No, this has zilch to do with the cutie-pie star of the eponymous TV show. I am speaking of what is likely the primal, ursine urge to hibernate.

Last Sunday morning my frequent partner in crime Diane texted me around midday, asking if I wanted to go line dancing at 7:00. Sure do, I said, let’s chat again later to firm up a plan.

Faithful readers may recall that I recognized early on after being diagnosed with Parkinson’s, that I could only manage one or two activities a day. Having done at least one activity that day – who can remember what – I was surely over my limit.

We reconnected around five. “ Still up for it?” I asked. “Sure,” she replied, though I detected a shade of doubt in her voice. By now I was pretty beat from a full day of being alive.

We had about an hour to decide and agreed to reconvene at 6:00.by phone. I was now shedding energy units by the second and hoped Diane would let me off the hook, decision-wise, and make a commmitment one way or the other. After more waffling by both of us, we both confessed that we’d prefer to laze out and stay home. That worked out fine. Until this past Sunday.

I had tried in vain to recruit a movie buddy, and resigned myself to a solitary afternoon.at home. Instead of the live humans I’d sought, my companions would be recently recommended streaming content. But unexpectedly, my Scrabble partners sprang into action and organized our first ever “bonus” non-Tuesday game. We all enjoyed the afternoon immensely. Spontaneity is fun!

But as we counted our double word scores, my phone was pinging away, insisting i give it the attention it deserved. I took a peek and saw on the home screen the name Diane, Diane, and yes, another Diane.. Now where and when did she want me to accompany her this time? I had played Scrabble. On a Sunday! I was done.

Until I returned home and read her texts, one of which offered the realization of a lifelong dream.

Camp Mataponi had to be the “singingest” camp around. I firmly believe that the near-constant bursting into song helped invest my nine summers there with joy.

Emblematic of the role of singing at camp was the crooning that followed Friday night Sabbath services.  As a younger camper, I couldn’t wait till I got old enough to stay late, when those who wished to could remain for the sheer pleasure of joining our voices in song.  No one noticed the hardness of the social hall benches, or that some of us could barely carry a tune.  What mattered was that we were all friends together for the summer, singing our hearts out as one, as Phil, the music director, accompanied us to Old Man River, One Little Candle, and Green Fields. To me, and I suspect to others, the singing was the true spiritual part of our Sabbath.

A few years ago, during the height of the pandemic, a camp friend (who was my “little sister” one summer) organized a Zoom sing-a-long. It was only fitting that we’d reunite to recapture our youth with music. Before me on my computer appeared nearly 100 screens featuring childhood intimates singing our hearts out as we had when we were eleven. It was happiness – and maybe the healing power of song -personified.

I’d wondered for years how and where I might recapture the feelings of belonging and joy that could only be summoned by singing in a group. For a time, I was a happy trouper in the cleverly-dubbed “Tremble Clefs,” a you-guessed-it Parkinson’s chorus, but for scheduling reasons I wasn’t able to continue. And so began the hunt for a piano bar. My vision of such a place featured some woman, definitely not me, poured into a slinky, sparkly but oh-so-elegant gown, leaning against a baby grand, crooning Cole Porter and the Gershwins. And now, Diane had located one, close by and providing parking.

So, yesterday, Diane and I did our usual vacillation dance but eventually decided we’d go. Until Diane arrived to pick me up. “I am just too tired,” she moaned from the driver’s seat. “Me too, ” I cried. But then, just as we’d agreed to call it a night, I yelled, “Wait a minute! We will never want to go out. Like truly, never!”

We wouldn’t feel livelier next week, or the week after, or the one after that. Left to our usual devices, we’d always vote to stay in. But maybe there was still some life kicking around in these two broads.

We agreed that if the place turned out to be a disappointing, boring bar, we’d leave. We quickly found Club 88, ordered drinks and twirled around among the shadows cast by a silvery disco ball. It wasn’t Phil Desi on Friday night at Camp Mataponi, but it was more than close enough. Diane and I high-fived each other.

We submitted requests to the excellent pianist,(Diane- anything by Elvis, Me – two Dionne Warwick favorites), and sang and danced away the evening.

The lessons here are obvious. Don’t always take the path of least resistence. Be open to new experiences. And above all, when you’re tempted to stay home because you exerted yourself playing Scrabble that day, push yourself. And remind yourself – the last time,you refused tp give in to laziness, you had a blast! As Diane and I did yesterday.

So get up off that couch! Sing! Dance! Take a chance!

L

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