Club La Maison and my Phillies moment

I love my gym, Club La Maison.

That's a sentence this strident-non-joiner, this independent, this I-take-my-walks-alone-(mostly)-thank-you-so-very-much person never thought she'd think, let alone write, let alone blog for public viewing, but I find that sentence creeping up increasingly as I make my way to the club at all hours of some days to dance cha-cha or to punch air or to knuckle down and sprint against my gorgeous friend Sarah.  I've found Joy there (both a woman and a feeling).  I've found instructors who are so incredibly good at what they do, so unfailingly enthusiastic, so encouraging, so moonwalking fabulous that I've given up my solitude to be in their presence.  I'm never going to look good at the martial arts stuff, but they're not laughing me out of the gym.  My arms are still pathetic skinny sticks, but the strength-infused make like they don't notice.  I break the rules on Zumba tango; Brenda lets me pass.  I still don't know how to stand perfectly straight, but Valerie, the city's top posture expert, allows a little slouch between our talk.

So, truly, when I showed up yesterday for the gym's fall extravaganza, all I really wanted was to burn 450 calories and to chill with some of my friends.  I got that in spades, but I also got a raffle ticket.  I could, I was told, slip it into any one of the prize-promising  buckets. I went for the Prize Supreme:  Tickets to see my Phillies clinch (because you know they could) the division title.  Today.  Tickets, a cap, a T-shirt, a water bottle, honest to goodness—sounded like a piece of heaven to me, and when they called an hour later to say that I had won, I asked if angels had been involved.

I've been up like a crazy woman pounding away on corporate work so that I can have this afternoon free.  I don't care if there are clouds in the sky.  All I see is sun.