a mere seven months the new boots arrived in a box oddly marked “6 ½.” We had a 50/50 average at that point if the boots actually fit and had toes pointing vaguely in the right general directions. Half of the time the boots “worked,” meaning they might have to have the ankles punched out (remember the custom measurements only took in the bottom of the foot!) or sent back for adjustments. Of course by the time you picked up the new boots you had to order a new pair for the following year.

The point is Nike and Speedo have not picked up on this goldmine of opportunity to develop a skating boot that actually fits AND promotes enhanced performance ability to the athlete. We are stalled at the Crayola stage of development in a world that has pushed past titanium and hybrid Fastskin and Flexskin material to create super athletes.

We need a cross-trainer skating boot that promotes edges and fast spins, we need a blade that both grips the ice during lifts yet allows the flexibility for great stoking and Ina Bauers.

We need compulsory dance material similar to the Racing Flexskin/Fastskins that offers the ability to stay on time and yet have memory to follow previous patterns.

I am sending a query letter to both Speedo (hoping they can launch a new line hyped as “Skateo”) and Nike (Just Do It Again!) asking their assistance in these matters.

I expect they will send representatives to Lake Placid. Hopefully Ann will give them a Goodie Bag and have nametags available.

In the meantime we must stand firm in our mission.

Just say “No” to not-so-magic markers.

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, June 30th ~ 2008

We are certainly living in a technologically savvy world.

When we first entered the skating regime, my daughter had to have her competition music wound to the right spot on the cassette tape—think juvenile free skate when you only needed an Axel and one double jump. Now, you need to turn in a labeled, high def CD enclosed in a quick release case.

This has all added to my list of “The 10 Things I Hate About Everything But You.” It is now not possible to make a phone call without receiving a recorded voice that offers you a menu and instructions to push a number from 1 to 8—pushing 9 will result in replaying the five minute tirade about directions, hours, their policy on paper or plastic, jazz or soft rock, and adding more fiber to our diets.

The problem is my inquiry typically does not fall into categories listed for buttons 1-8. Using skills I have learned from filing IRS 1040 forms, I try adding numbers together (like the lines that add together to determine your gross income—couldn’t they find a less judgmental word?) to come up with the answer. So I might put in a 14. This results in three possible scenarios: A return to the original nasal toned diatribe, a recorded verbal admonishment with an immediate disconnect, or a real time operator who directs you to another pre-recorded line.

We also have reached a tentative measure of security on internet sites because we are assured by a pop-up box that it is so. For added security features with financial transactions we are often asked to “copy the letters in the box below”—these often appear to be scribbled with dull crayons by a four-year old—a mixture of upper case and lower case letters and numbers in different fonts. Recently I have had letters in the “copy this” box that are backwards—what do you do? I don’t have those keys on my keyboard—is it F-29? I finally had to hold the keyboard up to a mirror. And of course, you have to complete the transaction in less than a minute.

Apparently, some of these webmasters have a sense of humor.

If you don’t get the letters entered in the correct order and in the time period, you are given a second chance. A new box appears and you must again attempt to copy the letters to complete your transaction. My most recent second chance box, before my tickets to Toby Keith would be given to the cowboy-hat-wearing accountant next in line, was: U R StuPiD.

My daughter actually sent me on my recent George Jetson fast ride into the future with technology.

Before leaving to go to Colorado, she asked me to run to the bank and deposit some money for her. Oh, I left out the fact that is was money she had to be deposited and not money she was asking me to give to her by way of said deposit. This made me a little teary-eyed for a moment, and I was on my way to the bank before I realized it was Sunday.

I called her and I could tell she was in the middle of her mascara stroke/dry/stroke procedure because her voice always gets a little higher.

“Babe,” I say, “it’s Sunday”

“I know. You are taking me to the airport in two hours,” She replies like she has accepted that I am in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.

“But you have cash. How do I put cash in there today?”

She pauses. I can tell she is struggling with patience, and she proceeds like one would if dealing with someone who has suffered a head injury.

“You put it in the envelope. You enter the amount in the ATM. You put the envelope in the slot.”
“Really! You put cash in the ATM?”

“Mom! You’ve put money in the bank before?”

“I have. But we mostly have automatic deposits and I always go the bank and give it to a teller for other transactions. How does it know you are really putting that much in?”

“Mom, call me if you have trouble.” She leaves off the word “only,” but it hangs in the air like fireworks smog.

So I go to the machine, retrieve the said envelope, put the cash in (making sure the camera sees the number of twenties I am putting in), enter the amount, insert her ATM card and wait. How does it know, how does it know, I hum as I wait. The receipt comes out, and I scan it after getting my glasses out of my purse. It is correct and I ponder the goodness of the world. I would have thought more people would lie and say, “hey, I put in 10,000.00 but you only gave me credit for 43.10.”

I am proud of my advancement in the age of technology.

It is only seven hours later that I realize my jetpack was low on battery power when my daughter calls me on Rocky Mountain time.

“Did you put my card back in my purse when you came back from the bank.”

I replay the bank adventure in my memory, on VHS mode. Ah…I left the card to be consumed by the machine.

“Oh. I think I left it there for reconciliation. I’ll call the bank.”

I do call the 24-hour number. I must listen to the menu, push 1 for English, push 2 for ATM card, push 4 for recent transactions and then I hover over pushing 5 for emergency and 6 for lost or stolen card. It is a bit of both, but I know where the card is. I push 12 for what I assume would the next unassigned code for “the machine ate my card.”

An operator comes on the line. I relay the saga of my trip to the ATM to put in cash—it seems an oxymoron—she seems to think it is only a bit of the last part of that.

I know this because she advises she is sending a new card and has assigned a temporary access code—87788743.

It seems a bit long to me until I realize on the keypad it spells “U R Stupid”.

Mombo

Datebook: June 23, 2008

So now it has been decreed that compulsory dance will soon be a relic of the past, much like school figures and white bread.

I have to say there is a bit of bitterness on my part to have to wave bon voyage to the waltzes and the hoedowns. This is because my child usually scored great in this event and because I spent thousands on compulsory costumes each year. I fear in the next few years most of us will be regaling newcomers of the days when our skaters trained five or six dances each year while the current ISU rule du jour will only designate two. I am sure this will be as well received as when older folks admonish us about the days they were driving in their cars that had no seatbelts and airbags and the only means of restraint was using the nonsmoking hand to hold the baby back.

I feel the ISU should offer some type of rebates to long-timers in this sport who have paid their dues so to speak—it could be along the lines the U.S. government who is sponsoring the Stimulus Rebates—or maybe it could just be in Austrian crystals (the currency of Ice Dance) if there is too much confusion in the gold price per dollar ratio.

In the future judges and parents will no longer have to listen to 50 different versions of the Killian and Viennese Waltz per competition. This will change life as we know it forever. We will no longer be in the CVS or Optometrist’s office and hear snippets of songs we will try to identify by beats or measures. We will no longer be able to watch “Dancing With the Stars” and proclaim, “Oh, the Paso is one of the compulsories for novice this year” to a gathered group of uninterested listeners.

The skaters will no longer have the fun of learning to be quick-change artists in hair as well as costumes. Where else but at sectionals can you go from a waltz bun to a Latin spit curl with side ponytail in five minutes? I don’t think the skaters have processed how their training regiments are going to go in a few years, either. There will no longer be the “relief” of doing several patterns of the compulsories in between full run-throughs of the OD and FD—there will be no “break” so to speak.

I imagine this decision was made much like those on the TV show “Survivor.” Someone or something has to be eliminated and often it is not the one that needs to go, or if so, not for the reason stated. It has been speculated that Compulsory Dance is “boring” to the viewing public and with this in mind, it is never broadcast on television.

But there were other options to be considered before just canning the whole idea. I think a more equitable solution would be if they added the coverage of the CDs and then used some the technology offered during NFL events—we need someone (obviously a technical specialist) to use those Etch-A-Sketch type renditions of each “play.” They could hand draw the actual pattern that should have been skated with the outline of the pattern actually skated—this could produce the sighs and moans from the viewing public who will then stress on the lack of depth to the outer lobe on the second pattern.

Another way to make the CDs more relevant would be to have each member of a team skate with another team member (of the opposite sex of course) by means of a random draw. Then when each team returned to his or her partner they would be bringing the points that they earned with their random partner. This would be guaranteed to bring in the viewers as it would bring in the “element of surprise” to those watching—something we parents are never short on receiving in any given competition year.

Plus, I am sure this is going to push the price of Free Dance and Original Dance costumes through the roof. If we are only pumping out two dresses in place of the standard order of five, we are going to see crystals go up to over $4.00 a bead. It is all about supply and demand and let’s face it—we haven’t spent too much energy in research on other methods of light reflection while on the ice.

I’m just saying, I think this was a hasty decision and one we will regret. There will be a day in the future when we will hear a few bars of the Hickory Hoedown and we will all get a bit misty eyed for what we have lost.

Mombo

Datebook: June 16, 2008

For many of us, the heralding of summer is designated by several events:

* The deadline for the Lake Placid Competition.

* The payment for the summer ice session of our rink du jour.

* The concept of seeing lycra not only on the frozen water but also in the melted version, as in beach and pool.

For me, I have added:

* Horn blowing when the last school bus pulls out of the lot.

This momentous event occurred in my home club area on Friday. Although it was a joyous occasion, it was marred by the fact that two of my friends are leaving to go to another school -- together. I know, that is so “leave one standing while the pair go off to dance” that I throw up a little bit in my mouth as I wish them good luck for the coming year. So I am imagining them having fun and shooting paper planes to each other with little secret messages next year while I am left to sigh and wander the speckled glossy linoleum halls alone. It is going to be quite an adjustment, as Alissa and I formed a kind of Nancy Drew/Lois Lane operation that kept the school in a Level Five clearance for information. Now I fear my intelligence gathering will be much like getting an overseas call from some remote island in the Philippines -- there will be way too much delay and every other word will be muted. And it will be hard as she was my Go-to-Girl. You know what I mean, at meetings and such, when someone said or did something funny, or that we could make funny with a little improv, we could catch each other’s eye and relay a quick “Oh, no she did not just say that.”

Skaters encounter this loss and regrouping all during their careers, as friends and training partners move to various skating camps due to changes in coaching or partnerships. I still remember the reaction several years ago when Adrienne Koob-Doddy and Rob Antonelli changed coaches and training rinks. The twelve kids left behind were like from a bad musical called “Zombies on Ice.” Even today, they all get a little pale when they think of those first few weeks without the duo. Even though skating is an individual sport, or a partnership, there is still a “group” mentality of sorts to all that train together. They are like pearls on a strand if you will, that have their own glow and luster, but who complement the others so beautifully when together.

This year, more than any non-Olympic year of recent memory, we have seen the most changes across the board in ice dancing. There is a grieving time as we are forced to say good-bye to many teams and then try to get used to putting one name with another when we have been so attuned to having it paired another way. There is also an adjustment to having teams or skaters move from one region to another and it’s not just calling them in a new time zone.

Sometimes age old customs change as a result of skater relocation.

For Father’s Day, we had the unusual occurrence of having all children in the compound at the same time and seemingly being cordial to each other. (This usually centers on no jibes about skaters or no rants about the lack of motivation by non-skaters.) Everything was running smoothly even though the propane tank ran out of gas halfway through the marinated chicken, and the soup went through the Goldilocks syndrome of being “too bland” to “too spicy.”

I had planned to make S’mores in our new, elevated fire pit and brought out all the classic ingredients for making the age-old recipe.

Then my daughter said, “Mom, Ben Agosto had a cook-out last week and we used Ghirardelli chocolates with caramel in the middle, and they were the best S’mores in the world.”



I looked at my small bag of Hershey’s chocolates and then at her.

“That’s interesting. It sounds good, but I don’t think you can call them S’mores.”

She looked at me incredulously. “What are you talking about? Of course they’re S’mores! It’s just an improvement on the recipe. It’s better. And you love caramel.”

“I love lots of things. I love Antonio Bandares and Johnny Depp, but I don’t want to see them in a movie together.”

“You are talking, but you aren’t making sense.” She says while eating a marshmallow.

“I’m making perfect sense. The Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts of America founded S’mores, I think, or else it was the settlers going to the Gold Rush. It doesn’t really matter. The ingredients are clearly defined—graham cracker, marshmallow, Hershey chocolate. That is a S’more. I’m not saying you can’t improve on the recipe, but you have to call it something else. If you’re using Ghirardelli caramel chocolates then maybe it’s a Ca’more or a Ghi’more.”

They’re all looking at me as if I am askew. I check my lycra bathing suit straps and see it is doing its job so I don’t know what their problem is.

“It’s not about the chocolate is it?” my daughter asks.

I want to tell her it is about how too many things change, but I feel like I have a marshmallow stuck in my throat so I say instead, “Don’t be ridiculous. You know chocolate is pivotal to most of problems in life.”

I look at my gathered crew and smile. I hand my son the skewer and say, “Make me a S’more, I’m going to go change.”

Mombo

Datebook: Monday, June 9th ~ 2008

On Friday I made my trek to the Dermatologist for a full body mole scan.

This is something that I put off and cancel for a variety of reasons. Last year, we ran out of sweetener so I never got that first morning cup of quality coffee. The year before, I had one more chapter to read in a great novel and did not want to finish it under the antiseptic odors of the doctor’s office. With all these pressing intrusions into my schedule it has been four years since my last annual visit.

The actual visit starts with the usual foreplay—flashing insurance cards, blood pressure cuff inflation, and the infamous weight-in. This is a bit touchy for me as I am hovering at a line with my Body Mass Index. Medically, your BMI this is the amount of fat stored in your cells, but I really think it is difference between what you listed as your weight on your driver’s license twenty years ago, and your current weight. When I look in the mirror I see the reflections of a woman who is “big boned”. In pass centuries, I would be called “Full-Figured”.

Unfortunately, the medical profession considers anyone with a BMI of 25 to 29.9 pounds over her Driver’s License Weight to be “Overweight”. If you are 30 pounds over you are labeled “Obese”. If you are 100 pounds over your balance mark you are classified as having “Morbid Obesity”.

The nurse came in and told me to take off everything but “my underwear.” I nodded but she turned around at the door and looked back.

“That means your bra too. Your bra is underwear.” She shrugged at my blank expression. “You’d be surprised at how many people don’t seem to know that.”

The doctor enters and looks at my chart and asks me if I had been put on the five year plan by mistake. I murmur that I have been really busy but have worn sunscreen all year. This is obviously a fib as my naked foot bears the tanned outline of a flip flop. Dr Robinson looks at me sharply as if I am an errant seventh grader who has just shot a spit ball from a hollow Bic pen. He is as pale as his lab coat—obviously involved in some study group that is test marketing SPF 340 from Banana Boat.

Apparently mole health is not a matter to ever be taken lightly.

He makes me stand while he puts on his skin miner’s helmet with a 900 watt light and flips down the magnifying lenses. The moment of truth. If I really had a sense of humor I would have worn a thong. The humiliation lasts for only a minute and then he asks me sit and he wipes the make-up from my face with alcohol swaps with the precision of one who has scraped and scaled pool tiles.

I am finally pronounced “Clear” but his voice is gravely and heavy. I am sure all my teen summers lying in the sun wearing baby oil and dissolved coffee, or baby oil and iodine are as evident as tattoos on my skin. We are such an informed public in 2008.

I feel a surge of sympathy for Dr. Robinson who must deal with the mass irregular moles, melanomas, and various skin eruptions that plague our community.

“My daughter is an ice-skater,” I offer.

He looks at me as if I had just announced that the cost of sun screen has just gone up to 3.97 a squirt.

“I mean she is inside, in the cold…not in the sun. She doesn’t go in the sun that much which is good, although it doesn’t seem fair because she doesn’t sweat.” He looks puzzled so I try to explain.

“Well, she sweats, but it mostly on her face when she is skating hard. She doesn’t sweat under her arms like the rest of us so she really doesn’t need to wear deodorant, but she does when she goes out—which is good because that’s a chemical and I’m sure that’s hard on the skin every day.”

He looks at me without a change of expression.

“I just thought you might like to know that ice skaters have great skin. Because they’re not in the sun.”

Dr. Robinson turns back to my chart, writes something (hopefully not “Obese”) and hands me a slip of paper to take to the receptionist.

She tells me, “No charge today and Dr. Robinson says he doesn’t need to see you for five years.”

Odd, but all my moles must be regular. At least now I have time to bring my BMI down to my DLW.

Mombo