elements of a perfect day:

* All 72 Friday emails answered by 7:23 AM Saturday morning

* A definite "we're going" to the Annual Philadelphia Writers Party, concocted by Stephen Fried and Diane Ayres and populated by Philly writers, editors, photographers, designers "and others who eke out a living in the world of words and images or the teaching thereof." Do you see yourself in that description? Join us on Monday at Bliss, starting at 5:30 PM.

* Body Combat with Teresa at Club La Maison at 8:00 AM (we killed it)

* Clean house by 10:18 AM

* Hair by Cole Wellness, done by noon

* Andra Bell is in the house by 12:30, and off we (my husband with us) go, to see "Philomena," which is to say Judi Dench in all her glory, at Bryn Mawr Film Institute. 

* A quick trip to the Wayne Art Center, with Andra, to share with her that glorious space and its two new exhibits. One of the exhibits features the award-winning glass work of Madeline Rile, a sensational artist and the second daughter of my good friend, Karen Rile. Madeline, when we were there, three patrons were exulting in your talents. I boasted about knowing you. It's gorgeous work! Congratulations!

* My two glaze pieces are ready at the Center, and I'm happy with them. (That doesn't often happen.) And I've got a bisque piece to paint as well.

* Home to an email from The Great Jen Doll, whose first book, a memoir called Save the Date, has a smashing cover and is set for a May release. We. Can't. Wait. To. Read. I called it first.

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Christmas weather, holiday kindness, and thank you, A. A. Omer

I made my way to Body Combat early this morning.  The snow began to fall just as I left.  I allow myself to be lazy after workouts like that.  To lie on a couch and dream a novel forward. 

I write so slowly now.  But I never mind the time I make to dream a novel forward.

In between I read the astonishing work being sent to me by the YoungArts writers; our literary future, ladies and gentlemen, is in excellent hands.  I read, as well, Katrina Kenison's glorious new book, Magical Journey, of which I wrote not long ago.  Look for a chance to win your own copy here, on New Year's Day.  All you'll need to do is tell me what makes you quietly glad, and your name will be put into the hat.

Finally, I discovered, thanks to a little white-winged bird, that A.A. Omer, a reader of discerning tastes (in my humble opinion), placed Small Damages number one in her five-book list of the year's best writing.  It joins the work of David Levithan, Moira Young, Ilsa Bick, and Wynne Channing.  It is an act of greatest kindness.  Thank you.

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this is what happened at Body Combat

Maybe (technically speaking) going to the gym today was not the smartest move.  I'm still battling vestiges of this month-long flu and my balance is not, shall we say, terrific.  But I was missing Teresa and her Saturday morning Body Combat class at Club La Maison.  I was in need of some air-punching, knee-stomping, kick-slapping action.  And besides, it's St. Patty's Day.  Teresa is always good for a holiday.

So I went, and 45 minutes in I was breathing heavy and thinking of quitting when a woman who has been absent from among us for quite awhile appeared in the doorway, her pink cap on, her smile still bright, her fists still ready to knock some air.  She has been battling a real illness, we have been worried for her, and when we saw here there, ready to give Combat a few of her rounds, the room erupted with cheers, Teresa the loudest of all.

We go to the gym to stretch our muscles, to move our blood, to make room for an afternoon cookie—of course.  But mostly it's the camaraderie that keeps us returning.  It's Teresa in her Irish hat and tie, her stick-on tattoos, her insistence that we keep going, no matter what.

It's the courage that we find in others.

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Body Combat (Girl Power)

I was beginning to feel my energy return.  I scrubbed the bathtub and didn't collapse.  I wrote two pages, and kept part of one.  I cooked a full meal and then, the next day, cooked another.  I got up Saturday morning and said to myself:  Oh, Beth.  The time has come.  Body Combat at the gym.

Body Combat.  It's martial-arts inspired.  It's hit-the-air-like-the-air-is-your-enemy inspired.  It's jabs and hooks and upper crosses and more jabs, some shuffle to the right, some roundhouse kicks, some smack around that invisible punching bag. You take a run around the room when you're done, then you hit the floor for triceps and abs.

Was I up to this?  Could I even do it?  How silly does a dancer look, after all, when she's boxing an invisible bag?  Cha-cha hips don't work so well in this environment.  Neither does the foxtrot frame.

But I gave it my all.  I punched and kicked and sword fought with the rest of them, trying not to mess too hard with the otherwise fine mojo in the room.  The two instructors, meanwhile, gave their all back to me, recognizing my newness, praising my stamina (got to find something to praise), telling me that my form would come.  At Club La Maison, the instructors rock.  These girls were no exception.  You do something hard, they keep you going.  You feel like a fool, they won't let you.  No matter how silly I might look, I'm going back.  Combating myself forward.

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