Besides actually doing the distances, the absolute minimum that's not happening, I learned the most from this book about nutrition and core strength, which are my weaker-than-weakest points.
Christina Gandolfi, editor.
This, perhaps, has been my favorite piece from Tutankhamun's tomb ever since, 30 years ago, my fascination with him began.
I was eight years old. 1976 was the Bicentennial, an Olympic year, and the first presidential election I paid any--okay, an average third-grader's--attention to. "Roots" was on television (and I was permitted to stay up until 11 o'clock on six nights, some of which were school nights, to watch), Dr. Dolittle was my third-favorite non-family person (after my speech therapist and maybe still Captain Kangaroo), and King Tut was in New York.
Phoebe had a book with clear plastic pages, the next generation after the thin tissue of anatomy books whose successive leaves peeled away skin, muscles, nerves, organs, bones, that showed the layers of Tut's sarcophagi, coffins, mask, and linens. Also in this book were the 1922 photographs documenting Carter's room-by-room discovery and the 1970s photographs of the treasures.
The alabaster unguent jar. The cow bed. The cup made of calcite in the shape of lotus flowers. Another jar with an ibex, and Tut as Anubis the jackal. I loved it all. Even the song, though that would not come for a couple of years.
Particularly Marshamosis of The Egypt Game was fated to overtake Dr. Dolittle (if not Jip and Polynesia and Too-too) as my favorite fictional character. I agreed with April and Melanie about how fascinating ancient Egypt was. And I longed to be taken to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City to see this once-in-a-lifetime exhibition of a once-in-a-millennium discovery. Vocally, and joined by my older sister, and we weren't asking to be brought to see the Bay City Rollers. But It didn't happen.
(Four years later, deep into my love of Greek mythology (thank goodness the proximity determined by Dewey Decimalism led me from Guinness to Loch Ness and ghosts straight to the D'Aulaires), my mother did bring herself, Granny, and me, through the magic of a museum's chartered bus, to the Met to see the treasures of Alexander the Great. Which I loved, though I was disappointed that Claudia and Jamie Kincaid's bath-fountain was now mere extra seating in the cafeteria; and which was not enough to make me forget Tut.)
Thirty years later, it happened. When I first learned of it, I was mad at Egypt for going back on its pledge that Tut's treasures would "never leave Egypt again," and then I laughed when I learned that the country just needed the money. We discussed going to Los Angeles to see it, but then Ft. Lauderdale worked better.
Less than half the exhibit was Tut, but all of it was ancient and noble and chock full of Dust. When I finally entered the first room of his own possessions, I got the involuntary choke right under my sternum, of sentiment and awe, that I had hoped for.
The next step of my 30-year campaign is to get my mother to train down to Philadelphia next year to see it.
