Hot Yoga and the Perils of Sweating with Strangers

In preparation for my upcoming knee surgery, which will leave me in an immobilizer for about 6 weeks, I have committed to 30 days of Bikram Yoga in the hopes that it will cleanse my body and potentially shrink it a bit as well. The following is an accurate account of how this journey began.

Yoga mat, large bath towel, and Klean Kantine bottle of water in hand, I entered the yoga studio in my black Lululemon capri length spandex pants and matching top. I decided against the large Lulu headband for fear it would look like I was trying a little too hard, but immediately regretted this decision as I sized up the crowd.

I approached the desk and Carli (with an "i"), the helpful assistant, talked me into a 30 days for $40 unlimited package. Afterall, I reasoned, it should take me at least 4 weeks to become proficient in this style of yoga, and with the 30 day package you get a yoga studio key fob that I immediately attached to my key chain with a small thrill. Carli then motioned for me to walk to the left into the Bikram studio. I made my way through the first set of glass doors and could abruptly feel the humid heat. I removed my flip flops and placed them in one of the small wooden cubbies lining the walls of this Bikram anti-chamber. I then trepidatiously pushed open the second set of glass doors and stepped into the sticky jungle/rainforest-like atmoshphere of the dimly lit studio. The polished dark hardwood floor was lined with 3 rows of scantily clad people sitting on yoga mats in various stages of stretching; those nearest the front were the bendiest and had mats lined with special thin yoga towels. Those in the second row were decidedly less bendy and would have done well with a more modest clothing approach and the back row, well suffice it to say, I was underwhelmed. I did notice to my slight consternation that the mats in the back row were largely covered in fluffy bath towels similar to the incriminating red one in my arms. Note to self, buy cool thin yoga towel (preferably in earth tone) asap.

I found an empty spot in the middle row and rolled out my mat and towel, adjusting my position so that I could spy a sliver of myself in the front floor-to-ceiling mirror. Just above the mirrors I saw a large cylindrical vent pipe (maybe 18' in diameter) that ran the entire length of the studio ceiling, and seemed to be covered with some kind of hole-punched ballistic nylon fabric. I would soon figure out that this cylinder is the heating vent that ensures the room remains at 105 degrees Fahrenheit through out the class. When I figure this out, I will also realize that newbie yoginis (even the very fit kind) therefore would be well advised to place their mats as far away from said cylinder as possible. But alas, I jump too far ahead.

I did a few deep knee bends and breathed in as deeply as possible, secretly trying to see if a B.O. smell could be detected in the room. Fortunately all I could smell was the patchouli scent emanating from the female Asian yoga master in front of me with the unconventionally long braided pigs tails practicing full back bends. A clear attempt at yoga intimidation, but wasted on someone of my mental mettle. It would take more than a back bend from a 40-something Pipi Longstocking wannabe to rattle this gals cage. The instructor appeared, a woman of about 30 years of age with the kind of lithe toned body I pictured on myself by the end of the month.

Her voice was reminiscent of a female James Lipton, and she pronounced each word with an exaggerated pomp only achieved by years of dedicated practice, often lowering her tone and emphasizing the last syllable of certain words for added drama. "Thank you for giving yourselves the gift of today's practice. I'd like to encourage each and every one of you to focus your intention today on creativity,. I'd like to challenge you to consider how you can use your life force more creatively to add beauty and meaning to everything that you do and with everyone whom you interact. Ask yourself, how might this lifetime be different if you let your creativity flow unedited, unjudged. How might this lifetime be more meaningful? How might you feel more complete? We begin as always with the Pranayama Fire Breathing Posture, so please come to standing in tadassana (mountain pose) in the center of your mats.

"Are there any new students here today?" she asked. I reluctantly raised my hand, outing myself against my better judgment. "Welcome. Your goal today is to simply remain in the room for the full 90 minutes and try to explore the 26 postures to the best of your ability. It would be somewhat of an understatement to say that I was offended. My goal is to just stay in the room, paleeeeeeeeaaase.

Over the course of the next 90 minutes her voice went from mildly annoying to severely grating and I used my creativity to imagine what it would be like if she suddenly lost her voice.

The Fire Breathing is I believe so-named because of the burning sensation one feels in their nostrils and chest when deeply inhaling in the sweltering heat of the room. Things went from hot to hotter and by the third posture I reached for my water bottle in dire need of hydration. "Just 2 more postures before we stop for a water break, so try to hang on if that is available to you." At that point the only thing "available to me" was fainting, and so I gulped down my contraband liquid and quickly resumed my feeble attempt at the Half Moon Pose. Throughout the class I was intermittently overcome with dizziness and gave in to my thirst as well as the occasional need to rest in Child's Pose.

After 15 minutes, I glanced down at my towel and was amazed by the sweat that was dropping like rain off of my body onto it. I had a somewhat macho feeling about this phenomenon and used my creativity to imagine myself in a flashback of Flashdance as I struggled into triggenasana/Triangle Pose.

Pose after burning pose, I willed my way through the class, eyeing the door and my means of escape when I felt I could go on no longer. But Patchouli Pipi was bending and flexing in all her glory, and I would be damned if I was going to give up without a fight. About half way through the class, I heard the instructor walk past me and say aloud, "Nice adjustment in the black." I realized that she was speaking about me, that I was the adjuster in black, the nice adjuster in the black who had just been publicly praised. I very nearly blushed but given that I was already beet red from the heat, I highly doubt this was at all visible. I must be a natural I thought. And this realization gave me the energy to carry on until the very end of the class.

When finally lying in a pool of my own hot sweat in Final Chivassana (Corpse Pose) I relaxed, I had made it. The instructor congratulated me aloud for having remained in the room for the full 90 minutes and the class broke into applause, even Pipi was graciously clapping for me. I was moved. And so along with my fellow yoginis, and at the prompting of our instructore, I gave sincere thanks to the Universe and to myself in gratitude for all that is and in gratitude for all that can be, Namaste.

We interrupt this bliss with an important announcement

dear reader,

it is with great humility that i interrupt my tales of the ranch for the following true story. for the first time in my 42 years (yes, i know hard to believe it with my dewy complexion) my back has gone out. while descending from a mother's day hike with my beloved husband, i stepped into a small trench and rolled my ankle. at that precise moment, i felt something torque in my lower back. i steadied myself, avoiding a calamitous fall and carried on running down the mountain leaving david in his funny five toe running shoes behind me as i stretched my legs out and accelerated my already gazelle-like pace. while waiting at the bottom for david, i began to feel a somewhat sharp and yes even shooting sensation emanating from my lower back al the way down to my toes. i did some stretches which made it no better at all. within 5 hours the pain had gone from irksome to solidly painful and i realized i may have actually done something to myself.

given that back pain is something i always think of as affecting the old and infirm, this was not easy for me to admit but alas, my virtual paralysis in bed that night coupled with my suddenly strong desire to install a handicapped rail in my bathroom to assist me as i sat to pee were hard evidence to ignore. when i got up from a fitful night of sleep (it was more like i rolled onto one side and then used the momentum from the roll to try and flop my feet on the floor while rising to a sitting position, and after resting there i then stood up shakily), the pain had escalated to the excruciating. i spent most of the morning standing at my computer (sitting was not an option any longer for my aching back) trying to research this new condition. inconclusive evidence but i was leaning toward an L4 and L5 disc compression with muscle spasms as the diagnosis.

i went to see my trainer at our regularly scheduled time, in the hopes that he might help stretch me, but upon seeing me enter the studio hunched over like an Asian rice paddy worker, he immediately sent me to see his chiropractor Dr. Ho. Dr. Ho is in his late 30's and is not a big man. However, his appearance is cruelly deceptive as I am now convinced he was trained by whatever secret military interrogation unit dominates in his native China. Dr. Ho did warn me that he would need to work on my back and that this would be painful. he told me in fact that it was "peh-feck-lee ass-ept-able foh you to curse oh cry. men-ee oh my pay-shen do bode, iz noh-mal." i chose to laugh through the piercing flashes of pain and dizzy spells for that is simply how i deal with tragedy.

dr. ho's mute intern observed the 65 minute ordeal from the side of the room, and i can only hope that my stoicism served to keep him interested in his chosen profession. dr. ho warned me that i would need to see him three times a week for two weeks, avoid all strain (which means no exercise), and that i would be quite bruised from his manipulation of the muscles and tissue surrounding the L4 and L5 but not to worry. oh yes, and i am not to take any anti-inflammatory meds either which was quite a buzz kill after enduring the procedure. this ban on exercise comes at a most inopportune time as i have my son's bar mitzvah in 10 short days and i was hoping to squeeze into a particular dress that is unlikely to fit perfectly without at least another week of excessive calorie burning. a call to the personal shopper may now be required.

and so, here i stand typing this accurate and unembellished account of my back injury for you my dear reader to both enjoy and learn from. the lesson is simple, when running, if you should happen to feel pain somewhere in your body, stop and walk the rest of the way, apply ice immediately and buy a leather strap to chew on before you go visit the chiropractor.

please enjoy the absence of photos of my bruised back. i decided it was best to omit them for humanitarian reasons.

You can't take the brooklyn oudda de boy, DJ Dance Mix, Swinging Massages from the Ceiling

Today we awoke at 6:30am, a veritable sleep in, and made it to the hiking meeting point at exactly 7am. This morning the hardest hike offered was a Level 3 and as we sussed out our fellow hikers, it was clear that these were no experts. There were two pudgy 60-something women wearing their new Ranch t-shirts, such an amateur move, as well as a mother daughter duo who were, I surmised, at long last attempting to make good on a new year’s resolution to get into shape, and one 75-year old gentleman with his own hiking stick, water bottle belt and some wicked varicose veins. Once aboard the van, the elder man who was sitting next to David, introduced himself and began to tell us his life story without any prompting or for that matter show of interest on our part.

Danny is from Brooklyn originally, and 47 years in LA have done precious little to modify his prodigious Brooklyn accent. “I’m Da-ehn-ny from LA bud I grew ub in Brooklyn, you evah hoid of the late comedian Jack Benny, funny guy very funny in a Jewish kinda way ah-end if you grew ub in Brooklyn when Jackie, that’s my wife, and I did then you eeder are Jewish oh-wer you should be, ha, ha, ha. Anyway, like Jack use to say, Benny I’m tawkin aboud, “You can take da boy oudda Brooklyn but ya cain’t take the Brooklyn oudda da boy.” Ya know whad I mean?” Needless to say with Danny present, one needed to do little other than nod, smile, laugh intermittently and answer the odd question no matter how personal.

Our guides on this hike were Warren, a 50-something year old smiling man with a grey mullet worn in a ponytail that accentuated his fluffy sideburns, and Donna, a no-nonsense woman in her late 50’s with the kind of leathery skin only acquired by years of hiking in the hot desert sun. Two hiking poles in hand, we set out into Sabino National Park for our 1,100 foot ascent.

Out on the trail, Danny immediately motioned toward the mother daughter duo behind us and told me just how often newbies overestimate their fitness level on hikes and slow the entire group down. “Whadda shame. Jackie, she nevah comes hiking wid me cause she knows I like to hike fa-est and she, god bless hah is like a tortess wid no race.” Over the course of the next few hours I learned plenty about Jackie, Danny’s two sons and daughters-in-law “da best, knock wood, bedda than any real daugh-ders could be, serious I tell you like angels.”

After our hike, I enjoyed a facial with my fav facialist here Yvgenia, who remains determined to one day sell me her luxurious potions which I consistently refuse. As a former physician in her native Russia, Yvgenia employs very convincing terminology to try and tempt me into buying her spa goodies but I am not easily persuaded, no matter how authoritative the accent. I was starving by 1pm when I sat down to a fiber filled lunch with David in the dining room. Having partially digested my lettuce, I decided to try DJ Dance Mix class, which is an aerobics class with a live DJ spinning the music. The woman with the slightly-too-tight facelift to my left looked positively euphoric as she kick, ball, changed her scrawny heart out. Then it was off to my 100-minute Ashiatsu treatment, a deep tissue massage performed by a therapist who essentially steps on you while holding onto ceiling bars for support. Another romantic dinner for two replete with psylium husk sprinkles and the keen sense that my colon has never been so happy. After dinner we decided upon a DVD in our room; not surprisingly after last night’s embarrassing defeat David was not quite in the mood for Scrabble before bed.

Rubbery egg whites, Level 5 machismo, Glide n Burn, and Warm Chocolate Cakette

The wakeup call rang at 6am, and within 30 minutes I had donned my hiking gear, had a cup of tea and some egg whites that were devoid of any flavor, and was meeting the guides and guests who would soon be climbing into the Ranch van with David and I to head out on our 4 hour, Level 4 hike. Now for those of you new to the Ranch, the Level of a hike is not a matter to be taken lightly. And a Level 4 is not something to be entered into without serious advance consideration. The lowest Level is 1 (people who walk in white Reeboks with fanny packs and Tilly hats) while the highest is Level 5 (people who wear only Lululemon, have an assortment of hiking boots, and enjoy sprinting 2,000 feet uphill while discussing the 53 miles bike ride they are taking after lunch). Level 4 is for the fit and fast, and therefore anyone who cannot keep up with the pace of the group is appropriately shunned.

As we gathered in the spa lobby to meet our guides Donna and Michael, I could feel the other hikers eyeing me and David. They looked us up and down. Would we slow them down? Yes, we had hiking boots and yes, Dave wore a Lululemon thermal top, but I had an Icebreaker fleece on and this confused the onlookers. As it turned out they were a group of 10 women from Toronto who travel to the Ranch together annually and take their fitness very, very seriously. They made sure to let us know that they were only taking this hike because no Level 5’s were offered this particular morning. David clung to our guide Michael, the only other male, for safety and I adopted a somewhat friendly yet slightly aloof posture in an effort to stand my ground. I didn’t need them to be my friend; I just needed them to recognize me as their cardiovascular peer. Once in the van, the women isolated David and descended upon him like locusts; where were we from, how often do we visit the Ranch, do we hike at home, do we have children etc. David, slightly giddy from the female attention managed to hold his own and when we emerged from the van and began our 1,800 foot climb, in a show of strength he took the lead position right behind Michael.

After the first 20 minutes of vertical climbing, David was still in the lead and a group of four of the Toronto gaggle were between him and me with the rest straggling a few minutes behind. The women relaxed, realizing that we would not be slowing them down today. They quickly become remarkably friendly and engaging. I learned of their life stories, Jessica the 50-year old blond directly in front of me with the killer legs shared how she is handling her recent discovery that her 15-year old son is smoking pot and hanging out with a bunch of skate boarders. She is using humor. For example when she removed a hash pipe from his jacket the other day, she called him to the laundry room to hand it to him and inform him that they don’t wash well and he should really just rinse it out in the sink. Bold move.

Jennifer the 51-year old slightly chubby one of the group explained that her husband of 27 years has been dying to come to the Ranch with her for years but that she feels she deserves a getaway once a year to a place of her very own, and didn’t I agree. I told her that I most certainly did agree but really it was just to make her like me more. And Molly the 48-year old with the husband who never remembers to take the kids to the dentist (“tell me about it” I added although in truth David has never forgotten to take the kids to the dentist) without being reminded, told me all about her case of the Shingles and the time she almost died of altitude sickness in Breckenridge. Before we summitted, Jill the 45-year old redheaded ringleader of the gang asked how long David and I had been married. When I responded that it will be 17 years in July, she smacked me affectionately on the arm (fortunately not sending me head first over the edge of the cliff), and confessed that the group thought we were newlyweds as we hardly looked old enough to even be at the Ranch. They were just lovely.

After our hike, we returned to the Ranch in time for my noon Mango Sugar Body Scrub, which was followed by lunch, then a Glide ‘n Burn (killer muscle toning) class, an hour lounging by the pool and my 5pm Acutonics session. What is Acutonics you ask, well it is a variation on the theme of Acupuncture where needles are replaced with tuning forks that are placed on the key pressure points and reverberate the sound throughout your body. This encourages the free flow of chi as well as the release of the emotions guided by the zodiac which are all represented in the various sounds which emanate. Tres New Age.

My therapist, Marta, explained that different times of the year were better for this kind of work depending on your position in the universe. I confided to Marta that I was born in retrograde and so now is an especially good time for me to retune. Marta was delighted because Marta of course knew that Mercury went into retrograde on April 21st and would remain there until May 21st and that the only way I would know that is if I were an enlightened being. Marta gave my arm a brief but meaningful squeeze, “I was born in retrograde too,” she told me, and we shared a deep knowing smile.

Rebalanced after the session which concluded with a magnificent Neptune inspired Ohm on the enormous gong, I met up with David and we went for dinner. Thanks to the 2,000 calories I had burned hiking and burning, I was able to order the 140 calorie warm chocolate cake, which it turned out was sadly the circumference of a small yogurt container and only a quarter inch think.
I cheered myself up by beating David handily at Scrabble.

San Jose Not-So-International Airport, Frida Pinto bashing, Contraband Cola, and Loma Loma Loma

I awoke at 4:30am and stealthily dressed in the dark to ensure I did not wake my sleeping hubby. I tiptoed down the stairs and into the awaiting sedan, whereupon I was whisked off to the airport to catch my 6am flight to Phoenix. San Jose International Airport (SJC) at 5am does not hold quite the allure of Heathrow or Charles de Gaules or frankly even O’Hare.

The word International is quite misleading as the only border crossing flights to arrive at SJC are from Mexico. Understandably there are no Duty Free shops, no exotic Malaysian flight attendants scurrying about, no fabulously sophisticated European men in Lacoste polos and dark wash denim with handmade Italian leather shoes and no socks. In effect the only thing that is truly international about SJC are the janitors and food service workers. So after ordering my Venti Earl Grey tea and buying the latest edition of W magazine (sadly thin due to the slow return of the advertising business) I boarded my flight somewhat somberly.

I had paid US Airways an additional $10 for the privilege of occupying seat 5F and was praying to have a mute or at least seriously anti-social neighbor. Alas, a young Indian man, who to my surprise turned out not to be an IAT graduated engineer, sat next to me and after a brief hello had the good sense to occupy himself with his iPhone. As I would later learn on the flight, Frida Pinto is not even a top 100 heroine (what they call female movie stars) to the knowledgeable Bollywood loyalist. She’s essentially the Sandra Bullock of India, mediocre looks, mediocre talent, but somehow a bankable sensation. I took an immediate liking to my new friend; his cynicism was delicious so early in the morning.

By the time we landed we had exchanged fav iPhone apps, I shared Dragon Dictation and he shared Google Voice Search (I felt it best to withold the fact that I was already a fan of the product), and we parted without ever shaking hands or exchanging names. So refreshing to meet a stranger and then bid one another farewell without any pretense of wanting to keep in touch or meet again.

My driver met me straight away and whisked me off after handing me a bottle of water dripping with melted ice water from his cooler. It was a two and a half hour drive to Tucson and what I imagined would no doubt be my triumphant return to Canyon Ranch. I loaded up my laptop with the classic film “So I Married An Axe Murdered”, and sat back to enjoy the ride. When we were 30 minutes from our destination, I asked the driver if he wouldn’t mind stopping at a Circle K quick stop so that I could pick up some essentials before reaching the Ranch. I hopped out and made fast for the large refrigerators at the back of the shop in search of two things that are strictly contraband at the Ranch but without which any stay would be far too painful to bear; Coke Zero and Chardonnay.

I found the Coke Zero immediately and loaded up a dozen small bottles with twist tops, they may cost more but it tastes so much better than out of the can. Then I explored the wine selection and this is where dear reader I learned a very important and surprising lesson; namely that there are California Chardonnays which retail for less than $5. It was shocking to see that the Tropicana was more expensive than the Glen Ellen or the Beringer, see pic. Needless to say, it took me a while to locate the most expensive bottle in the shop, a lovely $13.99 Beringer that I am optimistically thinking may contain the very same wine that sells for $45 at my local Safeway.

I also had the good sense to remember to buy a corkscrew to avoid the need for shoving the cork into the bottle with a knife, which is what I have had to resort to on prior visits. I checked in, moving through the process with a graciousness and command that the newbie in the abutting check in lounge chair would no doubt have found enviable. “Oh, I love the new photos, so charming,” to which Cynthia nodded in agreement as she handed me my new Ranch t-shirt. "Great new design," I smiled. In my room, strategically placed midway between the Spa and the Dining Room, I caught up on my This Week at the Ranch reading and headed off for my 6pm 100 minute Thai Massage.

I smiled as I walked straight past the Spa reception desk and confidently strode into the Women’s Locker Room, where I politely announced to the ponytailed attendant that I would like my locker for the week please. To this she replied, “If you’d like to check in at Spa Reception, they can assign you a locker and then I’ll be happy to open it for you and show you how it works.” Classic Rookie mistake, I was devastated, ashamed and defeated. I skulked back out and asked Maria at Reception if I might have a locker. She assigned me Locker 124, to which I said, "Thank you." Then adding for clarification, "Is it a top or a bottom?" She looked at me apologetically, “I’m afraid we have no more tops, but if you’d like to check back tomorrow, it looks like 187 may be available after 10am.” Was it a bad dream? Was it some kind of cosmic joke? I couldn’t be sure but decided to soldier on.

Jenny greeted me in the relaxation room, calling out for “Loma Borenstein”. I didn’t have the heart to correct her and tried to imagine what my life would be like were I in fact named Loma. Once in the treatment room she inquired whether I had enjoyed Thai massage before, to which I simply replied, “yes.” Jenny probed further, as to whether I had enjoyed it here at the Ranch before, to which I once again replied, “yes.” Jenny then asked how many times I had been to the Ranch, to which I replied simply, “four.” Jenny then said the kindest thing to me I’d heard all day, “Oh, Loma you are a real regular.” Yes Jenny, blessed sinewy, spritely Jenny, Loma is a regular here at the Ranch.

Hotel Alarms at Dawn, Donut Debates, Private Pool for Three, and Shells, Shells, and More Shells

At exactly 7:44am the hotel siren began to sound at full blast. The whooping of the siren was followed by high decibel bleats and then the humorless voice of a woman announcing that “An alarm has been detected in your area, please stay tuned for further instructions.” This siren/announcement played on a loop for a full 15 minutes before it stopped. As if that were not sufficient punishment, after finally falling back asleep the telephone began ringing at 8:30am, and why you ask was the woman on the phone calling at this early hour, “Good Mahrning Mrs. Bahrenst-eye-in, this is Charlotte cawlin’ to ah-pollo-chize for dee ah-larm dis mahrnin’. I wuz makin’ waffles in the Club kitchen fahr brek-fahst and burned dem which set ahff dee ah-larm. Everyting is figh-en and der is not’in’ to worry bout. I’ll luke fahrward to seein’ you and de children up here at de Club lah-yet-er dis mahrnin fahr brek-fahst.” Brilliant.

After this second wake up, I figured it was probably best to get up rather than fall back asleep and surely be awoken again, probably to be informed that there would be pancakes for breakfast. The kids enjoyed taste testing the mini donuts at breakfast, comparing the vanilla and chocolate was a serious business for these two aficionados. The vanilla were deemed the superior flavor after much vigorous debate. Justin also shared with us his "cool look" which you can appreciate in the breakfast pic above, it is a look only to be used to display natural coolness in front of the camera and not to be attempted by amateurs or imposters.

We decided to spend the day at the pool reserved for Cove guests only, which is on a much quieter part of the beach and as we discovered quite a bit swankier. Me likey! Carefully selected pool attendants and servers are plentiful here, and the billowy soft lounge chair cushions are divine as are the bright canary yellow towels which play magically off the turquoise color of the Caribbean.

We spent hours hunting for shells on the beach. The beach is littered with thousand of perfect miniature conch, nautilus and every other type of shell imaginable, and the kids marveled at how many beautiful shells they gathered. At lunchtime I queued up in the line that was forming at the poolside grill to order our food but a kind server named Estella, lead me to an empty table where we sat comfortably in the shade as she took our food order. Justin, Livvy and I spent hours on the lazy river and revisited our favorite slides as well, but mostly we enjoyed our serene, cordoned off slice of the resort.

Feeling adventurous, we had dinner off the resort at a delicious restaurant called Café Matisse, and closed out the day with an impromptu photo shoot in the romantically lit foyer of the hotel.

Trainer For A Day, Tolerating Bobby Jo, Fish Breath Kiss, Dolphin Transportation Assistance

We awoke to another sunny day on Paradise Island and headed over to the Dolphin Cay at 10am to check in for our “Trainer For A Day” program. Our trainer introduced herself as “T” which is short for Tazia, and she had a gentle manner with the kids as well as a snappy sense of humor, which came in handy throughout the day. We were grouped with 4 other guests, a 10-year old boy named Juan, two 13-year old best friends from Virginia Beach named Zoe and Lexi, and a pure caricature of a woman from Mississippi named Bobby Jo with a deep drawl and an infinite desire to speak incessantly and at inappropriately high volume. In short, Bobby Jo is the reason Jamie Oliver has begun a revolution.

We learned more about Bobby Jo during our 6 hour trainer program than anyone could reasonably want to imagine. For example the story of how she acquired her name, which incidentally was offered without anyone actually asking about it, “Da-yew-Dee’s nay-em is Raw-Bert, Momma’s JoDene, and Da-yew-Dee always wahn-ned a boyee, so they done called me Bob-eh Jo). I got the low down on the various buffets offered aboard Bobby Jo’s Disney Cruise as well which dessert items she feels are truly world class, or as Bobby Jo puts it, “speck-tack-alar like, gawed’s honest truth I tell ya’”.

While Bobby Jo’s incessant questions, piercing loud voice, excruciating donkey like laughter, nauseating soliloquies, persistent threats of fainting when in the fish prep room and sea lion encounter, as well as her spine chilling squeals of terror, had been more than enough to turn the kids viciously against her, it was only while she was receiving a complimentary dolphin foot push across the pool courtesy of Elijah (the incredibly strong dolphin who managed to propel Bobby Jo’s oversized body mass some 75 feet before falling away, exhausted into the water), that I began resenting the duty I had endured all day, namely zipping and unzipping her enormous wet suit over her back folds. I momentarily fantasized about the dolphins attacking her, a la Sea World Orlando but quickly reminded myself after some cleansing breaths that anyone who speaks that loudly and that much, must lead a life wherein she feels she is not listened to, and the least I could do was tolerate her with a modicum of grace. Namaste.

As we walked back to our hotel after the Trainer Day had ended, the kids insisted I repeatedly impersonate Bobby Jo, especially her cackle, until our cheeks all hurt from laughing and Justin got the hiccups. What a great day!
Dinner tonight was very much enjoyed at Nobu (thank you Tiffany) where the Rock Shrimp were pure perfection and the kids professed their miso soup to be every bit as good as our local Japanese fave in historic downtown Los Gatos. The line for Ben&Jerry’s in the Marina Village was epic and so the kids opted for some vanilla bean frappacinos at Starbucks instead accompanied by Justin’s recommendation of going halfsies on the Classic Coffee Cake and Plain Glazed Crueler. The taste test unanimously revealed that the Crueler was the superior dessert pastry product, in case you ever need to choose.