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.

I am not...

…a runner. The thought flies through my head as I hit the interval button on the treadmill and bump the pace from jog to run. I feel my stride lengthen a bit to match the increased speed of the belt; I feel my feet pounding. There is nothing graceful about my “Barney Rubble” chunky up and down motion.

If I was a runner I’d be tall and thin. Well, at least thin. I would enjoy running outside, something I only do on a race day. I’d have gone through enough pairs of shoes to know when they need to be replaced; instead of complaining about sore knees before someone suggested I invest in a new pair. I’d tick off the miles with a sense of accomplishment, instead of intense relief that my 35 minute run is finally done. I’d run for the joy of running; not because it’s Thursday, and I run every Thursday after work.

 

I am not…

…a swimmer. I love the water, especially the ocean, in the context that it is the perfect backdrop for a beach. “Swimming” is just fine as long as I can touch bottom. I have always been able to keep my head above water, if I have to, and dog paddle my way to safety. Ultimately, learning to swim, really swim, was a means to an end.  You have to swim a whole 200 meters, without stopping, to get an open water diving certification. That’s eight lengths of a 25-meter pool, starting at the shallow end and swimming across the deep end and back to the shallow end, 4 times!

If I was a swimmer I’d hit the pool every Sunday and swim lap after lap, settling into a nice rhythm. My left arm wouldn’t prematurely drop into the water before my right arm had completed its arc. My legs would propel me with a steady, minimal and effortless kick. I wouldn’t be aware of every single motion my body is making, every single breath, every single stroke. I’d be able to swim with confidence across open water without wearing a bouyant wetsuit.

I am not…

…a cyclist. I ride a bike. I always have. In fact, I taught myself with no adult assistance. On Tuesdays I get on a spin bike at the gym. The music propels the motion. I add more resistance; I move through the route with buckets of sweat pouring off my head and down my shirt. My legs burn and my heart rate adjusts with the effort.

If I was a cyclist I’d go for long rides outdoors. I’d have skin tight bike clothes with padding in all the right places. I’d wear expensive cycling shoes and disdain toe-clips. My cadence would not vary because my knowledge of when to shift gears would compensate appropriately. I’d be able to grab quick drinks of water without fear of falling over. I’d carry a spare inner tube and know how to change a blow out.

I am not…

…a gym rat. Yes, I do lift weights three times a week. I have a trainer keeping me on track and honest. I’m accountable to someone else because I can’t be accountable to myself. I’d slide back into my lazy ways, dragging Dan along. So I follow the worksheet, increasing the weight and reps at the prescribed intervals. I keep my training appointments. I fuss at the silly things I’m asked to do, but I do them.

If I was a gym rat I’d spend hours at the gym. I’d strut around lifting stupidly heavy things and making ridiculous noises. I’d camp at a weight machine like I owned it. I wouldn’t slink around hoping no one notices I’m there. I wouldn’t think about how incredibly awkward I look doing a ridiculous exercise called a burpee. I wouldn’t trip over a bench. I wouldn’t rip my headphones off with an errant swing of a weight. I’d know the names of all the regulars.

I am not…

…a quitter. I got into all of this because I wanted to learn to scuba dive.  Diving is an incredibly lazy activity that expends a minimal amount of energy in order to conserve oxygen usage and extend underwater time. Low and behold, learning to swim, then lift and cycle and run made me feel so much better.  And the effect on Dan’s health, as he joined me at the gym, was amazing. By the time we finally move to Key West we’ll be immortal.

If I was a quitter I’d have stopped exercising after passing that 200-meter swim test. I’d be 20 or 30 pounds heavier. I'd laugh at the idea of running only 5Ks and completing only sprint triathlons as settling for less. I wouldn’t have my third 10K race inked in for April, and an olympic distance triathlon inked in for August. I wouldn’t be thinking that a sprint triathlon at the end of summer would be a nice morning spent outdoors. I’d be sleeping late on Saturdays, eating weeknight dinners by 6:00PM and enjoying huge portions of bad food. I wouldn't have a DVR backlog of TV shows waiting for attention.

And this I can say with absolute certainty…

I am not…interested in running any kind of race that incorporates the word marathon…