Symmetry

Noun; the quality of being made up of exactly similar parts facing each other or around an axis.

Ask Dan. I've always been a bit nutty about symmetry. It must be because I'm a Libra. Balance. Everything must be equal.

Lack of symmetry = Bad

I've recently taken up photography, hoping to become good enough at it to balance my pictures with Dan’s ability to find a story in everything. The symmetry of pictures and words. A project we could take into retirement. What I see in pictures = what he articulates in words. It might happen, it’s been quite a learning curve.

The barrier is that I've found that photography is not about symmetry; it’s about tension, the “rule of thirds”. Drawing the eye with a discordant element that causes the viewer to stop and look a bit longer. Except when it’s not about creating tension, when it is about balance and symmetry, because symmetry is what the image demands, because the subject is too traditional to impose tension. I just typed this and I don't completely get it. It’s all very confusing. I’m learning with every 100 pictures.  

I took my camera and incomplete knowledge of photography on our annual trip to Key West. Fantasy Fest. I snapped a lot of people pictures. Up close and in their face. It was fairly easy to do, people don’t get all garbed and painted to avoid having their picture taken. One picture, one face and with an attempt to get so close that I could impose symmetry on the image. I suppose my desire to stay within my comfort zone means I came home with a lot of snapshots and very little in the way of “art”.

Three witches does not equal "Rule of Thirds" 

I hauled my camera around as Dan and I participated in parties and parades and crawls. Both of us dressed in a costume to match every event. The symmetry of a couple, married for a long time, understanding each other’s boundaries. For example, at the tutu pub-crawl, Dan wore black while I wore red. We looked good and had a great time, moving from place to place. It’s a poker run, so I was thrilled to get “a pair”. Symmetry. We stopped at five different places, enjoying the camaraderie.

I know this is two pair.

Our fourth stop was at “Coyote Ugly”, a place where the young, enthusiastic, curvy bartender gets up and starts dancing on the bar, encouraging other women in the crowd to jump up and join in the fun. I watched as other women in our group climbed up on the bar and started dancing, thinking that with a bit of encouragement I’d be there as well. Tension. Instead, I took pictures of the ladies who were brave enough to get up there and dance.

A week later, Dan and I went to our usual spontaneous Thursday night at Hectors. Talking to friends, I mentioned Coyote Ugly and how much fun it was. Dan said he never needed to go there again. Tension. I said with just a bit of a nudge from Dan, I would have danced on the bar. Dan just went blank and stared at me.

This required some discussion. Dan explained that he was very aware what a good dancer I am, and had wanted me to go up on the stage. But after 36 years of my asking him to not put me on a Barbie pedestal, he was loathe to do so. The symmetry of our relationship, as I look at it from here, is that Dan has always looked at me as a far sexier woman than I see myself. As my self-confidence has continued to expand, I realize I need to give Dan some notice that a bit of encouragement at, say, Coyote Ugly won't land him in the dog (coyote) house. (Dan, who along with wingman James started the “tutu” part of the pub crawl, has already contacted the organizer of the crawl and requested Coyote Ugly be a stop next year. No explanation given. None asked. Thanks Ef, I think.)

Taking this silly blog to an ending I was mildly disappointed not to be on stage, but as I think of the fun costumes I wore, or didn’t wear, I have allowed myself to be way more than Paula 1.0 would have ever imagined. I've added tension to my life. And if Dan 1.0 has evolved into someone watching out for me that closely, that works as well. That’s symmetry. And that’s a picture perfect ending that isn't a snapshot.

The Reality of Fantasy Fest

It took a few days of reflection, but I’ve concluded there are both glaring differences and striking similarities between lots of things. Some examples include jet skis and motorcycles; shirts and body paint; people with cameras and people with cameras; sitting at the beach and sitting by the pool; and men wearing socks and men wearing socks. For my 14 loyal readers out there, you know that last week was our third trip to Fantasy Fest, a week long party in Key West Florida. What a blast.

I have written about our first Fantasy Fest before—how Dan researched it for two years prior, and as I’d walk past the computer and catch images of people in paint or wearing next to nothing, my comment was always the same: “If you expect me to wear something like THAT you are sadly mistaken.” After this year, I realize that somewhere in the great internetosphere, some wife is possibly looking at photos of me and saying the same thing. But I am getting ahead of myself…

For the Loyal 14, you’ll recall that in a previous post I wrote about my love of roller coasters and high speeds. While I wanted to do it last year, we never seemed to find the time to take a jet ski around the island. And while I mentioned it several times over the winter, I can’t say that Dan yelped with excitement. So when I stopped at a booth to inquire on price and availability, I looked at Dan, and he had the same plastic smile I’ve seen several dozen times down in Disneyworld as we’d queue for a coaster. And as I did on those occasions, I smiled back and charged ahead.
 

We arrived at the dock, were given some brief instructions (Dan was driving—he has a sport bike—how hard can this be?) and we were launched. Everything was fine until we started to move. The jet ski seemed to veer to the right on its own. Dan would slow down and correct, then veer again. Falling behind our tour group Dan would accelerate only to suddenly veer left or right. His cursing started off soft, but grew ever louder. He was now carpeting the Key West harbor with F-bombs, screaming that he wanted to return to the dock. Thankfully our guide stopped after about 10 minutes to see how everyone was doing. Dan piped up that he’d love to return to the dock and get on a motorcycle. The guide said this: “Leaning does nothing. Speed is your friend. It goes wherever you point the handlebars.” Dan said later that those same instructions on his high center of gravity V-4 Sabre would allow you to taste the wonder of God’s gravel and pavement.

The rest of the trip smoothed. Pretty soon I was hanging on tight and squealing with delight as we bombed over the waves at well over 40 mph. The trip was over way too soon.

That was also on Plaid Tuesday. The day I had decided to get body paint on my upper body (gulp). My skimpy costumes of the previous nights included items that kept me safely covered. At the appointed time we jumped on our bicycles and headed to the paint shop. Most painters are located next to the sidewalk. My painter, Frankie, was located away from the street, but not behind a closed door. In a moment of truth I had to take off my shirt (double gulp). Leaning does nothing. Speed is your friend. It goes wherever you point the handlebars. For the next hour I sat topless as Frankie applied one color after another, working to match the plaid shirt that Dan was wearing. A finishing spray of light lacquer and Frankie was done. He signed his work, took a photo for his album, and I was walking toward a packed Duvall Street wearing shorts, socks and gym shoes. And it was fine.

Looking at the pictures, I was more covered by paint than I was or would be by clothes at several other parties. Which brings me to people with cameras.

There is etiquette at Fantasy Fest when it comes to people with cameras. Here is our version of the rules:

1.) You compliment the person on their costume or paint

2.) You always ask if you can take a picture

3.) You snap the photo of the whole person—no zooming

4.) You thank the person for the photo

5.) You must be in costume/paint to ask for or take a photo

These people can take my picture all night. It’s quite flattering to be a 54-year-old mom of two and to be asked for and to be in lots of pictures—often with other partiers half my age. And then there are The Creepers.

These men are usually white, obese and alone, with high-end cameras and big lenses being used at close range. They:

1.) Step in front of you so you can’t get past

2.) Snap away without asking, confident that neither your chin nor navel will be in the frame

3.) Follow you around if they don’t get what they want

4.) They don’t wear a costume

I put up with it at first, but it got old. One memory: In Capt. Tony’s one night, a creeper would not take my repeated turning away as “No.” He kept trying to get his shot. Dan, sensing my discomfort, did what any Midwesterner would do. He set down his drink, reached out his right hand, and introduced himself. I only saw it from the back, but Dan, smiling, stood there for five to ten seconds, and then released his handshake, turned around and picked up his drink. The creeper said nothing, but turned and left. Only later did Dan admit what happened. There are advantages to lifting heavy things all the time. You can administer a crushing handshake while never losing your smile.

Late that week, Dan had painted on his back “Next year I’m coming as a creepy fat guy with a camera and no costume.” He got a lot of compliments.

And then there is the beach. We sat on the Southernmost beach for a few hours pretty much every day. It is a top optional beach and I absorbed a winter’s worth of Vitamin D. Fletcher, the man who runs the beach and takes care of the beach chairs, will bring around frozen strawberries or frozen towels or put beads on the ladies’ heads or just stop to chat and it’s just natural. Back at the pool by our condo, had something happened to my top I’d be grabbing for a towel. Yes, private pool is on the list for next year.

Lastly, socks. There is an icon on that same beach that we call Sock Man. He’s been there for years. Buff, tan, and wearing a hat and a sock on a string (but only one and not on his feet). As best we can tell, it’s his only job. I don’t really have an analogy to other men in socks—I guess he just popped into my mind.

The most important things I take away from our week in Key West have nothing to do with the pictures or the costumes or the paint or the parties. They have to do with how much more fun we are having as individuals and as a couple. It’s a wonderful emotional connection to Dan and despite the crowds we do focus on each other. We are a couple in love, and in love with fun and adventure. Dan always says “Have fun every day. You’ll be dead a long time.” We're working on the fun, for sure.

10 things I learned in Cozumel

Bad Pancake Dive. Thanks to Kate (the girl with no first name—long story—for this one). The first dive of your vacation. It’s always bad, like a “bad pancake”, burnt on one side, raw on the other – you’ll eat it in your kitchen, but won’t serve it to guests. Make it a shallow dive and don’t dwell on the problems because the rest of your dives just get better. Blame it on a short fill tank and your partner. This worked for Dan.

Underwater photography. Awesome. This point and shoot girl found a new reason to dive more than once per year. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it. For the first time ever I understood the importance of getting the right angle on a subject and patience for the right natural light.  One out of 30 pictures is a keeper, but when you get it right it’s really satisfying.

It’s about the light. Our little camera did a yeoman’s job, but a bright strobe is required to bring out the color in underwater life (It's not all blue and green, depth washes out the red). We’ll be stopping by the dive shop to rent the right gear before we dive again. I now (slightly) regret the Evil Eye I gave Dan when he bought the dive case last year right before we went to Key West. Sorry sorry sorry.

  

Pay for quality. We dive with the same dive center (Dressel Divers based in Spain)  every year. We trust them, their equipment and their expertise. We pay extra. Unlike divers who debriefed with us at the pool bar, we’ve never been LEFT BEHIND by the boat or been forced to squeeze an air hose to keep the air flow to a manageable level. Vince, Jake, Eduardo, Nat, Kate, Mattan, Michael to name a few—Thank You!

Don’t dive wearing green eye shadow. Or perhaps it would be better if you just say NO to the Star Friends when they want you to be in the show. Dan said yes and found himself wearing a dress, covered in make-up. He effectively removed most of it, but the next day, in the sunlight, his eyes were nicely framed by vibrant green eye shadow.

Air pig. An air pig is someone who uses up the air in the tank before their dive buddy. That would be Dan. Except twice, when I was taking lots of pictures and working hard to get close to subjects, then I was the air pig and Dan was forced to ascend with 1000 PSI.

Neutral buoyancy.  Dan is the master of “neutral buoyancy”, in which the diver’s body mass equals the mass it displaces in the water. A diver who has attained neutral buoyancy won’t sink or rise without physical exertion. If you struggle to achieve neutral buoyancy on your own, then dive with a partner that can. And never do a safety stop (15 feet/3 meters for 3 minutes) without one.

Bacon is universal. This highly sought after food is desired by every dive master in Cozumel, a big stack (on bread with cheese, please) will bring a ready smile and extra attention. Jake: “My Precious.” Nuff said.

You need a pirate in every port. (OK, I knew this already) It’s especially important when you are going to miss a pirate kiss on “spontaneous Thursday night at Hector’s”.  Then a pirate kiss in Cozumel, in another Mexican restaurant named after a Pirate, by a friend who IS a pirate is just as wonderful. It really is good to have pirates everywhere. (And Dan had no issues getting the Ms. Pirate kiss on the cheek from the very pretty Sandy in congratulations for our 33 year wedding anniversary.)

L-R: Pirate Michael, barman, France, Sandy

It’s not a party until someone smells like Tequila. So put down the camera. You watch the barman bringing seven two-ounce shots to the table. As he gets close Dan reaches for the camera, and two people leap into poses—and knock five of the seven shots into France’s lap (the person, not the country.) He brought more.

In summary, if we don’t move to Key West I could be talked into moving to Cozumel.  Can’t wait to dive there again next year.