Okay. We're all thinking it so I'm just going to say it, get it out of my system and move on as if it never happened.

First, a disclaimer: I absolutely respect and admire the talent, training, athleticism and dedication involved with any sport. Even rhythmic gymnastics and synchronized swimming. Actually, especially rhythmic gymnastics and synchronized swimming. Some of the stuff they make their bodies do is freaky weird, and in the team competitions they have to perform those freaky weird moves in perfect synchronization with the other team members. I fully understand how difficult this must be, even for skilled athletes.

But.

They're the butt of jokes and not taken seriously as "real" athletes. Which is a shame because the moves they're doing are really difficult.

It boils down to their "uniforms." I truly believe they'd be taken far more seriously if they weren't wearing hysterical costumes and garish makeup.

Yep, marketing baby, marketing. Pare down the costumes, leave the blue eye shadow and glitter bronzer at home. Ta dah! A) Viewers will focus on your athleticism instead of your appearance; and B) You won't be the source of sniggers and raised eyebrows on the medal podium. (Unless you have a, erm, "moment" like Henrik Rummel.*)

Here are a few cases in point.

Synchronized swimming. I know slightly more than the average Jane about this, and not just because I enjoy Esther Williams movies. I spent summers of my years 8 - 13 at Girl Scout camp wherein several hours a day were devoted to swimming skills. There was a big camp finale the last day of camp wherein feats of skill and daring were showcased. A mini-Olympics of sorts. I was also on my high school's swim team. In both these scenarios the subject of synchronized diving and swimming arose. I attended camp with a close friend. We were BFFs from the time our mothers got together for tea and put us in the same crib for naps. We took our swim lessons together, we practiced together in backyard pools, we perfected acrobatic tricks on the same swingsets...so we had an innate symbioses. The synchronized diving and swimming should have been a cinch for us. And, we were, you know, good. Ish. But. Synchronized anything is very, very difficult. Add water, above and under, and lemme tell you, it's difficult. We spent every moment we could get in a pool or lake during the off season to work on our routine for camp the next year and we still a) sucked and b) almost drowned. We took home the "silver" a couple years and "gold" our final year at camp, but that was primarily because a) we handcrafted bedazzled bathing caps to wear during our final routine and the judges gave us credit for our arts and craft ability and b) our toughest competition gave up mid-way through their routine because one of them inhaled water and almost choked to death. Don't let the sequined bathing caps and nose clips fool you, scary stuff, this synchronized swimming.

My high school swim team scrapped the attempt at synchronized swimming after three practice sessions, and we weren't even going for fancy choreography. We were just aiming for an athletic showcase number for an end-of-season swim meet. 12 girls attempting to swim in a circle, submerge and break the surface at about the same time. That was it. Basic stuff. Two girls, regional swim team champs, no less, nearly drowned trying to manage that basic two minute routine.

So. Huge props to the synchronized swim teams. I know you're athletic and skilled and the teamwork involved is phenomenal.

But if you wear outfits and makeup like this, you can't blame casual observers for writing you off as disco in the pool.

I call this, "Ode to Tammy Faye Baker."

Yes, that's a hand making a grab for their lady regions. Discuss. I desperately want to believe the scary anime faces on the Russian team's boobs are an homage to traditional folk art Matryoshka dolls. But. As the team dove and emerged, splashing all the while, the faces on their suits looked like additional team members. Siamese twins attached at the boobs, bobbing in and out of the water in perfect synch with the team. It was hugely distracting. And nightmare inducing.

Why the exaggerated eye shadow ladies? Why?

And this kind of behavior isn't helping end the "it's not a 'real' sport" comments and jokes.

The Chinese swim team (non synchronized) had perfect swim suits. I liked them. They were athletic but had a little flair that invoked dragons and water, but didn't distract from the athletes' moves. Something like that would be ideal for synchronized swimming. A little flair, but basically utilitarian and not a distraction from the skills being performed.


 Okay, let's talk rhythmic gymnastics, shall we?

I will open with the admission that I am fairly clueless about gymnastics. Like most girls at my school, I took "tumbling" intramural sessions when I was young. But when, at age 8, I was already as tall as (or taller than) most Olympic gymnasts, it was obvious gymnastics wasn't in my athletic cards. (Ditto figure skating.) However, until I injured my ankle/foot a few years ago I could still turn a perfect cartwheel (which is where I focused my years in intramural tumbling). The training stuck with me. And thus concludes my knowledge of gymnastics.

I do, however, recall how hard the gymnastic girls trained. My friends and I stood against the wall of the school gym, slack-jawed awestruck, and marveled at what those girls, girls we knew, were doing. Handsprings, flips, twists, crazy scary stuff on the balance beam, weirdo tumbling dance moves. On the playground the gymnastics girls flipped and twirled around the monkey bars. Most of them needed help reaching the higher monkey bars. If I was feeling charitable I'd help one of them reach the higher bars...and then they'd flip and twirl and do some freaky crazy shit on those bars. Sure, I could reach the highest bars, but my attempts to flip and twirl on them ended with painful crotch slams and me eating a dirt sandwich. I eventually wrote it off as a shorter girl's game and gave up. I could turn a perfect cartwheel. That was good enough for me.

A couple girls I knew went on to train and compete at state meets. One even went to "nationals" a few times. And they had to learn how to do the rhythmic stuff - the swilly ribbon, the dances with ball thing, the hoop stuff, all of it. I watched them practice during gym class (from the safety of the badminton or fencing areas) and I know it's not as easy as it looks. It looks stupid but it's difficult.

The image problem, as I see it, is threefold. 1) The props; 2) the dance aspect; 3) the costumes.

Ribbons, small children's play balls, brightly colored hula hoops and those juggling pins don't exactly scream, "Years of training, skill, agility and strength worthy of international competition." Props of any kind tend to reduce a sport to "leisure activity." Why not a jump rope event? Why not a plate spinning event? Or ring toss? Oh, I know, what about a blindfolded pin-the-medal-on-the-gymnast event?  Props (especially silly ones like play balls and juggling pins and ribbons) add an element of hokey to the whole thing. Is this an Olympic event or a Gallagher tribute? Like the costumes, props are a distraction. Viewers end up focusing on the props instead of the athlete, and the takeaway is, "It's just ribbons and balls and hula hoops and juggling pins. That's stupid and doesn't belong at the Olympics."

It all comes down to this moment. In her mind she hears a stern Bela Karolyi-esque coach yelling, "Use your eyes to make love to the sparkly ball! Jazz hand, dammit, JAZZ HAND!!"

So, does she work children's parties with Lolo the clown on weekends? If they have to use juggling pins could they at least use pins that don't look like they came in a Fisher Price playset with ring toss and bubble wands (ages 18 mos. - 3 years)?

The girls are such good gymnasts that they make it look easy, as if contestants voted off Dancing with the Stars could head over the the gymnastics hall and win a consolation prize in rhythmic gymnastics. All that's missing is scores for best jazz hands. I know that's not the case, one look at these girls' muscles and flexibility tells you there is some serious training going on behind the scenes. But they're choreographed and they use jaunty, sassy dance moves between the gymnastic moves and that makes it seem, well, kinda cheesy and just glorified dancing.

Or stripping.

This year, especially, the moves and held positions are, well, in a word, pornographic. And it's not because my mind is in the gutter. Most of these routines look like an interpretation of Whitesnake videos. Take a look at these stills. I dare you to look me in the eyes and say men around the world are not jerking off while watching this. I felt like I needed to leave a stack of dollar bills on top of my television after watching some of the routines.

WTF? No really, WTF?  "Just squeeze, squeeze, squeeze your way to thinner thighs!"

I once took a stripper aerobics class. Don't judge me. My friend had a free coupon. The teacher, an actual stripper, showed us this move as a pole dismount.

The sexual metaphors write themselves.

Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.

Mainly, though, I blame their image issue on their costumes. Like synchronized swimming, the costumes have to be seen to be believed. And they're a huge distraction from the athletes and their performances. The 2012 batch of rhythmic Olympians really went for the gusto in their costumes. They took it so far beyond lace and rhinestones that it's difficult to articulate what they wore.

Maybe This Time... If the whole gymnastics thing doesn't work out she has a bright future as a dancer in Cabaret. Five, six, seven, eight and leap and twirl and leap and twirl...

Anyone who's ever attended a Greek wedding doesn't need me to explain that she's on the Greek team.

I have no idea what's going on here, or how it's in any way athletic, but the costumes are awesome.

The Israelis, however, get my vote for the gold. Their dominatrix outfits, complete with harnesses, cement the reputation as, "The Sport of Strippers." Bondage fans the world over rejoiced when the Israeli women took the mat.

The classic, "Sacrificing of the Dom" move.

Okay. Got that out of my system.

Ladies of the pool and mat, I admire your agility, strength and athletic prowess. I really do. I'm just saying, you know, from a marketing perspective, there are some tweaks you could make to improve the reputation of your sports.

And by the way, in lesser known women's sports, the US women's basketball team is doing fabulous and poised to bring home gold. You go, girls. High five. Literally.





*Okay, since we're getting it all out of our systems, here...we have a pretty good idea what sort of heat a lot of the spandex and lycra clad male Olympians are packing. (the popularity of men's swimming is not due solely to the US medal dominance) In re: Rummel: If that thing's not fully loaded, I, for one, would like to see a comparison of what kind of heat he packs when he is, erm, cocked and ready.)

Generally, you know, day in, day out, I've come to a place of acceptance of my spinsterhood. By that I mean that I don't think about it any more than I think about the color of my eyes. It's just one of many characteristics about me that I take for granted. But you know how it is with those things. You're so used to it that you don't notice it, but it's a flashing beacon to other people.

But every now and then we get a stark or harsh reminder that things we take for granted about ourselves are not so mundane to other people.

I wish it was just the color of my eyes. But nope. If you're the sole single person in your social circle you stick out like the proverbial sore thumb. I've reached the place where most of my friends and family don't even discuss it, even gingerly, with me. My spinsterhood is an accepted fact. I put myself on the shelf and there was a collective sigh of relief.

Some of my friends told me I made the "right" decision and that I was "brave" for giving up on men, dating and relationships, and that they were proud of me and admired my courage. They told me it was good that I was getting out with some dignity remaining.

Oh yes. People, my friends and family, assigned words like brave, courage, pride and dignity to my decision to stop trying to date and mate. I think they were trying to make me feel "okay" about my failures with men and relationships and trying to be supportive of me. And I very much appreciate that. But I also know more than that, they were glad "that was over" and they wouldn't have to watch me going through rejection after painful rejection. Dating has a funny side, to be sure, some of those bizarre dates make for great conversation over drinks. But. The sad and ugly undercurrent hurts - regardless who's to "blame" for the bad date or rejection, you're alone. Still single. And with few or dismal prospects on the horizon, everyone involved knows the outlook is bleak and getting bleaker each passing month/year/decade. And that's a serious buzz kill for everyone. So my surrender to the shelf (and permanent exile there) came as a huge relief to people who'd been trying hard not to pity me and my woeful dating life. Finally, no more buoying of spirits, no more, "He just wasn't the right one. The right one's out there waiting for you, so get back out there and find him!" pep talks.

But. Every now and then they either "forget" that I'm up on the shelf or they let a comment about my loser in love status slip. And then there it is: A big, ill-mannered lunk of monster sitting at the table with us. The monster is my spinsterhood.

My friends told me about a woman in their neighborhood who died in her sleep. She was in her mid 60s and seemed healthy so her death was surprise to her neighbors. They are feeling particularly awful about it because the woman had been dead at least a week, maybe two, before someone realized something might be wrong. Her sister, who lives in California had been trying to contact her and grew concerned when calls and emails weren't returned after a week. The sister got in touch with the local police who did a well-being check...and...yeah. Her being wasn't well. It's summer, so the neighborhood kids gathered around when the ambulance showed up, as did the stay-at-home moms. Suddenly everyone came to the same realization, "Now that I think about it, I haven't seen her coming and going the past week..." My was appalled that some of the neighborhood boys dared each other to look in the window of the house to see if they could see the sick/dead body. The autopsy report said she died of natural causes. And, if she "went peacefully in her sleep" then that's the best exit anyone can want. Sad that no one locally missed her or had concerns about her as she decayed in her bed, but at least it appears she "just went to sleep."

My friend said, "This is what happens when people live alone. She never married. I read an article that people who never marry and live alone die much younger than married people or single people who live with friends or relatives." As the words were coming out of her mouth I saw the look on her face as she realized, "Oh crap. I said that out loud. In front of Trillian. Unmarried Trillian who lives alone." She tried to backpedal and realized there was no way to unsay what she just said. She's right. There are a lot of legit statistics pointing to the fact that no matter how happily unmarried people may be, they die younger than married people. And if you live alone you might want to either think about getting a roommate or go ahead and assume you're going to die long before your peers who live with other people. (And the stats I've seen suggest it has to be people who share your dwelling. Cats, dogs, rabbits, hamsters and horses don't count as roommates when it comes to mortality stats.)

So, there we were gathered around my friends' kitchen table. My friend, her husband, me and my spinsterhood. There were a lot of awkward looks and attempts at small talk. My spinsterhood doesn't get out much, so when she escapes she's rude, obnoxious, brooding and sarcastic. She's spinsterhood, after all, those are her defining characteristics. I did my best to shush her, explained to her that my friend wasn't directing the comments at us personally, that it wasn't meant as an insult to us. My spinsterhood went to sulk in another room while the rest of us went out back for some fresh air and a barbecue.

But.

I paid for it on the ride home. Once she's out, my spinsterhood is a relentless demon beast. All the way home she nagged and cajoled and ridiculed and attacked my self esteem. She pointed out all the couples we saw on the way home. "Everyone has someone" my spinsterhood asserted on the train platform, "even her," nodding toward a woman in an ill-fitting double-knit ensemble, her yellowed fingers with chipped nail polish holding a cigarette with a freakishly long ash on it, laughing a loud cough-cackle through teeth that were yellowed or missing. Seated next to her was a neatly dressed man with a protective arm draped around her shoulder, his loving gaze fixed on her, enjoying her cackled jokes. "Everyone, that is, except you," my spinsterhood complained.

And later that night my spinsterhood wouldn't shut up about being alone and lonely. Nag, nag, nag into the wee hours of the morning. "That horrible woman with the cigarette and the nasty cough found a man, for crying out loud. You have some flaws, sister, but c'mon, you have all your teeth, your fingers aren't yellowed and you don't smoke. That oughtta count for something on the dating market. Surely you can find some man, some poor schlump who's as alone as you are..."

"Your friend's neighbor, everyone thought she was nice, but she was alone, too. She must have given up, too. And look what happened to her."

"That's going to be you, you know. You're going to die, somewhere, alone, and you're going to lie there, dead, for ages, weeks...months...before anyone knows you're dead. Your sister doesn't care enough to worry if you don't return calls or emails, so don't count on her calling the police for a well-being check. Think about it, it would take months before anyone you know would honestly worry that something might be wrong with you. There's no one who would miss you, or at least think something was amiss, if they didn't hear from you for a couple weeks. You are going to die alone and no one will know. If you're lucky you'll go peacefully in your sleep, but what if you don't? What if you have a seizure or a heart attack or brain aneurism and you can't call for help? You'll writhe and spasm in pain for hours, days maybe, then die. Alone. And the neighborhood boys will try to catch a glimpse of you only because you're a corpse." 

I told you. She's an ill-mannered, brooding, horrible monster. Which is why I keep her shackled, gagged and caged. I don't let her out, she's just very clever and escapes now and then.

But. She's right. Given the state of my affairs at present, I don't really have much to get "in order." My former job included a small life insurance policy as a benefit. There was an option to buy additional coverage. I bought as much as I was allowed to buy. The settlement would not only cover my "final expenses," it would pay for the handling of my stuff. I slept soundly in the knowledge that my family and friends wouldn't be burdened with my stuff of life after my life ended. The life insurance settlement would give them enough money to pay someone to clean out my place and get rid of my stuff and still have a generous inheritance. The last thing I want (literally) is for my death to be a burden to someone else.

I couldn't afford a life insurance policy after my lay off. This has caused me a lot of sleepless nights and a lot of stress and anxiety. My mother bought be a cemetery plot, not that I wanted one, but she was worried about me not having life insurance and it was something she could do to "help." One of the main reasons I've given away or sold almost everything of value I had is because I was worried what would happen to them if something happened to me. Without life insurance, my possessions would have to be dealt with hastily and no one in my family has the time, money or wherewithal to sort through my things and distribute or sell them in a very short amount of time. I decided it was better for everyone if I just gave them to people I thought would appreciate or use them. Plus I haven't had money for birthday and holiday gifts so I thought it was better to give them something personal, even though it's "used," than nothing at all. That backfired miserably in the form of ridicule and contempt from the recipients, but at least I have eliminated a good percentage of my possessions. 

But. I have a storage locker with my basics in it, the boxes hopefully waiting in the dark for the day I have a job and a place to live and their contents can see the light of day again. It's not a lot of stuff, but it's stuff. Who's going to deal with that? It's not like on that storage locker auction show. My storage place just empties out the evicted storage unit, dumps the clothes and cheap stuff in the dumpster (where the alley pickers then pillage), and haul the rest to an auctioneer who buys large lots and sells the stuff individually. So that's what will happen to my stuff if I die tonight. It's just stuff and I'll be dead so I certainly won't care that homeless people are wearing my clothes and using my dishes and sleeping under my blankets.

But.

Then there's the "other" aspect of dying alone. It's a more gruesome one but it's a fact that I deal with every night. My preference is to sleep naked. But. I don't. Because if I have some weird health crisis and I'm able to tap out 9-1-1 with the last of my mental and physical acuity, I do not want to be naked when the paramedics arrive. I know, I know, they see all kinds of crazy stuff and the least of their concerns is what a patient is wearing, or not.

But. Let's just say I'm not able to get to a phone and call 9-1-1 and I die. Days or weeks or months pass and when someone finally does find me, they not only find me decaying, they find me naked and decaying. So much for dignity in death. This is also partially why I eschew cute/sexy negligees. Because truly, is there anything more sad than a lonely spinster found dead and decaying in a cute/sexy negligee? "It stinks in here. Oh crap, she's dead. Looks like she's been dead for weeks. Ha! Check out the racy negligee she was wearing! They said she's single and hasn't had a date in years, but the old girl remained hopeful right up to the end..."

And so, I wear some sort of t-shirt and sweats combo to bed. Every night. No matter what. Given the law of averages in my current rotation of "for bed" t-shirt pile, there's a high likelihood that if I die tonight, days, weeks or months from now someone will find me wearing a Pixies, Social Distortion or Dead Kennedys t-shirt and a raggedy pair of Sponge Bob pajama bottoms. Not that there's much dignity in that ensemble, either. But. Being discovered dead and decaying in a t-shirt proclaiming "Death to the Pixies," "Somewhere Between Heaven and Hell," or "Too Drunk to Fuck" and Sponge Bob pajama bottoms is a humorously fitting end to my life.

But.

When it's 3 AM and your spinsterhood has been berating and nagging you nonstop for 8 hours, the humor and irony of my bedtime ensembles is of little comfort.

I pondered if it would be that much different if I had a significant other. I'm not a big fan of pajamas, or racy negligees, but I would attempt to make an effort for a significant other. It would be great if he found tattered old concert t-shirts and Sponge Bob pajama bottoms alluring, but even I know that's asking a lot of a man. Any man. And naked? Well, some guys find that sexy, other guys do not. My skin is really white, I kind of illuminate at night, so, naked's not a really good look for me. I'd wear, or not wear, whatever the guy prefers with the written agreement that if a paramedic or coroner has to be called a quick dressing into civilized attire will be made.

When my mother started having health issues she had some unexpected episodes that required ambulance rides. On one occasion she was wearing a skirt and blouse. The paramedics unbuttoned her blouse to hook up a heart monitor and in the commotion of getting her onto a gurney her skirt got hiked up around her hips. My dad was allowed to ride in the ambulance while I followed in the car. As they hoisted my mother into the ambulance I saw my dad sorting out her clothes - and her dignity. It was a small, quick, reflexive gesture, but one that my mother surely appreciated. No woman, even the sluttiest slut, wants her blouse unbuttoned and skirt hiked up around their hips while the neighborhood gossips are watching and speculating about why the ambulance was called.

That's the sort of respect and understanding that comes with marriage, I suppose. You respect and understand each other to the point that you make sure the other is presentable when they are not able to sort themselves on their own. Also, those situations tend to make you feel really helpless. My dad had to turn my mother "over" to the paramedics, there wasn't much he could do for her, but, he could button her blouse and straighten her skirt, preserve her modesty. It occurred to me, back then, in that moment, that I want a man who will button my blouse and straighten my skirt when I'm being hoisted into an ambulance. It may not be the full measure of a man, but it speaks volumes about him.

That was back when I was still trying to date and mate. I haven't thought about it since I put myself on the shelf. But this whole business with my friends' neighbor dying and no one finding her for a couple weeks has me, and my spinsterhood, stirred up into a paranoid frenzy.

Why did I give up on men and dating? Primarily because I didn't meet a man who was a) interested in me and b) would button my blouse and straighten my skirt if I were rendered incapable of doing it myself, among other respectful things. 

Okay, so, that didn't work out, what's plan B for those incapacitated situations? No life insurance, no money in the bank, spinster...safe to presume I will die alone (spare me the philosophy, I know we all die "alone") or will be alone when a paramedic-required situation arises. Getting a grip on that took me a while because the spinsterhood monster really had a field day with this one. She would not let the subject drop. Nag, nag, nag. She thinks a few old lady Lanz nighties would be a good investment. Long sleeved, floor length and buttoned up to the neck. With lace trim. She's right, they are the go-to bedtime apparel choice of spinsters the world over. All the spinsters in movies wear Lanz, or Lanz-like nighties. I'm starting to understand why. When you live alone you think about things like how they'll find you if you die in your sleep, and those puritanical nightgowns offer a respectable solution to preserving some dignity. I can't afford them, so, my old t-shirts and ratty pajama bottoms will have to do.