Day #1: Embarkation

Also Known As:  I FUCKING HATE EVERYONE

We arrived at the airport at 5:30 a.m. for our 7:40 a.m. flight.  We sat in the gate area, drinking water, saying goodbye to social media on our phones, and people watching.  And in came a family of eight (three adults, five children ranging in age from 12 to two, including a wee redheaded girl who clearly gave zero fucks as she kept trying to ditch her family to go exploring).  The size of their family wasn't the remarkable part; the fact that it looked like they hadn't checked a single piece of luggage was.  Every one of those eight people had at least two carry-on items (probably more), plus a blankie or two, and a stroller.  That's 16+ pieces of luggage to carry on!  And you know most of those children were not going to help carry things, and Mom was already carrying one of the younger ones (fast asleep on her chest because he had apparently had a meltdown earlier in the terminal).  What a horrible, uncomfortable way to travel.

As my Unit and I made our way to our seats on the plane we discovered that we weren't sitting together; we both had aisle seats right across from each other.  A single white man sat in the middle seat next to my Unit, and he quickly agreed to trade seats with me; in hindsight, I should have kept my aisle seat.

Seated two rows in front of us were part of the party of eight:  the mom, the sleepy kid, and wee redhead who gave zero fucks.  None of them, thankfully, were crying or having meltdowns, but the redheaded girl would sometimes just scream and yell for the fun of it, which I sometimes feel like is worse (it's not).  And in the row in between the family and us was an older woman who was only too delighted to strike up a conversation with the home-schooled mother of five.

Unfortunately, on an airplane, at several thousand feet in the air, with all engines going, holding a conversation basically means screaming at each other for everyone to hear.
Which they did.
Nearly the entire flight.
And then the redheaded toddler began playing a game on a tablet of some sort that sounded like a slot machine.  I know it sounded like a slot machine because they had the volume turned all the way up, competing with both the plane's engines and the two women talking.

This is not the point where I rant about small children and technology.  You want to give them a screen of some kind to occupy them in public?  Perfect!  But do it all the way:  give them earbuds, too, so the rest of us aren't subjected to it.

In response to the cacophony, I dug out my iPod for its intended purpose:  to drown out my surroundings.  So I did, and I was enjoying everything from Taylor Swift's "Look What You Made Me Do" to Lin-Manuel Mirando & Co's "Almost Like Praying" when my Unit nudged me and gave me a dirty look.

"What?"
"I can hear your music!"
"Well, I have it turned up to drown out all of that," I answered, gesturing to the rows ahead of us.
"Yes, but I'm trying to tune them out, and now I have to tune out your stuff, too."
"But, they're earbuds!" was my useless argument as I couldn't understand how she could possibly hear anything from my technology with everything going on around us.  (In her defense, they were older earbuds and don't quite go all the way "in" the ear as newer ones do.)
So I huffed and grumped and I turned off my music and slumped in my seat for the remainder of the flight.  When she said again, "I'm sorry, but I could hear both," I countered with, "So now we both have to suffer??"
Her:  "Well, yeah!"

And that, kids, is marriage in a nutshell.  Should have kept my aisle seat.

At one point, I needed to use the restroom, so I set my water bottle on my seat and squeezed past my Unit.  Returning to my seat after doing my business, I picked up my water bottle and noticed that it had leaked.
All over my seat.
A significant puddle of water.
I sighed in resignation as my Unit tried to keep her laughter to herself and went to ask a flight attendant for some paper towels.  She came back with a large handful of paper towels that I used to sop up all the water.  And I sat back down and sighed, realizing I had become "one of those people," the people who make a mess, who spill things, who just can't get anything right on an airplane, much to the dismay of their nearby passengers.  My apologies to the young lady on my left, in the window seat.

Our layover in Charlotte, NC was uneventful (after getting off the plane, following the family of eight and all of their misplaced luggage and children).  Next flight my Unit had the window seat, I had the middle, and another white man sat to my right on the aisle.  I'm gonna fast-forward, except to say that the A/C was cranked up so much in plane that you could see the air coming out of all of the vents up along the walls (I assume because of the difference in moisture/humidity).  It was a little disconcerting at first, looking like we were getting gassed with something.  We weren't, and eventually it got cold enough that I put on my sweater.

So, on behalf of perimenopausal women everywhere:  thank you, American Airlines.  I wouldn't be chilly again for at least another eight days.

Here's where things get tricky:  our cruise was scheduled to leave at 4 p.m. EST.  Our embarkation time was between 2:30-3 p.m. EST.  Our flight was scheduled to land in Ft. Lauderdale, FL between 1:30-2 p.m. EST.  Needless to say, we were worried about making everything on time.  We had purchased "cruise insurance" which covered us in case of flight delay, but still.  This was our first cruise.  Everything once we left the airport was new to us (in bold because that's important).

The info from the cruise line had said that porter service for baggage stopped two hours priors to leaving, so we assumed we'd have to schlep our bags to our room ourselves with our 2:30 time.  Apparently not so.  When our cabbie dropped us off, a porter immediately offered to take our bags (and got a generous tip for his effort).

And then we walked.  And then we walked some more.  I was trying to follow the signs that told us what to do.  I'm not sure what I expected, but I do think I thought I'd just be able to walk onto the boat, and that'd be that.  Not so.

More lines, more security checks, more longer lines.  At least we weren't schlepping our luggage.  When we got the last line to check in, the lady at the desk informed us that lunch on the Lido deck stopped at 4 p.m., but that our rooms should already be ready.  I remember that in the cruise line literature, too; something to the effect of, "many people enjoy a leisurely lunch on the Lido deck while waiting for their staterooms."  Okay, cool.

More walking, more ramps, some really steep ramps, and then finally, the boat itself!  Yet another person scanned our papers and gestured into a room that my memory can only partially register because of the sensory overload.  It was pink-ish colored, full of lights and sounds, and people with drinks, kids with ice cream, music, and shouting.  I just looked at the guy in the white sailor's outfit, lost, and said, "How do we get to our rooms??"
"The elevator," he says, with a gesture.

So we find the elevators and the long line for them.  This may have been the point where my Unit and I decided to take the stairs; it was only three floors.

We get to our room; our luggage isn't there yet.  Oh well.  I desperately want to change clothes and shoes into something cooler, but start to settle for stripping off every article of clothing and lying on the bed.  But my Unit stops me and says, "Let's get you something to eat and a drink."
Yes, please.  That's what vacation is all about.

So we head up to the Lido deck -- remember, the "leisurely lunch" from earlier?  I'm not sure what I expected, but I had an image of people sitting at white-clothed tables on an open deck eating, I don't know, tiny cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off or something.  I couldn't have been more wrong.

What we found was complete and utter MADNESS!  It was a buffet -- A BUFFET OF CHAOS!  I think even a "normal" (non-anxiety-ridden) person would have been stressed out at the pandemonium of this "buffet."  For me, though, a person with crippling anxiety who needs to know where I'm "supposed" to go, the order in which I'm "supposed" to do things, where the line begins, if I order my own food, and what "the rules" are, etc., it was torture¹.  I think my body and brain just shut down the moment we stepped into the room and were hit with the noise and bodies scrambling for food.

And then, to make matters worse, they announce over the loudspeakers that food and beverage service would be shutting down entirely for the safety briefing.  So then they start taking the food away!  Little signs start popping up saying, "Buffet Is Closed." And some devious chefs left the food out, but just removed the serving utensils.  I was carrying around an empty plate, almost in tears and walking aimlessly, when I found my Unit and just said, "They keep taking the food away!"
"Just grab something, anything!" she says before heading back into the fray.

I managed to put some squares of red Jell-O on my plate and two bars listed as "mint chocolate glaceau."  And that was it.  I didn't even have utensils; I ate everything with my fingers.  Rejoining my Unit, we searched desperately for an open (and clean-ish) table to sit; we ended up going outside to the humid deck and sitting down at a semi-clear table.  She had managed to grab some tortilla chips and potato salad and a napkin. We sat in silence and ate our miserable scavenged lunches, any thought of obtaining an adult beverage long since dashed.

Now begins the portion where we go back and forth to our stateroom in hopes that our luggage would be there.  Guess what?  It wasn't.  And every time we got back to the room I would strip down in an attempt to cool off.  This lasted throughout the hour-long "safety briefing" (mandatory attendance, outside, standing 3-people deep), my Unit going in search of the smoking area, and even a false alarm knock on our door that I thought was our luggage, but was the room steward asking when we wanted our room cleaned.

I was actually lying on the bed, sweating, my Unit out of the room, when the ship's engines started and we actually started to move.  I wanted to yell out, "We're moving!" but I was too exhausted and no one was around anyway.  I laid there, waiting to see if I'd feel seasick.  Nope!  I (mostly) loved the feel of the moving boat; it feels like lying on a giant, snoring dog (you can quote me).

My Unit arrived a bit after that with a glass in her hand.

"I got you a drink.  It's sangria, but it tastes awful.  Here, try it."

Again, marriage, folks.
And yes, I drank it.
It wasn't that bad; I discovered later it was sangria out of a bottle, not made fresh, which explained the not-fantastic taste.

We had hoped our luggage would arrive before dinner (we had the "early" dining time of 6 p.m.).  It did not.  So we went down to dinner in the hopes that it would appear by the time we returned to our room.

Dining on a cruise is an experience in and of itself.  For starters, you have the same waitstaff every night, so you get to know each other.  You are also seated at a table with strangers (unless you have 6-8 people in your own party).  And when you're two lesbians in a new situation among strangers, things have the potential to go badly quickly because, frankly, there are bigots everywhere.

On this our first night at the dining table, we were the first two to be seated.  And we waited and watched if anyone else would be sitting there, trying not to hold our collective breath if new people would suck or not.  Two separate times a waiter led people (women) to the table, in 2's or 3's, and each time there was a quick, hushed conversation with said waiter and anxious, furtive looks from the women, and then they were led away.

Now maybe they had mistaken the table number.  Maybe they had meant to sit with their friends?  Maybe it wasn't about us at all.  Or...maybe it was.  It wouldn't be the first time.  About halfway through our dinner a mother-daughter couple was seated with us and we all politely said hello.

My Unit and I ordered drinks with our meal, of course, and then, as we were looking at the menu, my Unit asks me if I think the theme drink for the evening is included in our drink package (because of course we ordered the drink package!).  Our waiter (Gideon) said that for drink package drinks the receipt handed to us should always say $0.00. 

Uh-oh.

Our drink receipts from the earlier sangria (and then a pina colada) had dollar amounts on them.  Then Gideon brought back our current receipts:  also dollar amounts.  He suggested we check with customer service about our package.  My Unit swore up and down she purchased the drink package.  She even remembered the total amount we'd be charged;  I remembered the day she did it (because I was working from home that day and she was trying to talk to me about drinks).  Nevertheless we were going to have to investigate; I needed to ask about our off-shore excursion tickets anyway.

We were going to hit customer service right after dinner, but first -- back to the room!  Joy of joys -- our luggage had finally arrived!  It had only taken five hours since we first gave it to the porter.  I changed clothes (finally!) and shoes and we trekked to customer service (down 3 floors and all the way on the other end of the boat).

As we didn't have Internet access on our phones (on purpose), we could not show the credit card charge for the drink package and stingray excursion to the customer service lady to prove that it had happened.  We ended up having to purchase everything over again (mentally deciding to check all statements when we got home again in eight days; if there were duplicate charges, the credit card company would remove the extras).  We purchased our drink package and two tickets for the stingray excursion in Half Moon Cay, Bahamas (Day #3).

And all we had to do was stand in line for 15-20 minutes behind a crazy lady who decided to befriend us.  She stood all of five feet tall (if that), had dyed blonde hair, and was in her mid-fifties (by her own admission).  And just beneath her blonde bangs were two jet-black eyebrows that had to have been tattooed on her forehead.  I couldn't stop staring at them; thankfully, it looked like I was making general eye contact with her as she chattered about why she was in standing in line.

"Eyebrows" (as she shall henceforth be known) had "spent the last three hours" cleaning her stateroom because it was "filthy" when she got there.  (By "cleaning," she meant wiping everything down with a damp paper towel, she explained to us.)  "None of the corners had even been touched by a vacuum cleaner."  And she cruises a lot -- A LOT!  She's a flight attendant, so she knows about these things.  And she's cruised with Carnival before, and she has never had a room this bad.  And she "told the steward it wasn't his fault, but really it is; I mean, it's his job."  And she would heave a sigh as only the truly put-upon can and say, "I don't want to complain; I want to enjoy my vacation,...but" (conspiratorially) "if the rooms are dirty, what else is dirty?"

But that's not the kicker.  And neither were the eyebrows the most bizarre part.  The bizarre part was during all of this conversation she had her room key in one hand and a black plastic knife in the other.
And we never found out why.
She never said why she had the plastic knife (or how it related to the room-cleaning saga).  Sometimes she would use it to punctuate her statements, as we saw when it was her turn at the customer service counter and the customer service guy would instinctively back away a bit when she waved it around.  We never saw her again during the remainder of the trip.  And we never could figure out the plastic knife.

After all was said and done, we got (more) drinks and sat on our room's balcony.  I took in the air, the stars, the waves, the rock of the boat (and my Nth drink) and finally, finally said, "This is very relaxing."  But it took the entire fucking day to get there.

Up next:  Our First Port

¹Other fun things I stressed out about during the time in the cabin and rushed to look up while my phone still had an Internet connection:

• Do we really have to attend the safety briefing?
• Where is our "mustard station"? ("Muster station," but it sounded like "mustard" every time)
• Where are the life jackets?  Are we supposed to wear them?
• Is this water included in the drink package?
• Are we supposed to eat in the dining room on the first night (or is it just more buffet chaos)?
• Where's breakfast tomorrow morning?
• Is there breakfast tomorrow morning?
• Why isn't it listed?
• I thought I read something about a brunch.  WHERE'S THE BRUNCH??
• How do we know when it's a "dress-up" night?
• What happens if you don't meet the dress code?
• What day is our off-shore excursion?
• Where are the tickets?
• This says tickets will be delivered to our room, but they're not here.

Don't Read the Fine Print

Or:  Ignorance Is Bliss
Or:  Why I Won't Be Going to the Y

In case you haven't heard, Leonard has started going to the gym again.  Well, two different gyms,...trying to find the right one.  And in case you don't remember, Leonard went to the gym once before.  If you want to read the boring reasons of why I'm trying a gym again, scroll to the bottom:

Two things to keep in mind while reading Leonard's Quest for Gym:

1. I'm cheap.
2. I'm lazy.

I don't want to spend a lot of money or really commit to anything.  And I don't want to travel too far out of my way to get to this place where I will sweat and smell bad.  Near me are two places that fit my requirements:  the YWCA and a Planet Fitness.  And at first glance, they appear to fit my very basic gym needs:  weight machines, some kind of cardio, locker rooms/showers.

I was wary of the Planet Fitness.  Was the location skeezy?  Would people be creepy?  Would it be dirty?  What's up with offering pizza and doughnuts at a gym?  So then I looked at the YMCA, but I couldn't find any prices whatsoever.  I did sign up for a Guest Pass, though, and it was delivered to my e-mail box with a note that "someone would be contacting [me] about a membership."  I printed off the pass, put on my big girl panties, and went someplace new and large and loud and scary to the YMCA.

The people were friendly enough, and I told them that I was interested in membership details, but still no one got back with me on that.  This particular facility is downright huge for a Y, and it was the hopping place to be at 6 p.m. on a weeknight.  It was busy, but not too crowded.  They had a lot of cardio equipment (treadmills, stairmasters, stationary bikes, etc.), some weights (the big, "manual" kind), and a smattering of weight machines.  I'd say they had only one of each type of weight machine, sometimes two; that, in turn, meant I had to wait for the weights sometimes (see what I did there?) or do something else and come back.

I spent 30-35 minutes on the treadmill, which was about 15 minutes too many; by the time I got down, I felt like I was floating all the way to the locker room and beyond.  When I got home, still breathless, my Unit commented,  "You look pale.  Like all the blood went straight to your heart."

It wasn't a bad experience, although I was disappointed that I couldn't find any pricing information online and that no one had contacted me about it.  The next day I decided I wanted to work out again (who AM I??!??), but my YMCA Guest Pass was only good for one day.

I looked at Planet Fitness again online, but I couldn't find any information about guest passes. I called them and was informed that a "day pass" costs twenty dollars ("but that fee is then applied to your membership if you sign up").  Then I tried to research more on the Y's website (give me dollars and prices, people!) when I stumbled across their Membership Handbook.  I was scrolling through the PDF file when I discovered page three under "Lockers":

"Use the gender appropriate locker room with which you legally identify."

Wow.  What if my legal status hasn't been changed/updated to reflect my gender identity?  What if I don't have an updated legal photo I.D. with my new name/gender?  While it's not as bad as North Carolina saying to use the biological sex on one's birth certificate, it's close.

And then I found under "Code of Conduct" this little gem:

"We take pride in our family friendly environment. Please keep attire appropriate and modest."

"Modest" according to whom?  What is "appropriate"?  Your family and my family may be entirely different.  If it's hot and I'm busting through my cardio, am I not allowed to wear capris and a sports bra?  My swimsuit probably shows cleavage because I have big boobs; is that going to offend your family's modest sensibilities?

Granted, those things did not happen to me in the hour that I was there, but the fact remains that they could.  The fact remains that the language alone made me very uncomfortable.  And when I told all of these things to my Unit, she pointed out the same thought I was having, "YMCA does stand for 'Young Men's Christian Association.'"

And that clinched it for me.  Off to Planet Fitness I went, despite the charge to try out the facility. Luckily for me when I showed up to the desk, the attendant was the same person I had spoken to earlier.  And she let me use the facility for free (without me asking) -- which practically guaranteed that I would sign up for a membership because I am a sucker for good customer service.

So there ya have it.  Reading the fine print will usually destroy your blissful ignorance and remind you of what those pesky abbreviations stand for.

Prologue:  Why a Gym?  Why Now?  And then I dislocated my knee (for the third time), so I stopped.  But after last September's adventure on a trapeze (yes, a real trapeze!), I decided I wanted to try more things, new things, fancy aerial things.  And I did aerial yoga for a while.  And I really enjoyed it (and didn't hurt myself).  But my schedule of rehearsals combined with crippling anxiety ("where have you been? why haven't you been here?) mean I haven't been there in months.  And when I looked, the class I had liked was no longer on the schedule.  Also I realized that yoga was not doing enough; I wasn't sweating enough, getting my heart rate high enough. 

But you know what did do those things?  Going to the gym.  But I no longer teach at a university with a fitness center, so now what?  Cue Leonard's search for a gym.

Casual Misogyny: An Open Letter

Dear Y98 DJ:

I can't remember your name.  You're not one of the regular DJ's.  I heard you over the weekend, during some off-hour.  You were introducing a Taylor Swift song and said, "Y'know, for having such a clean-cut, good girl image, she sure has a lot of songs about being a bad girl."  And then you mentioned another song coming up, by someone "Taylor hasn't dated."

Here's the problem with everything you said:

What exactly makes Taylor Swift a "good girl"?  Is it because she's pale and blonde and (to quote her own song) "has that classic, red-lipped" look?  Perhaps it's because she went to a private Christian high school and had a 4.0 GPA?  Maybe it's because many of her first songs were somewhat "innocent" in their subject matter or stories of crushes on boys (which is probably because Swift was only 16 when her first album was released)?

And what about these new songs makes her "bad"?  Because she talks about breaking up?  About having sex?  About being an adult?

Let Leonard lay down some Gender 101 for ya because clearly you don't know.  Here's an exercise usually done in the first day or two of class.

List all the words you can think of for a woman who has a lot of sex:  slut, whore, easy, skank(y), hooker, prostitute, loose, trollop, tramp, harlot, strumpet, hussy, tart, floozy, etc., etc.

List all the words you can think of for a man who has a lot of sex:  stud.

See the difference?  Oh sure, sometimes we can throw "man-whore" in there for the guys, but we even have to add the qualifier "man" to indicate this whore is not female.  Women with healthy sex lives are treated as "bad" women, whores, et cetera, while men are celebrated for the same fact.  You, sir, are perpetuating this age-old stereotype with your comments about Taylor Swift's "goodness" or badness."

But, Leonard, it was just said in passing!

Welcome, my friends, to the world of casual misogyny.  Women of all ages face comments like this on a daily basis.  This DJ's comment is yet another thrown in our collective female face. Please stop reinforcing the "Madonna/whore" false dichotomy.  Please stop implying women can't have healthy sex lives (and also sing about those lives).  Male artists sing about relationships all the time.  When was the last time someone commented on their works in a similar fashion?

Lastly, let Leonard get all "New Criticism 101" on you:  please don't confuse the speaker/narrator (the "I") of a song, poem, or work of art with the actual artist.  Yes, even if it sounds just like that person, down to some of the biographical details, we still allow a small amount of "space" between the two.

But Leonard, it was only said by some DJ whose name you can't even remember!

People in the public eye (or ear, in this case) like DJ's and broadcasters must be especially careful with their words as their words reach a larger audience.  That's part of the job and responsibility of being/having a public persona.  People listen to you, and you never know when someone like me is going to quote you verbatim to point out your casual misogyny.  Every piece of daily sexism adds up; the only way to break it down is to take personal responsibility and STOP SAYING IT, whether you be a DJ or listener, artist or audience.

Try to make sure yours don't suck.