Across the Line by Jonathan Quist

Jonathan Quist is a lifelong resident of Chicago where he works in Information Technology by day and writes by night. He was going to say more, but had to run out for a bit…

Across the Line

Our lives are defined, divided and delineated by lines.

Lots of lines.

Propertly lines. Boundary lines. Party lines. Border lines. Battle lines. Date lines. Enemy lines. Bloodlines. Deadlines. Soup lines. Bread lines.

There are phone lines, FAX lines, modem lines, dialup lines, and other lines of communication.

Transportation lines: bus lines, rail lines, airlines, cruise lines, freight lines, shipping lines, ratlines, shroud lines, bowlines.

Lines of credit. Lines of inquiry. Lines of demarcation. Isotropic lines. Foul lines. Redlines. White lines. Yellow lines. Double yellow lines. Center lines. Product lines. Bathroom lines. Squall lines. Lifelines. Panty lines. Lunch lines. Waistlines. Waterlines. Fishing lines. Septic lines. Pickup lines. Putdown lines. Opening lines. Straight lines. Punchlines. Pipelines. Gas lines. Brake lines.

I could go on, but you get the idea.

Many of these lines interweave and intersect. In the past year, in part because of my bloodline, I have taken an active interest in reducing my waistline, which led to interaction with center lines, white lines, starting lines and finish lines and a few observations along the way.

To state it a bit more clearly: I watched my father lose his connection to reality through the side effects of long-term diabetes. I was diagnosed around the same age as he was, but I began my married life later than he. I still have a lot of things left to accomplish, a lot of life left to live, so smiling and nodding when the doctor says “diet and exercise” was no longer an option. This was another wakeup call, and rather than hit the snooze button, I had to get off my butt and get to work. I used to run in my youth, and enjoyed it then. A running friend encouraged me to give it another try. So, I did.

As I crossed the line from a sedentary to active lifestyle, I decided that to succeed, I had to avoid boredom at any cost. To those who can walk or run on a treadmill or other stationary machinery for an hour at a time, I tip my cap to you. I cannot. Boredom has derailed past exercise programs; I need the variety found out-of-doors. (I used to pass time walking on a treadmill by reading, until the heart-rate-controlled machine performed an emergency shutdown when I reached the climax of a Nelson deMille novel. As Detective John Corey found himself in dire peril, I forgot to breathe, my heart rate shot through the roof, and were it so wired, the machine would have dialed 911.)

In Suburbia, USA, running outdoors pretty much means running on streets; in early morning darkness suburban sidewalks are hazardous places to walk, much less run due to kids’ toys, uneven seams in the concrete, and neighbors who insist on parking their cars squarely across the sidewalk rather than in their driveways. (If anyone has insight into this behavior, please enlighten the rest of us!) To preserve my neck, I took to the streets.

Heeding advice of wiser souls, I crossed the line and ran on the left, against traffic. This affords the advantage of seeing the car before it hits you, which is useful if you survive and the driver leaves the scene.  Given the number of drivers I see using their mobile phone line rather than their line of sight, this advice is far more practical than one might hope. The addition of a reflective yellow vest moved most of the cars back across the line. I attribute this to the prevalence of “Fines Double in Work Zones” signs in Illinois.

It’s a sad comment on our society that to some drivers, I did not exist unless I presented an obvious threat to their wallet. Many behave as if they value their personal convenience more highly than another human life. One positive thing I can say about that: When you’re running on the edge of a narrow road hugging the white line by a ditch and a Chevy Suburban comes hurtling toward you, your exercise session is not boring. But I digress.

I had never run competitively before, so competition was not part of the original plan, but organized races provide some benefits to running as exercise. For one, they provide a reason to set a goal. The goal could be to complete the race below a certain time, to set a new personal record. Or to finish without walking. Or to finish at all. (I learned pretty quickly that “finish in the top three” is not a realistic goal. There is always someone younger and faster running the race.)

Organized races also provide a fun atmosphere. After running mostly alone for 3 months, it was a blast doing so with 500 other people. And the sponsors give you free stuff! And post-race snacks! After carefully controlling my food intake, it was nice to have someone offer me a half bagel with peanut butter and be able to accept it with a smile, because I knew I’d already burned those calories on the course.

There was an unexpected side effect.

By the time I registered for the Vernon Hills Loop the Lakes 5k, I had already started thinking of myself as a runner, rather than just a guy who liked to watch TV with a cold beer in hand.  By the second lap I crossed another line in my head, and began to think of myself not as a runner, but as a racer.

I’m not racing against other runners – as I’ve said, there are plenty of fast people out there. I’m not going to pick up any medals. I am racing against myself.

And I am winning.

I have run in four 5k races, and finished just above the middle of the pack in all of them. I was not in line for any medals, but my personal physician gave me a prize anyway. She said I don’t need to bother with the prescription meds for diabetes, blood pressure or cholesterol anymore.

 

I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. So far, though, the only shoes I hear are my own. Meanwhile, I’m signed up for a couple of 10k races. I expect to be ready for a half marathon by next summer, a full marathon in a year or two. (Note: There are “Couch to Marathon in 16 Weeks!” training plans available. Don’t believe them. Start small. 5k races are cheap and fun. More fun than physical therapy.)

This is not all meant to garner “Attaboy, Jonny!” replies. It’s more of a “Who? Me?” story. A year ago the very notion that I’d not only be moving, but that I’d be running 20+ miles every week would have been far-fetched. But here I am. And it all started with a simple decision to go for a walk. If I can do it, nearly anybody can do it. You can do it! If you can’t run a mile, run around the block. If you can’t run around the block, walk around the block. If you can’t walk around the block, walk to the mailbox. Or walk across a parking lot rather than waiting 20 minutes for a space next to the door. Or just walk past the snack aisle on your way to the produce aisle. You can do it. And crossing that line can change your life.

 

Camping Reflections by Jonathan Quist

Jonathan Quist lives in the Chicago suburbs with his wife of twenty-three years in an increasingly empty nest.  While the 1.7 kids have moved out, he still has the dogs and the minivan, and would consider a picket fence in partial trade for a slightly-used pop-up camper.

He is currently returning from an employer-imposed hiatus, and expects to use his new-found household silence to resume several writing projects in progress.

Camping Reflections 

by Jonathan Quist

A couple weekends back, my wife and I took a short camping trip. Just a little getaway in our pop-up camper. But a big deal, all the same.  This was the first family vacation in twenty years that did not include the kids, who are both off at college.

That’s a major milestone, and led me to reflect on family vacations past.

As a kid, camping was just what we did, for two weeks every summer.

My earliest camping memories are of Chippewa Park, just outside Fort William (now Thunder Bay), Ontario in the early 1960’s. My dad and two brothers slept in a tent, and I slept in the car with Mom. My grandfather originally purchased the tent as war surplus around 1930.  Yeah, surplus of The World War.

The car was a 1958 Rambler. Those who attended high school in the sixties may remember the Rambler for one of its unique features, a fully-reclining bench seat, which folded flat to the level of the back seat. That’s right, the make-out seat. To me it was just my bedroom away from home and I assumed all cars worked that way. Mom had devised a sophisticated system to pin up mosquito netting inside the windows, which were left open a few inches for fresh air. And we’d lay there telling each other stories until we fell asleep to the accompaniment of Dad’s muffled snores in the tent outside.

But I longed to sleep in that tent with the big boys. And by my 5th birthday, I was promised that 1965 was the year. I got this instead:

We were no longer sleeping on the ground – we were sleeping in beds!  In a spacious room with a nice breeze! Because it had window screens for walls! Except for those summer rainstorms, canvas zipped, when we were sleeping in a hot, damp room that smelled of wet campers. Still, it was a retractable step up from the previous arrangement, and we did have some great vacations. So great, in fact, that it was not until I had graduated from college that I learned the truth: we camped because we had to.

And the couple of times that we drove straight through the 650 miles from Fort William to Lisle, Illinois, or the times we came home a day or two early, we weren’t dodging marginal weather, or giving ourselves an extra day to get the house in order before returning to the daily routine. The truth of the matter was, we were outrunning an empty pocketbook.

When my parents told me that, I didn’t believe them. Still don’t.

Those trips were beyond the ability of mere dollars to add or subtract.

When my wife and I decided some years back that we’d had our fill of touristy vacations, we did the only logical thing. We camped. The first year, we did the tent thing, but got one large enough to hold us, the kids and the dog all in one. The very first night out, we got the storm of the decade, including tornadoes, in a state park half a mile from a heavily-freighted railroad. (That became a pattern with us, over the course of the next eight years – we always manage to camp within earshot of an active freight line.) All night long, we listened to the wind, the rain, and the freight trains. The latter, according to my Midwestern upbringing and the National Weather service, is also what a tornado sounds like. As each train approached Karin and I held our breath until the horn blew for the grade crossing. Then we’d relax, and wait for the next one. In the morning, after two hours sleep, we dumped about fifty gallons of water out of the tent and packed up for the next leg.

A few weeks later, we bought the trailer. I suspect most first-time low to mid-range camping trailers are purchased under similar circumstances.

Did my kids like those family vacations? Funny you should ask that. On returning from our trailer’s final voyage, I found an email from my twenty-year-old daughter. She wanted to know did we still have a tent.  She’s planning a camping trip with friends next summer.
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I think it’s only fair to share some of the knowledge and skills I have gained over 50 years of camping.

Camping tips:

1) Organization is everything. If at all possible, keep your camping gear pre-packed, so no essential items are left at home.
 

2) When you find something that will be handy, buy it immediately.  You'll forget it later. Until the middle of the next trip, when the nearest store is 50 miles away, and your chemical toilet is leaking.

3) This tip is for the men. It’s kind of personal, so ladies, you may wish to skip to the next one. Guys: Get over yourself. Our wives know how to pack the car better than we do. If you can’t accept this for your own benefit, do so for the common good.
 

4) Equipment and methodology. Face it, “This is how Dad and Grandpa always did it” just doesn’t wash.  When your dad was camping, tents were made of canvas and nylon was found only in women’s stockings.  When your grandpa was camping, women’s stockings were made of canvas, and tents were reserved for commanding officers. In other words, if you’ve just invested in the latest camp technology, take a minute to read the manual.
 

5) The single most useful item you can have along camping is something a fellow camper taught me a couple years ago. Unfortunately, I didn't have the money to buy it, so I forget what it is.
 

6) This one I learned from my Dad, 40 years ago. Never use more than a single match to light your camp fire.
 

7) If you plan on having a camp fire, don’t forget your propane torch.  You’ll need it if you really think it only takes one match. Another of Dad’s lessons.

Fishing:

1) The only thing necessary to catch a fish is a bare hook and an enthusiastic child.
 

2) If the only thing you catch is a two pound walleye, you're having Dinty Moore for dinner.
 

3) If your kid catches a six ounce bluegill, you're having fresh fish.
 

4) The six ounce bluegill will taste better than the two pound walleye.
 

5) All the advanced fishing techniques you learned as a teen won't catch a single northern pike in the time it takes your kids and a can of night crawlers to catch a bucket of rock bass.
 

6) A half pound rock bass takes as much time and effort to clean as a six pound northern. Dinner’s at 9:00.

Trailering:

1) If you purchase a tow vehicle or add a hitch to an existing vehicle, next year you will upgrade the trailer to something that requires the next stronger hitch or vehicle. May as well scrape together the down payment on a Suburban.

 
2) If you replace your under-powered, 8-seat minivan with a 4-seat, V-8 powered extended cab pickup, your non-driving kids will invite two friends to go on the next trip.

3) If you decide to skip hooking up and adjusting your trailer anti-sway device to save time, and get on the road before the coming storm hits, the first fifty miles you drive will be on grooved pavement in a construction zone with barricades where the right lane used to be.

4) Most important of all, Safety First! If you are new to towing a trailer, seek advice from an expert. Desi Arnaz, for example:


 

It's Not What You Know by Jonathan Quist

Jonathan E. Quist is a lifelong resident of Illinois, where he learned everything he knows about government ethics. A graduate of Northwestern University, he has spent the past twenty years failing to escape Information Technology for a less lucrative field.

He wrote his first mystery nearly forty years ago, to critical acclaim, but similarity to another story prevented publication. Similarity. That's a laugh. It was lifted outright from "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken", is what it was. But "plagiarism" wasn't in his fourth-grade vocabulary list, until Mrs. Christensen explained it.

Mr. Quist's turn-ons include sunny days and playful kittens. His turn-offs are mean people and wiggly seats on public toilets.

He currently lives 31.3 miles from the hospital in which he was born, where by day he works for a telecommunications equipment manufacturer, and by night is writing the first novel in a humorous historical traditional mystery series, set in the world of small-time Vaudeville.

It’s Not What You Know

by Jonathan Quist

Every five years or so I replace my wallet.

There is an implied ritual that goes along with the transfer of contents from old wallet to new. It is never as simple as moving paper money, driver’s license, and dry cleaning receipts.

I am a bit of a clutterbug; paperwork of any kind is a stumbling block to me, and so beyond the aforementioned items my wallet usually contains a few others that make little impression on my daily life, at least beyond the one they make on my right hip.

Money isn’t really a problem. Thanks to a high school job that included a boss obsessed with the condition of the cash box, I keep bills sorted by denomination out of habit and ageless dread. Dry cleaning receipts are more or less irrelevant; my dry cleaner always ignores them and asks for my phone number.  He then looks at his computer, looks at me, and asks, “Karin?”.

The driver’s license is just a single card, and there is no question that it is going into the new wallet. But attached to the license are a series of codicils, in the form of insurance cards. There’s a card for my car, a card for my motor scooter, and a card for our camping trailer. New cards are issued every six months, and there are usually duplicates of at least one of them. (Illinois insurance law is written such that the police must issue a citation on the basis of whether you have a current insurance card in your possession, regardless of whether you actually have insurance. I know. I have received such a ticket. I keep the extra cards in my wallet.)

Insurance cards breed like rabbits. Along with the auto insurance cards is a health insurance card. And another, because my company changed carriers two years ago, and there are still unpaid claims against the old policy. Then there are the current and former prescription drug plans. And the vision discount card which guarantees a free eye exam and pair of glasses every year. (I have never spent less than three hundred dollars on these free glasses, but I keep the card in my wallet - heaven forbid that I should miss out on such a great benefit.) There are appointment cards from my doctor, dermatologist, and dentist. Did I mention the dental plan card? No? That’s because my current dental plan doesn’t use a card. So I only have cards for the previous two dental plans.

Tucked in the pockets with the medical-related insurance cards are medical-related business cards. There’s one for a doctor I haven’t seen in six years, but for a workman’s comp claim from a previous employer, and I don’t want to risk not being able to say who failed to cure my carpal tunnel syndrome, should I be ambushed by a company lawyer. Three are from a medical receptionist who hands me a new appointment card every time I enter an appointment in my PDA. I don’t know why.

Phone numbers and addresses are a completely different matter. Twenty years ago, these were kept, quite literally, in my little black book. Upgrading a wallet was no big deal; the address book stayed in my pocket, unless a significant business card was found, in which case its contents were dutifully entered in the address book. I still have that address book, somewhere, though nearly all the phone numbers and addresses are out of date, because for the past ten years or so, I have maintained all contact information electronically, in email address books, PDA s, or cell phones. And every possible combination of the three.

And therein lies a new problem.

The earliest of email systems had no address book capabilities. In those days, electronic contact information was simply memorized. As the online world expanded, email addresses were scribbled on desk blotters (yes, we still had them) or for those on the Cutting Edge, on Post-It notes stuck to the borders of one’s computer terminal screen. Later, as the world at large become more computer-literate, and the phrase “I send and receive mail on the computer at work” no longer prompted calls to Bellevue, rudimentary address book capability appeared. Transferring addresses from one system to another still required manual transcription. While tedious, this manual transfer fostered discretion. Entries were examined one by one, and those known to be out of date, unused, or otherwise superflous were simply discarded.

Enter the age of synchronization technology.

Virtually every modern email system has some capability to automate the task of transferring address book and calendar data to or from other systems. Many of these include the ability to synchronize this information between multiple computers, or between a computer and a PDA or cell phone.

I entered the age of the PDA with a Palm Pilot II. This hand-sized device sported an amazing two megabytes of memory, more than enough to hold a small dictionary. Or a single digital photograph taken on a present-day cell phone, set to low resolution mode.

I made wonderful use of my Palm. Along with keeping addresses and appointments handy, I wrote the first two chapters of my first novel on it, using only the stylus and Graffiti handwriting recognition. But I never achieved my personal vision of the Palm – that of a single device to maintain my work and personal address books and calendars, allowing my wife to see my calendar, or schedule appointments on my behalf. That’s because when I got into the digital age, everyone had a different idea of how synchronization was supposed to work.

If you had a Mac, one computer had to be the master, and changes made from a second computer would be lost when the first synchronized again. If you had Microsoft Outlook on a Windows PC, it worked well – provided that you also had a corporate Exchange server behind it all. And if you were trying to use these or other popular email/calendar software, you still had to make it work with your Internet Service Provider’s capabilities.

It was not an insurmountable problem, but I did not take time to solve it until it was too late.

I had everything set to go. I had copied in my address book and calendar from my home PC onto my Palm. I had managed to at least partially synchronize this information with my account on my wife’s Mac. And my employer at the time migrated email from Lotus Notes (one of the few companies to truly get synchronization right) to Microsoft Outlook. I had software available to synch my Palm to Outlook. So I installed it, plugged the Palm into the PC’s serial port, and pressed the Sync button.

That button press was the proverbial pebble dropping in the middle of the pond.

Everything synced, yes. But suddenly, all the calendar dates meticulously entered in my calendar – medical appointments, ballet and gymnastics classes, music rehearsals – were gone. They were replaced by my weekly department staff meeting, and once-a-quarter corporate Town Hall meeting. I had missed the hidden setting that would have allowed me to include both; instead, the work calendar took precedence over everything.

The address book was a bit better. I didn’t lose anything – but my Palm and home PC’s address book gained hundreds of new entries. And my coworkers got a phone number for my daughter’s ballet teacher. That went over well.

One job, 2 laptops, 3 attempts to fix things, and 4 cell phones later, I now have an Android phone, which allows me to easily maintain separate address books and calendars for home and work. But I still have a lot of the old mixed with the new, and so I am back to the manual process of preening my address book.

In principle, this is not a difficult task, but the sheer size and variety in the mixture have made it a much more introspective one.

Some are simple. My present employer’s corporate address book is now available directly through the phone and email systems, I can pretty safely delete any current-employer-related contacts from my personal address book. That took care of about 300 contacts. (Yes, I know. They were loaded into my original work phone for me. In five years, I used perhaps 30.)

Then there are the addresses from my previous employer. Many of those coworkers left the old company, so the addresses and numbers are obsolete – but the names themselves are a different matter. Some are on my short list of people to call if my employer starts hiring. Others would make good references, should I need one. In today’s job market, who you know is as important as what you know. Still others from my old department I just could not bring myself to delete. I’ve never developed close friendships on the job, but these are more like family. We worked together nearly ten years; we endured two years of corporate downsizing together, saying one or two goodbyes at a time. Five years later, it’s me deciding who stays or goes, instead of an unseen, anonymous manager. It’s still too soon to make that call.

And then there are the old college friends. I spent a few hours with one a year ago; though he was the best man at my wedding, after me, we had not talked in 10 years. When we got together we picked up where we had left off. We both noticed how easy that was, exchanged a couple emails the next day, saying “Let’s do this more often.” We have not spoken since. But he’s permanently in my virtual black book.

There’s another entry that I have stumbled across, several times in recent years. I considered deleting it from two different phones and my PDA, but I just can’t. It is labeled “Mom room 214”. The corresponding phone number connects to a nursing home; 214 was the room in which she contemplated, with some joy and satisfaction, the completion of a life well lived.

I like to believe that I do not attach myself to material possessions - that things are not important – but when an emotional tie exists, I fail miserably. The entries in my address book are the same way, though they are but a tiny scrawl on a virtual page. I don’t think I want to change this.

It’s not what we have, or what we know, but who we know that defines who we are. The people with whom we share our lives mold us, shape us and refine us even as we mold, shape and refine them. I don’t mind having a few extra reminders.

Still, a tidy wallet would be nice.

Jonathan E. Quist - A Stitch in Time

Jonathan E. Quist is a lifelong resident of Illinois, where he learned everything he knows about government ethics. A graduate of Northwestern University, he has spent the past twenty years failing to escape Information Technology for a less lucrative field.

He wrote his first mystery nearly forty years ago, to critical acclaim, but similarity to another story prevented publication. Similarity. That's a laugh. It was lifted outright from "The Ghost and Mr. Chicken", is what it was. But "plagiarism" wasn't in his fourth-grade vocabulary list, until Mrs. Christensen explained it.

Mr. Quist's turn-ons include sunny days and playful kittens. His turn-offs are mean people and wiggly seats on public toilets.

He currently lives 31.3 miles from the hospital in which he was born, where by day he works for a telecommunications equipment manufacturer, and by night is writing the first novel in a humorous historical traditional mystery series, set in the world of small-time Vaudeville.


A Stitch in Time

Last week, my daughter brought home "Batman Returns" on DVD. This was the only Tim Burton-directed film of the franchise that I had not seen. So, with some busy work at hand, I put it on. I was looking forward to Danny DeVito's performance as The Penguin. And I vaguely remembered something about a stalker who was after one of the producers, something about wanting the role of Catwoman, which eventually went to Michelle Pfeifer.

I grew up on the 1960's Batman TV series. Yes, the many weekly guest villains included Catwoman. (And yes, I was a big Julie Newmar fan, even before I was old enough to understand why.) But the old series was very unapologetically two-dimensional. Characters were simply good or evil, in black and white. The only time grey appeared on the palette were those occasions when Batman found himself attracted to Catwoman. (And to an 8-year-old, those moments were comic relief, nothing more.)

The Batman feature films have corrected this - most characters have quite a bit more depth and complexity, and in many cases, we know their back story. In "Batman Returns", Pfeifer's Selina Kyle discovers some information she's not supposed to know. A man she previously trusted pushes her out a window for it; she miraculously survives, to find herself set upon by a pride of stray cats. As she rises from the pavement, her face reflects the fact that a few of her screws were loosened, and tightened again, but they're not set quite the same as they were before.

In the next scene, she returns to her apartment, in a craze, and proceeds to do the only logical thing to meet her forming persona as Catwoman - she sews herself a costume:


This scene reminded me that quite a few heroes have created and sewn their own costumes. Catwoman did it. Dr. Horrible did it. Okay, both are technically villains, but both have heroic qualities.



Spiderman did it.



The Hulk did it. He took a more holistic approach. Iron Man did it. His approach is not so much a costume as a Segway on steroids.


Batman did it, though I suspect Alfred performed the actual tailoring. There are many things Batman did not do alone.


And there are many others - Daredevil,

















Green Arrow,


















and The Lone Ranger, to name but a few.

In other words, among all the many super powers, skills, and codes of conduct among our most cherished heroes, one characteristic stands head and shoulders above the rest as the most prevalent, most useful, and most unilaterally heroic: the ability to wield a needle and thread with ingenuity, dexterity, and imagination. A blind stitch may be as important as blinding speed, and a back stitch as helpful as a sidekick.

Is there someone in your life who is a super seamstress? A master milliner? A consummate couturier? A talented tailor?

If so, then ask yourself a question. Has this loved one ever appeared in public with Batman? Stood side to side with the Mayor and Wonder Woman? Recoiled in horror from The Toxic Avenger? If you cannot answer "yes" to these questions, then there is a good chance you are in the company of an honest-to-goodness hero. Quite possibly one with super powers.

I can hear some of you asking, "What makes you so sure?"

I have first hand experience.

My daughter Leona was recently cast as Amneris in her high school's production of Aida. A role with seven costume changes. And while the school has enlisted the aid of both the X-Women and the Justice League to costume the show, she was not ready to trust her appearance to just anybody. So she teamed up with my personal Wonder Woman, my wife of twenty years, Karin. Over the years, my wife has wielded her super powers numerous times, crafting such Instruments for Good as:

A pea-in-a-pod costume for our then-two-week-old Faith.
A Henry VIII costume and a tuxedo jacket for me.
Formal gowns for the girls.
Cross-stitched seat cushions for antique chairs.
Countless draperies.
Complete reupholster of a Cessna airplane.
Hand-woven tapestry commemorating her parent's 50th anniversary.

The girls have inherited some of these powers. Faith, admittedly, does not sew so much, but she does knit, and she knows how to wield a fencing foil, which makes up much of the difference. A few years back, Leona decided she wanted a Scarlet O'Hara dress for Halloween. There was never any question that she was not making a costume, but an authentic antebellum ball gown. All seven layers of it. But without the curtain rod.


So now, faced with the task of costuming Aida's Amneris, Leona and Karin have joined forces to battle the dark forces of fashion. To mere mortals like me, this is unthinkable. Selecting pants and a shirt for the office is a challenge. But with Leona's designs and Karin's super sewing powers in full swing, they are up to the task.

They are my heroes.

Of course, their ability to make needles dance is not the only reason I hold them in such high regard.

After all, in twenty years, I have never seen any of them together with Wonder Woman or Elastigirl.