“It’s Completely Unraveling.”

football1A soapbox can be a lonely place. Especially on Super Bowl Sunday. Especially when I really do want to see Bruno Mars at half time. Especially when it seems like everyone will be watching.

But (me).

I used to love football (go ‘9ers!)

Not anymore.

Because football is increasingly brutal and senselessly violent. And, in every NFL game, including the “super” one today, men will crash into one another and get their clocks cleaned and their bells rung.

It’s part of the game. And, people will cheer.

And, brains will be injured.

Some will heal. But, some won’t.

And, the National Football League will continue to do its best to pretend like everything is ok.

And, they will continue to ignore the broken and damaged brains in so many broken and damaged players who no longer play the game.

This season the NFL reported that players sustained 228 concussions – a decrease from the previous season.

But, concussion experts say these numbers are deceiving, since the NFL doesn’t catch every concussion and players often hide their symptoms.

Gary Plummer

Gary Plummer. Permission: By © BrokenSphere / Wikimedia Commons

Former NFL linebacker Gary Plummer estimates that he sustained five Grade I concussions in every game he played. Every game.

One thousand concussions over the course of his career.

Remember Super Bowl XXVIII in 1994? Cowboys quarterback Troy Aikman doesn’t. 

He sustained a “mild” concussion in the NFC championship game and was still feeling dizziness and other effects of the injury when he led the Cowboys to their Super Bowl victory over the Bills. Today, he doesn’t remember a thing.

(Last week, Aikman told reporters he has had no recent issues related to the injury.)

But, a few forgotten hours is a small price to pay, compared to the debilitating, dark, and tragic reality facing many former players whose brains have been irreparably damaged by the game they loved.

It’s heartbreaking.

sean morey

Sean Morey. Permission: LPDrew via Creative Commons 2.0

On Friday, National Public Radio (NPR) told the story of Sean Morey, 37, who spent 10 years in the NFL and today struggles with the effects of long-ago, football-related concussions on a brain that has not – will not – heal.

Morey says there’s no question his symptoms are related to brain trauma he sustained playing football.

“You cannot feel that kind of pain and have it not be related to brain damage,” he told NPR. “The dysfunction, the pain, the misery, the confusion, the desperation, the depression. …

“There were instances in my life that would never have existed had I not damaged my brain.”

“It is completely unraveling.”

npr

Listen here.

The damage is Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy, a progressive degeneration of the brain caused by repeated brain trauma and concussions. It is found in the brains of former NFL players, as well as those who played only in high school and college.  It appears years – sometimes decades – after the original  brain injury and shows itself in myriad ways. Memory loss, confusion, impulse control problems, dementia, depression, suicide.

Despite what the NFL would like you to believe, the damage is real. And, football is to blame.

Apologists say that players know the risk and can choose their fate.

That doesn’t absolve the NFL from its responsibility to provide proper treatment to its current players and adequate medical care to its former players.

I know the risk, too. And, I, too, can choose.

I love a good game. I really do.

But, if it means that even one player will struggle some day with brain damage and dementia simply to entertain me today, count me out.

LEARN MORE

My previous posts on brain injuries and concussions in sports:

The NFL Knew. And, They Covered It Up.

Don’t Try This At Home.

* * *

The Sports Legacy Group works to raise awareness to CTE and brain trauma in athletics and in the military. They work to help coaches and athletes at all levels of sports better understand how to prevent head trauma, as well as encourage proper treatment of concussions so that the brain may better heal.

sportslegacy

For more on their efforts click here.

* * *

To watch the excellent Frontline piece “League of Denial” on the NFL and the CTE crisis click here.

league of denial

Frontline recently updated their report.

Frontline Update

Click here.

And, for the powerful book that accompanies it click here.

league of denial book

A Classical Interlude

There are some who might read this space from time to time and think that all I care about is baseball.

Not true.

I care about lots of things. Classy things.

Like music.

So, today, this post has nothing at all to do with baseball. Enjoy this classical interlude …

A local orchestra was rehearsing Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony.

This is Beethoven.

This is Beethoven.

There is a section where the bass players don’t play for an extended time. One of them decided that it would be better if they filed offstage and took a “break” during that section.

On the night of the performance, the bass players filed off as planned. One suggested, “Hey we’ve got 20 minutes, let’s run across the street to the bar for a drink!”

So off they all went, tuxedos and all, to loosen up. Fifteen minutes and a few rounds later, one of the bass players said, “Shouldn’t we head back? It’s almost time.”

But the leader announced, “Oh don’t worry, we have time – I played a little joke on the conductor. Before the performance started, I tied string around each page of his score so that he’d have to untie each page to turn it. The piece will drag on a bit. We’ve got time for another round!”

So they had another round, and then, staggering a bit, they made their way back across the street to finish the piece.

Stepping onstage, they immediately noticed the conductor’s angry expression.

“Gee,” one player asked, “Why do you suppose he looks so tense?”

“You’d be tense, too,” laughed the leader. “It’s the bottom of the ninth, the score is tied and the basses are loaded.”

(well, I did mention Beethoven …)

Don’t Try This At Home

Ty-Cobb-hard-slide

Ty Cobb goes “spike’s up” into home. Navin Field, Detroit (1912 or 1913). Public Domain image.

Don’t try this at home.

Because it is stupid. (“It” being Ty Cobb’s collision. My pun, on the other hand, is brilliant.)

As a baseball-writing massage therapist with nearly 10,000 massage sessions under my belt, I’m often asked for my thoughts about home plate collisions.

Actually, no one’s asked.

But, I’m going to tell you anyway.

Because I’ve been thinking a lot about home plate ever since my last post.

And, because one doofus said on his webpage (which has approximately a zillion more readers than I ever will) that banning home plate collisions is further proof of the “wussification of America.”

And, all I could think was, “Good god, how many times has Glenn Beck’s head collided with the sidewalk? Because he sure sounds like he’s brain-clunked pavement a few too many times.”

Glenn Beck doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

But, I do.

I know collisions. I see colliders every day. Colliders are my massage (and Yoga) bread and butter.

I have clients who have collided with other people, with airbags, with telephone poles, with staircases, with the ground (woody, gravelly, asphalty, rocky, and cementy.) I see clients who have broken things, strained things, torn things, ruptured things, and gotten their bells rung.

I sometimes see them a day after they have collided and often for years afterward.

I see equestrian clients who are tossed off of their horses so often that you would think their bottoms are loaded with crazy Wonderland-like springs that catapult them randomly through the air and into rocks and bramble. Over and over.

I have clients who live with chronic pain and permanent injuries and brain impairment because they collided into something – or someone – else.

I know colliders.

So, I am delighted that Major League Baseball is taking the necessary steps to ban home plate collisions – where a base runner coming home seeks to dislodge the ball from a catcher’s mitt by violently colliding with him. That’s how the Giants’ Buster Posey broke his leg in 2011. And, that’s how many professional ballplayers sustain debilitating concussions throughout the season.

Home plate collisions are needlessly dangerous, unnecessary, and just plain stupid.

Former Catcher and now St. Louis Cardinals Manager Mike Matheny retired in 2007 following a series of concussions caused by home plate collisions. He lost 18 months of his memory as a result. If I haven’t convinced you, listen to him, click here.

matheny

Baseball’s owners and the players’ union are still working out the details and wording, but the belief is that new rules could be in place by the start of this season or 2015 at the latest.

ESPN’s Buster Olney (who has so many “insider” sources, he probably knows someone who has spilled all your secrets), was told that the new rules would include:

• Catchers cannot block home plate.

• Runners will not be allowed to target the catchers.

• Umpires will determine whether or not the plate was blocked or the runner targeted the catcher and this will be a reviewable call, and

• Players who violate these rules will be subject to disciplinary action.

This won’t eliminate all collisions. But, it will eliminate some extremely violent home-plate encounters.

In its very earliest long-time-ago incarnations, baseball required a runner to be struck by the ball in order to be out. Yes, just like dodgeball you would throw the baseball at the runner – as hard as you could and sometimes right at his head. If you severely maimed him in the process, well, hey, it was the 18th century, he probably wasn’t going to make it to 40 anyway.

But, that was stupid. And, baseball improved its rules.

The rules already protect fielders from collisions by base runners who seek to break up double plays through collision or “spikes up.” (Interference is called on the base runner and he is out.)

A sprained ankle might slow you down for a week or so. A concussion is much sneakier and can cause permanent brain damage that you won’t notice until one day you’re standing in a grocery store and you wonder, “Why am I here?” (And, not in an existential way, either.)

Watch the PBS Frontline documentary League of Denial that shows, in grim detail, the heartbreaking damage that concussions have done to professional athletes. Watch it here.

league of denial

Glenn Beck, apparently, thinks that baseball rules are unnecessary (in the same way that he believes that government is unnecessary, until the potholes on his street need fixing).

Life has risks. Games have risks. Jobs have risks.

I know that.

But, that doesn’t mean that an employer doesn’t have the responsibility to try to eliminate risks whenever possible.

A bakery gives its baker an oven mitt so he doesn’t melt the skin off his hands when he pulls the bread out of a hot oven.

A warehouse puts brakes on its forklift so a driver doesn’t run over his colleague who is stacking boxes.

Baseball stops home plate collisions.

Good heavens, why are we even debating this?

I’m guessing Ty Cobb, like Glenn Beck, would say that minimizing injuries is a wussy thing to do. (Although, honestly, I don’t think Cobb would use the word “wussy.”)

But, tough. And, stop whining.

Those nasty spike’s up, knock-em-down, slasharoos that Ty Cobb made famous are stupid. (Say, Ty, maybe if you picked up the pace a bit coming in from third you could have beaten the throw to the plate. Now THAT’s exciting baseball!)

Just 25 days until pitchers and catchers report.

By: Frettie, used with permission via Creative Commons 3.0

By: Frettie, used with permission via Creative Commons 3.0

Skizzle, Sweet Skizzle.

The bases in baseball might have been imagined in the 19th century, but their beginnings were probably much earlier than that. Historians often reach back to the 18th or even 17th centuries to find something undeniably baseball-ish about the games children played.

(Historian David Block can take it all the way back to 1450.)

(There are a lot of very good baseball historians in the world today. You could probably fill Wrigley Field’s bleachers with them and have to pour the overflow historians into Fenway. Football historians, on the other hand, can easily be transported in a minivan.)

Bases are the grail for many historians. If a game had you run to a specified point or “base,” you were probably playing some form of baseball.

But I think if they were inventing baseball today, there would be no “Home.”

Oh, the base would be there … the plate, the dish, it has a few different names. The umpire might still ceremoniously dust it off with a whisk broom from time to time, and it would still be 60 feet 6 inches from the pitcher. But, I don’t think we would call it “home.”

We might call it a Blast Pad, a Stamping Stone, or the Swat Zone. Those all sound cool, right?

Or, more likely, we’d just make up a word. The Skizzle! The Bagzooka! The Scoreatorium!

(God, I’m bad at this.)

Two minutes of Blast Pad Bliss!

But, surely not “home” … which conjures up images of the kindness of mom and cookies and soup and underwear hanging on the line.

And, unlike baseball, the place in life where you start and then you end isn’t always the same “home.”

I’m not even sure I know what a hometown is. Is that where I was born? Where I grew up? Or, where I’m living now? Because I can call each of them “home.”  And, they are all quite different places. (The ocean is on the other side now.)

I don’t really remember much about where I was born.  We moved when I was still mini-sized. (I was born in the same hospital as Robin Ventura, by the way. So I’ll always have a little hometown kinship with him. And, I never liked Nolan Ryan.)

Then we moved to another part of California. And, when I was old enough, my dad taught me about “home teams.” And, since we lived near the Bay Area, I became a Giants-A’s-49ers-Raiders fan.

(It really stinks being on a football boycott when the 49ers are doing so well. Or, leastways, that’s what I’ve been told.)

My dad schooled me in football. My little-girl baseball knowledge pretty much boiled down to ranking the players on my baseball cards on a highly precise and carefully researched Cutie Pie Scale. (Oakland A’s? Very cutie pie.)

I showed flashes of home team spirit, as seen here when I firmly and sadly crossed “GIANTS” off of my Willie Mays’ card when he went to the Mets.

willie mays card

Even then, I was conflicted by what home means. If Willie Mays was no longer a Giant, what was the point? What good is having a home, if no one is going to stay there?

Then we moved.

(Please enjoy this brief interlude as I spend nearly 10 home-team-less years in North Dakota.)

The East Coast, above-zero temperatures, and my very first real live baseball game couldn’t come fast enough.

I tell this story a lot, and it is true. When I stepped out of the cement walkway and into the upper deck of Baltimore’s Memorial Stadium for the very first time, I saw the green grass and the diamond spread out before me.

And, I looked, and I said to myself, “I’m home.”

So, maybe the Orioles aren’t technically my “home” team, since they’re 126 miles – and lots of traffic – away. Does it matter anymore where you actually live? Or, do we define home differently now?

Baseball players, themselves, are nomads. They are shuttled around from team to team, town to town. There are few Cal Ripkens left out there who get to play every day for their own hometown team.

Home plate may be the only “home” a player can count on during his career.

(And, woe to the American League pitcher who only gets a look at “home” and never gets to actually go there.)

Fans have cable and the internet and can watch any game from practically anywhere in the world. Live.

I can listen to Vin Scully call a Dodgers game thousands of miles away. Jon Miller, who I missed for so many years, now comes through loud and clear calling Giants games on my Sirius Radio.

Anywhere can be home. And, if anywhere is home, maybe home isn’t the same thing that it once was.

In baseball, home is where you start and where you hope you end up. You’ll run around for awhile, but, if all goes well you’ll end up again at home, right where you started.

In baseball, that’ll earn you a run.

In life, I’m not sure what that gets you anymore. Sometimes, if you end up back at home – to sleep, perhaps, in your parents’ basement – it’s because things haven’t quite worked out so well in life.

I think my home is right here, right now. With my Editor/Husband, the bushel of cats, and the brand-new barn (and unfinished porch). I like coming home. To here.

Skizzle, Sweet Skizzle.

good morning barn2

Divine Discontent Gets A Day Off … (almost)

“Any writer worth his salt writes to please himself. … It’s a self-exploratory operation that is endless. An exorcism of not necessarily his demon, but of his divine discontent.”  ~ Harper Lee

First off, thank you to that reader who emailed me last night to tell me he can snap his fingers. (This, in response, to my heartfelt admission yesterday.) I exorcise my divine discontent … and for this, you taunt?  Truly? Truly?

So, what’s new in divine discontent today?

This.

I’m not sure that it’s ok to unleash fireworks at midnight on New Year’s Eve/Day.  I mean, sure, set off some whistling Moonshine Bottle Rockets, Blazing Rebel Fountains with all the pretty colors, a few of those nameless ashy, snakey things. Prairie Fire cones, Nuclear Sunrise candles. Go ahead. Sparklers? Sparkle your pants off.

No, I’m talking armaments. That sound like – or could possibly have actually been – cannon fire.

I went to bed before midnight because I taught Yoga this morning.

But, I awoke at midnight to the sound of shelling. Wait, what? Grant’s marching toward Richmond again?

The booming, wall-rattling shelling was coming from our neighbor’s house, about a quarter-mile and one full cow pasture away.

Is that really necessary?

Are you trying to kill the old year … or the new one?

So, when I got up at 6:00 a.m. today, I suggested that I might go outside and lay on my car horn to greet my new year and wake the neighbors.

Editor/Husband suggested that I not do this: “They have a cannon.”

Editor/Husband would like to share this cannon joke with you. Click here

(He tried to tell it to me at midnight, but I just wanted to go back to sleep.)

Let’s start the year …

First up, baseball.

Yesterday, I exorcised my baseball discontent … giving the Baltimore Orioles’ owner some chin music for being a cheapskate, skinflint, and tightwad (these all mean different things, by the way, and he is all of them).

But, let me begin 2014 on a positive note.

I love the Orioles annual pet calendar. Proceeds support BARCS, Baltimore’s animal shelter, and animal welfare organizations are dear to my heart.

But, here’s the thing. To produce the calendar means that the Orioles must do the photo shoots and get everything to press well in advance. (Spoiler alert: teams can change, BARCS calendars cannot.)

The result is a beautiful calendar of Orioles posing in last year’s summer sun with handsome rescue dogs and bushels of adorable kitties.  (It’s clear the low-ranking rookies often end up with the kittens … don’t think Stevie and I haven’t noticed.)

I opened up the 2014 calendar today, and look at Mr. January and Mr. January!

Nick & Nate Mr. Januaries

Oh.

It’s the newest Washington National Nate McLouth.

(In 2013, pitcher Jake Arrieta was traded to the Cubs just as his month as Mr. July was beginning. Jim Johnson – see, I told you I’m not done with this – had just completed his Mr. November reign when he was traded to the A’s on December 2.)

Stevie & Jim Johnson

Stevie is not happy about the Jim Johnson trade either … or the lack of calendar cats.

In previous calendars, most players enjoyed their own month. This year, there seems to be more two-players-to-a-month sharing. The size of the team hasn’t changed, so maybe the Orioles are now thinking, “Yikes, let’s just stuff a few players on the page and hope that at least one of them is still around come next year.”

But, back to being positive.

I love my Orioles calendar. (But, boy, I’ll miss Nate. And, Jim.)

Just 44 days until pitchers and catchers report.

Next up, Yoga.

I taught Yoga this morning. It was great!

Yoga Is Full Sign

And, finally, Life.

Have a great 2014.

(See, wrapped them all up again.)

Divine Discontent can have the rest of New Year’s Day off!

Lamar

Lamar says “hey.”

Early Is My Friend

New Year’s resolutions generally stink.

All good intentions to get healthy, go running, or eat better go out the window when a foot of snow covers your car, knocks out your power, but you still have to go to work.

You know it. I know it.

(There’s no resolution in the world strong enough to keep me from a piece of chocolate or a Diet Mountain Dew.)

Stevie Dew

Oh, look, Stevie’s a Dewbie, too!

If pressed, my New Year’s resolution is pretty simple – make it to 2015 and write on here from time to time. Because I love writing stuff for you. Really. Both of you. You’re both wonderful and incredibly good looking.

In the spirit of New Year’s let me tell you two honest things about me:

1) I cannot snap my fingers. I really can’t. It’s not that I choose not to. I would snap all day. If only I could. (There. Just tried again. Still can’t.)

(Editor/Husband says I snap my fingers like a second-grader. A paste-eating second-grader. I’m not proud of this.)

2) The only New Year’s resolution I ever kept was years ago when I worked in an office. I used to needle a colleague all the time. (She was a very nice person, but she didn’t know who R.E.M. was, for god’s sake, how could I not needle her? I was in a very sarcastic phase of my life. I know, so glad that’s passed.)

So, for New Year’s I promised her that for an entire year I was going to be nice to her. And, I was. I was so nice, fawning over her and always asking how her day was going (often interrupting her several times an hour just to ask), that I proved to be an incredibly annoying nice person. Imagine that!

Lisa became a successful – and very nice – lawyer. I write a blog with two readers. So, as you can see, sarcasm gets you nowhere, kids.

While I see the timely need to lard up this blog with some resolution jabber, it being a new year and all, you’ve probably already realized that I’m not really the best person to go to for advice or encouragement.

oriolebird

Unless you happen to own the Baltimore Orioles. Here are some resolutions for you, Mr. Angelos.

First off, get us some pitching. Spend some money … you can’t take it with you and you’re not getting any younger. You can never fully redeem yourself in my eyes after trading Jim Johnson, but you can make amends.

Let’s start with a Starter, ok? I mean, a real Starting Pitcher – a mean-as-cuss, ace-of-the-team alley cat who throws both fire and finesse.

A pitcher who understands that his day doesn’t end with the words “he was roughed up, again, in the fifth inning.” A pitcher who strives for “27 outs” … in a single game, not in a month.

mtnliondrperky

Mountain Lion and Dr. Perky are cheap.

He won’t be.

At the risk of seeming greedy, pony up for another bat in the lineup and maybe a strong bullpen arm to replace the one you so callously and cruelly threw away. (It may be a new year, but I’m not over this Jim Johnson thing yet.)

In short, Mr. A, let’s spend some real dough so that the rest of baseball will stop thinking we’re the class weirdos.

angrybird

# # #

So, you know how this blog is supposed to be about baseball and Yoga and life? And, how I talk a good game (always aiming for the bleachers) but rarely wrap them all up together? I feel bad about that.

Let’s fix things.

Earlier this year, I came upon four particularly useful rules. Or, resolutions. Call them what you like.

They were posted by a pitcher above his locker.

I love these rules. They are good reminders for a pitcher. They are good reminders for a Yoga student. They are good reminders for life.

Here they are.

early is my friend

~ Go 0-1. Must have action. Early is my friend.

~ Get the ball down. Strikes below the knees.

~ Manage the game. Slow down. Break a bad rhythm.

~ Take your time between pitches. Take a time out and reset.

That’s baseball talk, for this: Start 0-1. Throw a strike. Be confident.

Be in control.

Take charge and responsibility for your actions.  If you’re being a doofus, change.

And, always step off the mound and take the time you need to think things through when feeling pressured or else you may do something really, really stupid.

Which in Yoga I boil down to that one simple, most important resolution of all …

Don’t forget to breathe.

Sounds good to me. Let’s do this.

Happy 2014!

Cleaning Out The Attic

The scratching in the attic has quieted down.

Last count in Editor/Husband’s trapping project: Bears, Raccoons & Squirrels – 0.  Mousies – 6.*

* As in many sporting statistics, context is important and there’s often an asterisk: Editor/Husband has trapped either six individual mousies, or one single mouse over and over. Or, some variation of that. I suggested id’ing the mouse by marking its head with a Sharpie pen before releasing it outside. Editor/Husband is going with the less precise, “This one looks a bit smaller than the last one” method. As usual, my method would be complicated, but far more definitive.

This is what six mice in the attic sound like when accompanied by a stand-up bass. (Fun Fact: mice cannot play stand up stand-up basses, because they are too small.)

drums

I don’t feel too bad putting a mouse outside when the weather is nice. They have their little fur coats after all.  Our cats really don’t care one way or another.

(And, yes, we only use live traps. We’re not murderers.)

# # #

This conversation really took place on Christmas morning.

Editor/Husband hands me a gift bag. I look inside.

Me: It’s an orange.

E/H: It’s a Christmas tradition.

Me: That’s nice. (Reaches in and takes orange.) This orange is cold. (Pause) Did you get this out of the fridge? (Pause) Is this the orange I bought at the grocery store on Sunday?

E/H: It’s a Christmas tradition.

orange

Christmas tradition.

Here’s the other gift Editor/Husband gave me.

ted

It is 855 pages and weighs nearly three pounds … which is about the same weight as 88 house mice.

(I am on page 98.)

# # #

While Editor/Husband continues to de-mousify the attic, I’m cleaning things up as well, by going through a few folders filled with this year’s baseball photos.

And, I keep coming back to this little scrum of photos that I took at the indoor batting cage at the University of Virginia.

They make me smile. Because, they are in focus.

All you really need is just one baseball …

acc baseball

And, just one bat …

a buncha'bats

(Wooden preferred …)

quiet bats

And, a little pine tar if you can spare it …

pine tarMaybe a few extra baseballs in case the first one gets hit into the woods …

bucket of balls

(And, now I’ve cleaned out my baseball attic … for this season, anyway.)

I Wrote This For You On Christmas Day.

Do people read blogs on Christmas Day?

Do people actually write on blogs on Christmas Day?

Is that a bad thing? That I’m still in my pajamas and writing on here on a day that is ordinarily set aside for family and friends and festive gatherings?

That, as I write, Editor/Husband is setting up the bigger, stronger Hav-a-Hart trap in the attic because he’s wondering if the mouse up there isn’t a mouse after all, but something quite a bit larger. (Like a squirrel? A raccoon? Possibly a bear? Who knows what comes into this house on its own. We once had a snake that lived in our toilet. I’m not kidding.)

(He’s baiting it with a waffle, in case you’re interested.)

(And, by the way, thanks, Cats, for letting mice – or whatever is scratching on the walls up there – live in the house with us.)

santa squirrel

This is a flying squirrel dressed as Santa Claus.  (So, don’t say this blog post isn’t appropriately festive.)

Oh, yes, Christmas.

If you happen by this blog and actually read it today … or from time to time … you have brightened my heart. You really have.

And, I wish you all good things during this special time …

May you be surrounded by the love of family and friends …

have a catch

Have a catch.

But, if they start to make you crazy (and they just might), may you find a little space …

Space

May you find joy doing the things you love …

Adam

And, most important, may you find the quiet peace of your heart … (and, hey, snacks!)

sunflower seeds

And, for those of you keeping score … Just 51 days ‘til pitchers and catchers report.

Richmond Stadium

(I took all of these photos in 2013.  Camden Yards, Baltimore.  The Diamond, Richmond, Virginia.  Davenport Field, University of Virginia, Charlottesville, Virginia.)

A Therapist Airs Her Dirty Laundry

Earlier this week I posted a photo of three days’ worth of dirty massage linens – stacked up into a pile that was taller than the washing machine.

??????????

First off, kudos to those clients who recognized their linens from last week! The Lumosity is paying off!

Second off, some of you apparently think that I’m exaggerating (you are wrong) or that I have no intention of actually washing and drying and folding, and washing and drying and folding, all through the Thanksgiving holiday (you are wrong about this, too).

For those who think your massage ends when you slide off the table … a relaxed bowl of melted muscles … I assure you, I’m thinking of you as I do the laundry. Every weekend. And, when pillowcases are in dangerous short supply, often at 5:30 in the morning.

(Yes, some of your linens are warm on the table because they were in the dryer at 6 a.m. that morning. And, I swear to you, if you hustle them into a laundry basket right out of the dryer, they will hold heat for hours.)

If you are one of my massage clients, know that I love you.

That’s why I do the laundry and fluff and fold it … at dawn and on my day off. I don’t mind. Really.

(Folding linens is a much nicer and far more productive task than all those office meetings and “brainstorming” sessions I sat through in an earlier life.)

But, here’s what you may not know.

Those linens? The warm, luxurious flannels? The light cotton ones? The sweet pinky plaids? At some point you indicated that you liked them.

You like being toasty warm during your session? You get my warmest, coziest set and the table warmer is set to “high”. You battle hot flashes and want the cool light blue ones? Check! You like the pink plaid ones, because, because they are so lovable and so pink? Sometimes, I’ll hold them out of the rotation for days just so they are ready for you.

??????????

The ever-popular Pink Plaids.

I pick your sheets just for you. It’s crazy, but when I see a set roll out of the dryer, I think of you.

Some of those flannels are wearing thin. Some sets last a season, some have lasted for more than a decade (2003 was an exceptionally good year for ever-soft and resilient Wal-Mart flannels.)

Some sheets have been torn apart by our new “high efficiency” washer.

Tearing my sheets apart is not efficient, stupid Washing Machine.

So, I’ve cobbled together “new” sets with top and bottom sheets that sorta, kinda match. (If you get an unmatched set, I have decided that you are a thoughtful client who will appreciate, and maybe even be amused by, my thriftiness.)

Lately, I’ve told a few clients, “This is it. I’m not buying any more linens. When these fall apart, I’m closing up shop.”

I said it sort of jokingly, but I was surprised by the response.

One of my clients (Pink Plaids) was angry. “That’s a ridiculous thing to say.”

One of my clients (Extra-Soft Medium Blue) was startled. “Really? Really? When? What are you going to do?”

(My response: “Write about baseball.” Which requires going to games, eating popcorn, and heckling umpires. And, where “spin cycle” refers only to my explanations about why Jim Johnson’s series of blown saves last season only shows what a great pitcher he is all the other times. He really is. Please don’t trade him, Baltimore.)

OK, the linen thing was sort of a joke. But, maybe not. It seems as good a barometer as any. (OK, my elbow is probably a better barometer, but watching the linens fray away is more fun.)

A Sad Postscript … Thanksgiving Tragedy for Lime Green Cozy Flannels.

Even using “slow spin”, Inefficient Washing Machine tore the top sheet to shreds today. Shreds.

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Stevie surveys the carnage.

A shame. I really liked that Lime Green Flannel set. We had some good times. She never complained and never called in sick. I’ll miss her.

But, as you can see here …

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And, here …

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I’ve still got a ways to go.

Baseball Free …

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Things I’ve learned in the past three baseball-less weeks.

Did you know it only takes four seconds to put the toilet paper roll on the hanger in the bathroom?  I had forgotten that that’s what that little wall bracket thingy is for. Did you know that you can do that every time you start a new roll?

Now, with no baseball to watch, I suddenly have all sorts of time to do the things that I haven’t done for awhile.

Like catch up on my People magazines.

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Have you heard the news? Kim and Kanye are getting married! Ahhh, precious young love. So sweet and pure and true.

(Dear San Francisco Giants, you should be ashamed … whoring out AT&T Park like that. But, don’t worry, Hunter Pence, I still love you.)

Hunter Baseball Camp2

“If you wanna be a Hunter’s Hitter, you’re gonna have a lot of movement. Like a hungry man chasing a taco.”

(Really, you must watch this. Now. I’ll wait.)

And, tidy up the workplace.

These linens don’t wash themselves.

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(Warning To Future Massage Therapists: This is three days’ worth of laundry. They don’t tell you about this in Massage School, do they?  Yeh, happy folding, Sucker.)

And, look what happened while I was watching baseball … the barn is finished!

good morning barn2

And, in fairness to Barn Dude, he did finish it before the World Series, just as he promised. (Hey, Barn Dude, are you reading this? I still need a shelf in there!)

Cold, heavy rain all last night. It’s clearly not baseball season anymore. So, I was just about to count the days until Pitchers and Catchers report (78) when this Tweet from Jaye popped up.

jaye tweet

I only have a few Twitter followers, and most of them are obscure overseas marketers trying to sell me something – like saris. Apparently, I’m the only Yoga teacher who doesn’t wear a Sari.

(But, I’ll wear a Sari before I’ll ever wear Lululemon.)

Jaye is a blogger, too. And, a really good one … read her, ok?

Her Tweet reminded me that I hadn’t written in awhile. Mainly because what is there to say on a baseball blog when there is no baseball?

The bulk of off-season baseball stories are about players seeking tens of millions of dollars.

(Which is better than stories about players being bullies. So, there is that.)

Or, the Washington Nationals asking the D.C. government to give them $300 million for a retractable roof.

Which leads me to these points.

Point #1. If you can’t play baseball outside, then maybe you shouldn’t be playing baseball. (Florida and Arizona, you have Spring Training … ALL the teams are there every spring.  And, you have the Fall League! Isn’t that enough for you?) And, Houston Astros, if the Texas Rangers can play outside, why can’t you? (And, Toronto, Seattle, Milwaukee? Oh, never mind …)

Point #2. Really, Nationals? A retractable roof is going to put you in the playoffs? Why not spend $300 million on Robinson Cano? Or, two Carlos Beltrans?

Editor/Husband says that $300 million for a retractable roof seems reasonable to him. (This conversation really happened: Me: “Hey, you can have 30 Jim Johnsons for that.” He: “If only he were retractable.” “I don’t know what that means.” “I don’t either.”)

Point #3. The Mayor laughed at the Nats’ request. Laughed. And, someone in his office said the roof would be “butt ugly.” So, uh, I guess that means no roof?

Point #4. Editor/Husband says my stubbornness about indoor baseball is similar to the outcry over lights at baseball parks and the first night games. The first major league night game was in 1935. (He remembers this? Editor/Husband is much older than I thought.)

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Lights. Clouds. Sky.

Things I’m thankful for this Thanksgiving? Just 78 days ’til Pitchers & Catchers report.  Happy Thanksgiving!