Early on election day, I went to the YMCA as per my Tuesday routine. The senior stretching class was still winding down, so I moseyed over to a bench near the cubbies, to wait for chair yoga to begin. The bench was already occupied by a woman with big blonde Texas hair. (A Republican hairdo. She’s definitely a Republican.) I sat next to her. “Hi. How are you?”
Expecting an automated fine-thanks-you in response, I was surprised when she extended her hand. “Morning, I’m Calvinette.” (Wow. She’s very friendly. Definitely a Democrat.)
Her firm grip felt like an invitation. “I’m Dawn,” I said. “Love your name. You should be a country music star.”
She laughed good and loud. “I can’t sing.” It was a proclamation, not an admission. I took an instant liking to her.
I scooted closer to hear above the motivational music blaring through the room. “I haven’t seen you in yoga before. First time?”
“Sometimes it’s hard to get out this early. My husband has Alzheimer’s. But … he still has his sense of humor.” (Caregiver, healthcare worries. Democrat.) “We’ve been married 60 years. High school sweethearts. My kids like to brag about us.” (Family values. Republican.) “You got kids?”
“Nope,” I said.
“I’ve got four grandchildren in college. Baylor, William and Mary Law School, Rockhurst, Indiana University.” (Republican.) “Fortunately, they have scholarships.” (Democrat.)
“They’re really spread out. Any family in town?”
“My son’s here. Just moved from one end of town to another. He owns a business and was getting away from the city earnings tax.” (Republican.)
After the stretching class ended, there was a changing of the guard, as the stretching seniors left the room and the yoga seniors entered.
Among the sagging sweat pants in shades of beige, Calvinette sported sleek black tights. Her stride was long and bouncy, speedier than mine. We claimed chairs side by side. I’d been taking the class for several months, and setting my water bottle under my chair, glimpsed the half dozen familiar faces around me. Among the expressions weary from achey knees and new hips, Calvinette’s expression was flirtatious, greeting the world with a wink. Among the faces left naked, because why put on make-up when you’re going to the gym, hers was an artist’s palette. Eyebrows penciled on by a well-trained hand, soft brown liner, lipstick in just the right shade of bright. Maybe she didn’t sing, but she was a star.
I was glad she wanted to sit by me.
After class, as we stacked our chairs in the storage room before heading toward the door, I said, “See you next week, Calvinette.”
“I’m staying for weight-lifting. (Democrat.) You should stay.”
I hesitated, feeling the tug of the day’s obligations.
She laughed and touched my shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s not heavy-duty. I lift a barbell with two and a half pounds on each end. After all, I’m eighty-eight.” (Eighty-eight? What? Democrat. No, wait. Republican. No. Independent?)
I resisted the temptation to stay, obligations winning out over the promise of Calvinette’s southern girl charm. As I turned to leave, she announced to the others milling around, “Everybody be sure to vote. And if you need a ride, I’ll take you.”
I was grateful I didn’t know which way she’d vote—this big-haired star who’d brightened my election day.
Expecting an automated fine-thanks-you in response, I was surprised when she extended her hand. “Morning, I’m Calvinette.” (Wow. She’s very friendly. Definitely a Democrat.)
Her firm grip felt like an invitation. “I’m Dawn,” I said. “Love your name. You should be a country music star.”
She laughed good and loud. “I can’t sing.” It was a proclamation, not an admission. I took an instant liking to her.
I scooted closer to hear above the motivational music blaring through the room. “I haven’t seen you in yoga before. First time?”
“Sometimes it’s hard to get out this early. My husband has Alzheimer’s. But … he still has his sense of humor.” (Caregiver, healthcare worries. Democrat.) “We’ve been married 60 years. High school sweethearts. My kids like to brag about us.” (Family values. Republican.) “You got kids?”
“Nope,” I said.
“I’ve got four grandchildren in college. Baylor, William and Mary Law School, Rockhurst, Indiana University.” (Republican.) “Fortunately, they have scholarships.” (Democrat.)
“They’re really spread out. Any family in town?”
“My son’s here. Just moved from one end of town to another. He owns a business and was getting away from the city earnings tax.” (Republican.)
After the stretching class ended, there was a changing of the guard, as the stretching seniors left the room and the yoga seniors entered.
Among the sagging sweat pants in shades of beige, Calvinette sported sleek black tights. Her stride was long and bouncy, speedier than mine. We claimed chairs side by side. I’d been taking the class for several months, and setting my water bottle under my chair, glimpsed the half dozen familiar faces around me. Among the expressions weary from achey knees and new hips, Calvinette’s expression was flirtatious, greeting the world with a wink. Among the faces left naked, because why put on make-up when you’re going to the gym, hers was an artist’s palette. Eyebrows penciled on by a well-trained hand, soft brown liner, lipstick in just the right shade of bright. Maybe she didn’t sing, but she was a star.
I was glad she wanted to sit by me.
After class, as we stacked our chairs in the storage room before heading toward the door, I said, “See you next week, Calvinette.”
“I’m staying for weight-lifting. (Democrat.) You should stay.”
I hesitated, feeling the tug of the day’s obligations.
She laughed and touched my shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s not heavy-duty. I lift a barbell with two and a half pounds on each end. After all, I’m eighty-eight.” (Eighty-eight? What? Democrat. No, wait. Republican. No. Independent?)
I resisted the temptation to stay, obligations winning out over the promise of Calvinette’s southern girl charm. As I turned to leave, she announced to the others milling around, “Everybody be sure to vote. And if you need a ride, I’ll take you.”
I was grateful I didn’t know which way she’d vote—this big-haired star who’d brightened my election day.
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