The women in my family – and we’re all women at the burning core, the magma maternal – are list makers.
No one makes a move without her list. My sister, Tonya, has master lists that branch into categorical lists and timelines; my mother, who, at 95, is still filling the back of envelopes with today’s to-dos, creates monstrous worlds with her lists (In my files I have a spiral notebook, the small-format style that fits in the back pocket of my jeans. All 50 pages of the notebook are filled with a list of items titled, “Camping stuff.” My mother’s idea of camping, circa 1956, included a sewing machine, a percolator, and a tetherball pole).
I keep a list that tracks the day’s priorities, with stars by the items (“File taxes,” “Mail birthday cards”) that must be done in order to sleep soundly. And then there are the other lists, the ones that detail the objectives and desires of a hundred fantasies: the renovation of the upstairs loft, the greenhouse, the re-purposed wardrobe design, the screenplay, the train trip across Canada, the video documentary on our neighbor’s band – and the ideal of perfect health I’m going to achieve before I’m another year older.
All very young children play games while sprawled on the floor. This is my incentive. Last month, I flopped on my stomach to play Dora’s Dominoes with Cooper, 5, and Carson, 3. After a few rounds of explaining the concept of dominoes (to get rid of your tiles first), I was trounced by Carson, who has not yet developed a victor’s grace. He jumped around the room, yelling “I winned! I winned!”
I’m a competitive person. You might suppose that the 62-year age gap between Carson and I would be cause for me to rejoice in his achievement. Not so. Cooper, the other loser, and I lured him into another game, and I took no prisoners.
“Yes!” I shouted at playing my last tile (Swiper, my favorite), and I jumped up to give my victory dance.
Except no, I didn’t.
Other than moving my elbows to a more comfortable position, I was unable to get up off the floor. The creaky central processing unit that operates my body evidently assumed that prone on my daughter-in-law’s carpet was my choice of a permanent life position. There was to be no victory dance for Nana.
This week, the items on my Fit-List have been moved to my Daily Priorities List. I’ve rejoined the gym (that is, embarrassingly, fifty feet from my office), I’m drinking copious amounts of water, I’m eating raisins and walking two miles five days a week – and I’ve signed up, with five of my friends, for a chorus line dancing class. Our teacher is a professional theatrical dancer and a choreographer.
“And it’s not just dancing,” my friend Ruth said, “we’re going to sing, too. Fran and I got the idea after seeing ‘Mamma Mia!’ How great for our lungs!”
“Oh, my, yes,” I said, “the aerobics. I can cross ‘cardio-vascular workout’ off my list.”
I did.
And then, in handwriting so teensy only the night elves will read it, I began another list: Dance in a Broadway musical.