This past December I swung by the Cincinnati Museum of Contemporary Art while in town for my brother’s wedding. They were in-between shows so I spent more time in the gift shop than in the galleries. In general, museum gift shops rock and this was no disappointment - front and center in the jewelry case were two necklaces with dangling letters which spelled out FUCK. The gods were speaking to me! One necklace was silver, the other gold, tempting on both counts but I stuck with the silver; $62 later I was the proud owner of necklace profanity.
Fuck is one of my favorite words; it rolls off the tongue and covers so much with tremendous clout. Saying it releases tension, voices excitement and vents frustration. Shouting it expresses anger and conveys power. Doing it, well, all great there. The F bomb can be directed at others or ourselves. How many times have I hit a piss poor tennis shot and mumbled, “Fuck me”. Helen Mirren stated, “At 70 years old, if I could give my younger self one piece of advice, it would be to use the words “fuck off” more frequently.” Noted Helen.  I really don’t think I know of a better word…mind you the C word is climbing up the ladder fast, but I digress.  
Loving my brother’s outstanding fiancé/wife, I did not feel the need to wear the necklace to the wedding, and in general, I was a bit shy about flashing this fine word. Back in southern Cal, I wore it once to a happy hour when a friend subtly suggested, “Maybe not so appropriate to wear when you teach.” Fair enough. I put it away and opted for other beaded necklaces which coordinated with tennis outfits.
Then the world dropped, again. How could things get worse? We voted out the frump…we don’t live in fear of our President running off on a love-filled weekend with Putin or vacationing in North Korea…but then Friday, June 24th happened. This was not a surprise but shocking all the same. Amy Clown Barrett was put in a seat of power sitting alongside the horrible Clarence T who in a perfect world would still be on parole for his crimes of sexual harassment. Alas, we do not have a perfect world. The Supreme Courts decision slapped women across the face which was noted worldwide. Fuck and fucked, not in a good way.
I put my necklace on that day, June 24th 2022. It is not my intention to offend or shock anyone, I wear it for me. I take it off for certain occasions, like weddings; but otherwise, the F bomb graces my neck and knowing it is there makes me smile. I find the word and my necklace comforting. Interestingly, I am not actually saying the word out loud as often as I was, and I did say it a lot, but I think I don’t say it so often because the word always has a presence with me.  
I am thinking of embracing gold as well.

Here is my blog which I wrote four years ago. Fuck, I hope we make better progress in the next fours years.
 
CONTNUAL HEARTBREAK10/24/2018

I vividly recall watching the Anita Hill hearings. I was glued to the TV.  I knew she was telling the truth. I remember looking at the committee and listening to their questions and it was obvious to me that they also knew she was telling the truth. My heart and a bit of me broke when they ignored her and put that disgrace of a man on the Supreme Court. I felt sucker punched and a seed of disgust towards those who are indifferent towards women was planted in my soul.
Kavanaugh, another predator who wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him in the butt, won his bid for the Supreme Court. His anger was rewarded.  Again, I felt broken.
Michelle encourages us to “go high when they go low” – but when hope is in the gutter that is no easy task.
Tough times, heavy on the heart.
A life-raft was thrown my way when a friend wisely stated, “Art is the answer.”
Back to work.
 

​On one of my trips back east, my dad picked me up from Logan as he often did. I saw him by the baggage claim and as psyched as he was to see me, he was equally excited to get out of there because he had parked illegally. He got jumpier when he noticed a policeman giving him the eye and then actually approaching us. I thought we were busted in Boston – but no, the officer broke into a huge smile and said, “Mr. Horne!?”  He was a former student of course. The policeman told me his story, that he wasn’t particularly college bound, but my dad told him, “You’re going to college” and together they filled out an application to Merrimack and he went to college and he was now a policeman in Boston.
This happened a lot, running into his former students and they were always eager to tell the tales about specific and perhaps unconventional classes my dad taught – for example, one class he brought everyone outside to lay on the grass so that they could watch the clouds float by. Another class my dad decided to make up music and sing the dialogue between Romeo and Juliet. During another class, the entire class period was devoted to naming his new truck, Lola.
My dad was a teacher but he was also committed to learning. He read all the time. It would drive me crazy when he passed along a book because he would have highlighted the heck out of it and the margins would be riddled with his notes but I knew he was just excited to share the info that he found interesting. 
He was a wonderful correspondent; he loved writing letters - wherever I was in the world I was always so happy when one of his letters, a piece of home, would find me.
He was great showing up in my life, either with a letter or in person and there was never a dull moment.
It was rare for him to go directly from point A to point B.  A 10-minute car ride to run a quick errand could easily end up taking 2 hours - there was always somewhere to stop to get something to eat, or to find someone to chat to, often Powers, or some new place to check out. And when he got on his bike, forget about it, there was no telling where he would end up, he never knew, there was no plan or specific route. On one trip he said that he was heading south and he showed up at my old roommate’s apartment in the Bronx, he didn’t tell them he was coming and didn’t wait until they got home, he just left an apple pie and a note on their doorstep, hopped back on his bike and headed across the George  Washington Bridge.  
Life was an adventure and a performance piece for my dad. He loved to entertain and he danced getting off airplanes and sang entering rooms.
Not too long ago when we spoke on the phone he said, “I am going to sing you a song and I want you to record it.” I played along and gave him the go ahead to start singing. He then proceeded to sing Danny Boy. I wish I did know how to record it because he really was a beautiful singer. When he was done he gave me permission to post it on youtube and generously told me to keep whatever money it earned.
My dad gave me a great sense of adventure, a fearlessness to go explore, and certainly an ability to create and handle chaos.
I will forever miss his singing.

7am- yoga class with coffee-carrying-yogi-instructor Rose and fellow non-flexible compatriot Peter. Our normal bustling class of four was missing Katie who had an unfortunate kitchen mishap with a knife and is out indefinitely.  
9am - check my community garden plot. Despite advice from a fellow gardener that watering was not needed due to the dampness in the air, I hydrated my poppies.
10am - light therapy session for my Achilles in Solana Beach. Not sure what this is about at all but it came highly recommended from fellow tennis pal Dana who claimed it helped with her horse injury.
11am - trip to the marijuana dispensary in Point Loma to buy gummies for a not-to-be-named person who needs help with pain
12pm - post office to mail drugs cross country
12:30pm - trip to Target to buy hydration powder
1– 4pm - can’t quite recall specifics… paints, scrabble, Australian Open…
5pm - Bridal shower planning happy hour in La Jolla with Jodi and Annina. $6 glasses of wine, guacamole, brussels sprouts and sliders. Details about the shower to come later but established tequila and cupcakes are definite.
9pm – debated whether to watch Ted Lasso or Monty the gardener. Ted always wins. 

Right back at it tomorrow. 

At the end of October, after a month on the road and living in a closet above the roaming SWAT team in anarchist-ville Athens, I was ready to pack up and get back to real plumbing. Call me an American snob, but I do appreciate being able to flush toilet paper.
In a vibrant city like Athens, why have they not figured out pipes? Do they even have plumbers? So many questions in life haunt me. Would I have sex with Keanu Reeves or George Clooney? Do I buy a flat in Hampstead or Highgate? Would I rather use an outhouse and drop the used toilet paper into the abyss, or be in a four-foot square bathroom and put the used toilet paper into a bin to be emptied later? Maybe George in Hampstead and the bin? Or Keanu in Highgate and the outhouse? I just don’t know.
The mini toilet room also served as the shower room and above the non-flushable-toilet-paper-toilet was a hose; the obvious missing components were the shower stall, the hot/cold shower fixtures, and pretty much anything associated with a shower.
The actual act of taking a shower was risky business and required mental and physical preparation. I was still hobbled and not so steady on my feet from my Achilles catastrophe, slippery surfaces were danger zones. I feared becoming a sad-shower-accident-statistic so I choreographed my movements and proceeded with caution. The water tank needed 30 minutes to heat up, no big deal, that was flipping a switch – and products were strategically placed on the toilet seat for easy access. The key was positioning. Once in the mini cube, a loose plastic sheet on a wire was pulled across the door to prevent the apartment from getting flooded. When sealed in, I planted my feet against opposite walls and steadied myself with my left arm against the wall while being ever so careful not to touch the exposed piping hot pipe – a lesson quickly learned - then it was game on with the one-armed shower. My right hand juggled the hose, soap, shampoo, conditioner and on enthusiastic days, a razor. Water splayed everywhere and at times it was hard to control the hose and my products were sent flying, but I did get the job done.
I still haven’t figured out the proper name for a room with a toilet, bin and hose…a mini bath? The hose room? Yet another question on the list to ponder. 

Athens or Bust!
Words of wisdom from the flying challenged, don’t slam down a glass of red wine following two glasses of white while two hours into a ten-hour flight. It started out fine and dandy: window seat, compression socks, bottled water. I was even thinking I won the lottery with two empty seats next to me; but at the final second two Puerto Rican party people plopped themselves beside me. I pouted for a solid minute and attempted to ignore them until I realized my seatmates were f-u-n. Who am I not to make new friends? Yes indeed. That friendship lasted for two and a half hours until I asked for another glass of wine as they blew up their neck pillows and put on their eye masks.  I think I would have been ok with another white, but they brought me red. Immediately I started to feel queasy. Four hours in and with every ounce of everything I am, I willed myself not to throw up. I channeled my CNN breathing guru, Dana Santas and repeated her 7-count breath exercise over and over again but I was still eyeing the vomit bag. Just as I was losing hope and starting to gag, my savor appeared on American Airlines 4-inch screen, Ted Lasso. What a hero! Who knew!? His smiling face and unrelenting optimism not only rallied the AFC Richmond football club, he saved two good citizens of Puerto Rico from being projectile vomited on. Disaster averted.
Smelly and hungover, I made it to Athens where I am stationed for a month on an artist residency program. Usually a fan of public transport, but still a bit unstable, I grabbed a cab to get to my new digs. I was told to expect a hip artist area, but I was a little taken aback when I was dropped curbside by a bombed out looking building completely covered in graffiti. Athens is funky and chaotic on a good day; I am situated in the hyped-upped-on-steroid chaotic anarchist neighborhood which puts the F in funk.
I was greeted by the make-shift construction crew Dimitri and Jim who were still madly trying to finish construction on my tiny apartment. Dimitri, a scattered and kind-hearted ex-pat, is the host of this program. Jim is my artist friend from Detroit/Mexico who is a fellow visionary of bringing art to the people; more importantly he is recently retired and delusional enough to commit again to creating our show Painting with Prudence, now rebranded as The Artist’s Adventure, or The Artist Adventures? I am still not sure what is plural and where the apostrophe goes, but we have yet to be picked up by PBS so there is time for me to figure it out. We filmed in San Diego in September and figured we might as well go for the international bling.
Jim is on the full residency, while I am on the light one; the only difference is our living spaces. Jim has a sort of proper apartment over the gallery on a main street. I am in what is called the “Crow’s Nest” and every day I expect Moira from Schitt’s Creek to show up to start filming “The Crows Have Eyes 4”. On the first floor of my building is what I guess you would call a bookstore…but is it a bookstore or a place for a hoarder to be around his stuff…not sure. The only person I have ever seen in there is a smoking dude, not to be confused with a smoking hot dude, just a dude who smokes all day and occasionally pokes his head out from a book stacked desk. As for the other inhabitants in this building, I think there are only two. Initially I thought they were Albanians, but on further investigation I discovered they are Kurds. (Fear not, my homeland security friend has already signed me up for cultural sensitivity classes to begin as soon as I am stateside.)
There are two things in life I am not ultra-comfortable with, one is small spaces, and the other is heights. The Crow’s Nest covers both my phobia’s.  The elevator I take to the sixth floor is a mirror lined small box obviously made to host one small child with a love for disco. Once released at my floor, I enter a one room studio with the cachet of an open deck overlooking anarchist-ville. The deck is pretty, and it is pretty high. It took a solid four days before I ventured out onto it, and that was only because the washing machine is there and my love for laundry over-rides my fear of heights. Jim’s apartment, much to his chagrin, does not have laundry, but he does have a proper shower. I have another tiny room which consists of a toilet and a shower head over the toilet. How do I classify that? It is a bit more than a half bath but I wouldn’t label it as a full bath...TBD. Furthermore, the act of taking a shower is tricky business, but that’s for another blog.
So, week one’s accomplishments: recovery from jetlag and a hangover, unpacking all the wrong clothes (it is no longer summer), braving the small spaces, waking up  at 1am two nights a week a to teach via zoom, and not pissing off the already edgy anarchists!
Oh yah, and I love Athens!
More soon. 

​Pink is a wonderful color. Pink is fresh, fun, romantic and sweet.
Pink punch, what’s not to love, it’s summer in a glass!
Last night’s birthday celebration, woohoo Ashely, was a magical summer gathering at the island happy hour hotspot, the pump. It started out innocently enough; babies, puppies and deviled eggs were passed around and the theme cocktail was served, pink punch. The last time I drank punch was at a bridal shower, it had champagne in it and was served in a crystal bowl with pink sherbet floating on top. This punch was poured from plastic gallon jugs into paper cups and came with a friendly warning, “This punch packs a punch…ha ha”. The cool pink liquid was light and refreshing and I loved it! Better yet, I couldn’t taste the alcohol. For a moment, I had flashbacks to college frat parties with lined trash cans filled with grain alcohol punch; but I couldn’t imagine grain alcohol being an island additive and more importantly, I didn’t care what was in there, it was pink, pretty and it was delicious.
Most people had a glass of punch, ate more than one deviled egg, and kept their sanity. I did not. I drank and drank. The punch never ran out; there was an endless supply of wagons loaded with coolers filled with pink jugs. The delicious deviled egg I ate was not soaking up my alcohol intake and instinctively I knew I needed to slow down and more importantly I needed to pee. Thankfully, a fellow punch lover needed to pee as well and insisted we walk to a proper restroom rather than taking me up on my brilliant idea to pee in the bushes.  Upon our return I implemented my drinking strategy, I filled my cup up with ice before pouring in the pink punch thinking the water from the ice would dilute my drink and provide hydration at the same time – if only I drank slowly enough for the ice to melt.    
​Darkness came and the punch party continued. There were others who were also jacked up on a sugar high and the unknown alcohol intake so we moved indoors. This is where things get a bit fuzzy. I think I had the wherewithal to stop drinking, but I can’t be 100% sure of that. I do remember singing and dancing to Sweet Caroline (Achilles not pleased and Neil Diamond fans horrified), then poo-pooing country music (sorry Dana), and demanding Axl Rose and ABBA music to be played (Heather thank you for your efforts). Before Dancing Queen hit the airwaves, I took myself out. I brought myself home. The saving grace, my saving grace, was the fact that the party hosts live spitting distance to my family home and I managed to make it back.
It may take me the rest of the summer to recover and I have sworn off everything pink, but my night of pink punch partying was a blast. 

​The scene: a stunning San Diego morning, home team match in Coronado, partnered with ace-lefty Jaimie at #2, one point away from securing a 4-1 lead in the first set, a short step forward to smack a forehand down the middle, then BAM! Someone cracked a baseball bat against the back of my left calf and there was a clap of thunder above; I went down hard and fast. I looked around and was shocked to see that no one had actually entered the court to assault me and that the skies were still clear… then I knew, I was injured.
My court-mates mobilized and in nanoseconds my leg was iced, elevated and getting stoned on CBD lotion. I stayed horizontal for an eternity due to insane pain and dizziness, but realized that people may actually want to use the tennis court for something other than triage. Getting me up and off the court was an act of God and yet the miracles continued when the club house produced a pair of crutches. I was able to shuffle to the outside area where I promptly sprawled across the bike lane and caused further concern that I would be run over by a speedster cyclist. I thought I could drive home, but when I couldn’t sit up for fear of passing out and then directing Jaimie to put my gear in the wrong car, it was decided that in the best interest for the safety of the good citizens of Coronado, Jaimie would drive me home. The term “Never leave your wingman” rang in my ears and the kindness of friends never ceases to amaze me.
Next up urgent care (two different ones thanks to insurance company confusion), bottles of drugs, a shot in the bum of my new best friend morphine, and instructions to rest. Rest, hmmmm. I asked the 12-year-old doctor if I would be ready in ten days for the National 50’s Tennis Tournament; he looked at me as if I had suffered a severe head injury and he was rendered speechless.
So here I am, four days out. My lovely tourney partner, Ruth, is completely chill and told me not to worry and suggested I roll on biofreeze six times a day. A teammate from Coronado offered me a free healing session. Tennis friends have suggested everything from ice to acupuncture. I am game for it all! Right now I am eating my way through the trauma which seems to be working because I am off the crutches. Step by slow step. I am thinking I can pull it together in a week…don’t mess with my denial!
 
 

Time to get this show on the road.
Watch out world, Jim and I are at it again!!!
Ten years ago, my friend Jim and I embarked on a journey to create a tv show about painting; and what a journey it was! We worked incredibly hard and proudly produced Painting with Prudence, a half-hour reality/art/travel TV show. The official overview read “a free-spirited artist with an eye for adventure takes you on a hip, funky tour of her favorite painting spots around the globe. You’ll meet quirky characters and have inside access to artist’s studios, galleries and events -- with informal lessons and inspiration to grab your own brush!”
What not to love? Jim was the genius of writing, marketing and producing; and I was the talent who led the whack-a-doodle life. In fact there was a lot of love, but it was not directed at us. The Kardashians owned the airways. Art was a tough sell. We came close, so very close, but we never sealed the deal.
Funny how some ideas and dreams never die.
During the stillness of covid I had the unexpected gift of extended studio time and completely focusing on my art. I was not alone; there was an artistic buzz happening all over.  Friends who had never picked up a paintbrush were calling and asking whether to start with oils or acrylics, on-line drawing classes were selling out, sewing and knitting supplies were on back order – the arts not only came to life, they exploded…which got me to thinking…and then I got a call from Jim who had also been thinking…and WE ARE BACK AT IT! Now is the time! The Kardashians, thanks to Kanya West going rouge, are no longer front and center, and it is our time to get this show going!!
Ten years later we are all the wiser. Individually we have more confidence in our skill sets. I have been teaching at community colleges, museums and prisons and my speaking skills have skyrocketed! And Jim has worked on projects from Detroit to Mexico, he can market and sell anything. Together we know what needs to be done and we are all in. We will rename, rebrand and redesign our show, but the premise remains the same – adventures and art!
Standby and wish us luck. We are busting with excitement! Early May we are shooting a new sizzle reel, and in June Jim is heading virtually to the Banff World Media Festival.  
In the meantime, share in this journey - revisit or view our first attempt by reading the Reader article and watching our sizzle reel.
​
https://www.sandiegoreader.com/news/2012/jan/11/cover-sizzle-reel/
 
https://www.sandiegoreader.com/news/2012/jan/11/cover-sizzle-reel/
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

​I am a hypocrite. Traveling during covid, not recommended and yet once again I hopped on a flight in order to spend the holidays with my mother, Reggie, and the slim hope to see more family. Thankfully due to a JetBlue credit, the dreaded-Dallas-American-Airline-covid-infested-airport-connection was avoided and I had a non-stop from an 80-degree sunny San Diego to a 32-degree snow infested Boston. Party on.
The flight itself was a non-event; however, initially I thought there could be a situation - I had a window seat and an empty row until an excessively chatty good-ole-boy from Walpole parked next to me and immediately began looking up insanely scary hunting knives on his phone. Thankfully Davy Crockett moved to the aisle seat. It wasn’t until we landed and were stuck on the tarmac while the ramp to the plane got de-iced that he started talking again as he explained that he was flying back following a road trip with his buddy who lives in San Diego, this friend wants him to move out there – hmmmm, “tough call” I said as the Arctic winds ripped through the aircraft.
Landing anywhere north of San Diego at 11pm is a challenge to my senses, but I forged on and Brian my ace Lyft driver – (ok maybe not so ace since in the Callahan Tunnel I had to ask him to close the car windows before I got frostbite) - delivered me to the boon-docks of Harvard, MA just before midnight. But overall, going from point A to point B during a pandemic was pretty smooth and I was happy to be back.
Harvard Mass - the perfect little town with the kindest of unsung heroes who deliver food, take pooping challenged Reggie to the vet, bake cookies, and go on packy runs for rum. Covid has taxed the best of us; however, there are added challenges from being older and isolated with some physical issues. My mom has a team of people who consistently reach out, show up, and ask what they can do to help in any way, and they help. Kindness and thoughtfulness can never be overstated.
And once again, we thank the heavens above for our hero Zac - the young man who possesses commitment and ethics which scream greatness. He continues to show up at 3:00pm and our favorite cracked out muffin of love, Reggie, waltzes out the door for their daily walk.  My mom often calls to tell me, “It’s a long day with Reggie” and she sits waiting to hear the back door open and Zac’s footsteps. Now that I am home, I realize that it is a long day and I am also looking at the clock and listening for his steps – cheers for our teenage savior!
Otherwise, life in Harvard is pretty quiet…we take drives through the orchards, we have the occasional happy hour in the stairwell with neighbors, we discuss meals, and we play scrabble. The highlight so far has been a picnic outing with my sister and her family – my mom stayed in the heated car while the rest of us huddled around a picnic table holding hot tea’s – a tad bit chilly but great seeing everyone.
How long am I here for? I don’t know. I came east with the intent to stay for a few weeks. I promised my bf that I would not repeat the 3 ½ months that I was away for this past summer and with hope avoiding the “re-entry” relationship challenges. I figure roughly 3 weeks is an ok healthy time apart…but I am no relationship guru so we shall see….
I dread the flight back. Covid is rampant in California – and I don’t like leaving – but I will do it at some point soon. With the New Year comes new beginnings, I vow to have a good attitude, and I will be kind to strangers, even the chatty ones – we are all nervous wrecks.

​I belong to one of these fancy-pantsy boutique gyms downtown, it is out of my league on every level but I am a sucker for a steam room. The steam room brings back memories of a weekend coed steam room at a high-end gym in Vienna where I spent a semester way back in the day.  The concept sounded racy; however, this was Vienna and it was a prelude to Stanley Kubrick’s movie Eyes Wide Shut, lots of naked bodies but nothing sexual going on.
The last day I set foot in my current gym was March 10th, 2020 – a last gasp of normalcy before we all got locked in and locked down, eight - long - months ago. During this time, I survived on an impressive diet of cookies, chocolate, and boxed wine – it worked for me and in all honesty I didn’t miss the gym. Furthermore, I was pretty determined that my gym days were a thing of the past; but hats off to great marketing peeps who sent a barraged of encouraging emails – “Safe to come back”, “Classes outside”, “Appointments only”, so I weighed my options – end up in a diabetic coma in rehab, or get off my tush – I wrote an $85 check for a one month commitment.
In preparation, I bought new sneakers and detoxed for ten hours for fear of smelling like a winery. My excitement was building. I envisioned the wind blowing and the sun shining as I briskly walked on a state-of-the-art treadmill while looking out on the bay and being alone on the open rooftop space.
Reality is a bitch and marketing people are liars.
I signed in early for my 7am appointed time slot. After a successful temperature check I made my way to the outside roof top where I saw the line of empty cardio equipment, I was thrilled. I was happily sauntering on a machine, contemplating life, when the flood gates opened, the boot campers arrived. What is up with boot campers and boot camp for that matter??  These people gather three times a week but from the way they greeted each other you would have thought they were all returning from a 3-year deployment; they yelled, they cheered and they touched each other. And these nutters were not wearing masks. My serenity was further blown away when the bootcamp boom box started shaking my treadmill. As much as I tried to focus on my walking skills, there were far too many distractions and further questions to be asked - where were the EMT’s because the man with the keg belly was surely going to go into cardiac arrest as he dragged huge round weights across the floor?  Why was the scarily skinny woman not home eating donuts? And why were they sharing mats? These enthusiasts were spewing sweat, spit and snot on their mat, then moving onto the next – petri dishes of disgustingness and a COVID-19 nightmare.  As I was pondering these questions a boot camper got onto a machine next to me, one that was not 6 feet away. I mustered every ounce of polite etiquette I could and yelled, “WOOOO WOOOO WOOOO, too close”. Thankfully this kind soul moved away. I had pee’d on my territory, no one came close for the remainder of my visit but I was on high alert.
Two days later I was back at it – and so were the boot campers. I was mentally prepared this go around and decided to get into the grove of their “motivational” music, why fight it. I was strutting along when disaster hit, a new camper came too close. This time I was calmer and asked her to go to another machine – she refused! I couldn’t believe it, she said NO! Who says no when asking for more physical space during a pandemic? A BOOT CAMP NUTTER that’s who! I jumped off my machine and stood far away until she finished her 60 second round – and during this minute I had an epiphany - the gym was stressing me out, being around people was stressing me out, worried about keeping my personal space on a treadmill was stressing me out – so I quietly left.
Some day when the virus is a thing of the past, and the stream room is back in action, and the boot campers are back in their own designated area or a new athletic trend renders them obsolete, I will return to my gym. Until then, I will keep my own personal space and hang with my winning combination of cookies, chocolates and wine.