tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-299648112024-03-18T02:47:49.381-07:00Pool PurrsPool Puss hisses, purrs and naps while swimming at local Bay Areal Pools & other swimming venues 'round the planet. No one can tell a story like a kitty who swims! Meow!
^-^
{ ! }<a href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_owzjJuyS1J4/R4wcKLBkU4I/AAAAAAAAAPs/hpOhv3jmF7U/s1600-h/Carol+at+Vichy+Pool.jpg"></a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger554125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-46676752469440218862024-02-19T15:35:00.000-08:002024-02-19T15:37:54.143-08:00YoooouWhoooo! <p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfh7M-Nl3ZneyMgO05bONJZ7WD-fRv6oXOlx9HqboHmnRzWweq-1RD5y0fWqIPjUnKQgXZRuWt899c-zoONzCKNvJqdDCaw0LYlvSp42qaLG7hz5puRRWFGsMG-5stn_TjL-0ouIZa7kWCRZcDsH1QEkIqf-Z4zduJFEXj7opxVQ9rwzK8n0hWA/s2667/owl-3745861_1280.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2667" data-original-width="1777" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVfh7M-Nl3ZneyMgO05bONJZ7WD-fRv6oXOlx9HqboHmnRzWweq-1RD5y0fWqIPjUnKQgXZRuWt899c-zoONzCKNvJqdDCaw0LYlvSp42qaLG7hz5puRRWFGsMG-5stn_TjL-0ouIZa7kWCRZcDsH1QEkIqf-Z4zduJFEXj7opxVQ9rwzK8n0hWA/s320/owl-3745861_1280.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“YooooWhoooo!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><span> I hear the call above me, like a great horned owl, but it can't be. I'm in the pool. </span>Through the fog of my mask, I see Alice climbing down the
ladder into my lane. Okay, this is fine. I can swim on one side; she can walk
on the other. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But it’s a
crowded Sunday. I’m anxious about this development. Technically, Alice needs to
be in the designated ‘walking’ lane instead of my designated ‘shallow lap’
lane. But since it’s crowded, I think how it’ll be okay to have one swimmer and
one walker.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I was wrong!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here comes
Bella. She’s the wife of The Creep. We call him that because of his vibe. It’s
creepy. What can I say? There is something about him that is a little pervy, a
little suspect. He’s never done anything to me, like The Perv, but still….he
gives me the creeps! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, I like her
fine. She’s always friendly and she’s okay to swim with cuz she doesn’t splash
a lot. But today? What is she doing climbing into the lane with Alice and me
here already? How can we circle swim with Alice walking? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s not
going to work!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hello,
Carol,” she smiles at me calmly. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey,
Bella.” I glance down the lane at Alice, chugging away in the center.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She says
that she can walk down the middle between us,” Bella nods, still smiling. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Really?” I
shake my head. How the hell is that going to work? There isn’t room for 3
people to move up and down a lane without crashing into each other. Esp if
Bella is doing her wide breaststroke (okay, she doesn’t splash, but she does take
up a lot of room)<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Why isn’t she
swimming with her creepy husband?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We’ll
figure it out,” Bella says serenely as she takes off down the lane. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I just
stand at the wall, shaking my head. This is NOT going to work. What the hell
are these women thinking? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Obviously,
they don’t care about swimming!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“CAROL!!!!
CAROOOOLLLL!!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I hear someone
hollering my name. I can’t see a damn thing because of my foggy mask, but the
voice sounds like it’s coming from the other side of the deep pool. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I climb out
of the insane lane and head toward the sound of the shouting. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now I spy
my friend, Liv, springy strawberry curls out of her cap. She’s finished
swimming it looks like.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1aXAvmQ2zhAMGiLtNsIAzDzca63fAViF_1Neo36J5nCLcbxybj5Z46aGBQpqFcEi4HaibimCxCsvGD_M0SKKwwq6putsnaaGaHC8wyREzUFnVZWe_ppciF8fAUI7TcUh3K_XlLZ0U8Oz3aIgJJzz-x4VfP4BzrQhH9F6xb5b6Dnet1eS-Q9LGgg/s800/curly-hairstyle-young-beautiful-happy-healthy-woman-hair-over-white-background-35915946.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="800" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1aXAvmQ2zhAMGiLtNsIAzDzca63fAViF_1Neo36J5nCLcbxybj5Z46aGBQpqFcEi4HaibimCxCsvGD_M0SKKwwq6putsnaaGaHC8wyREzUFnVZWe_ppciF8fAUI7TcUh3K_XlLZ0U8Oz3aIgJJzz-x4VfP4BzrQhH9F6xb5b6Dnet1eS-Q9LGgg/s320/curly-hairstyle-young-beautiful-happy-healthy-woman-hair-over-white-background-35915946.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You done?”
I ask, plopping into the water before she answers.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, it’s
all yours,” she nods knowingly. Somehow, she saw the disaster waiting to happen
back where I was and hollered to the rescue! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank you
SO much!” I gush, before diving under the water and heading toward the opposite
wall. The lane free and clear for me. What a narrow escape! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I swim, I
think about how stupid the two women were. Think about what I will say when I inevitably
see them in the locker room. Do I call them idiots? Ask them what was going
through their brains to think that the three of us could share the lane in that
dynamic? Two swimmers and one walker?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I swim a
few hundred yards, then pause to take off my fins. Trade them in for the pull buoy.
Notice how Bella has moved too. She is in the middle lane now with her Creep
Husband. They are partaking of gross face kissing in the pool! Ugh! They always
do this and it’s so yucky! But at least I’m not swimming with them.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2P22kjdd4fdqUwGE96bO59po0L80dwgiVR0xz1RF54AVyZKBk5DGZk27BD15fJq44gIFeaV124SJCQxMsl3ci4fyHhEdY50RrCz4foL_7-o5ulDjNq4N4aGenblKne20kzcLrIWH4Qe9ZS_R7z8S-Vc2edz2PV2JA9YdWE2fvgnohEqQ3oKOfnA/s390/side-portrait-mature-loving-couple-260nw-200540774.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="390" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2P22kjdd4fdqUwGE96bO59po0L80dwgiVR0xz1RF54AVyZKBk5DGZk27BD15fJq44gIFeaV124SJCQxMsl3ci4fyHhEdY50RrCz4foL_7-o5ulDjNq4N4aGenblKne20kzcLrIWH4Qe9ZS_R7z8S-Vc2edz2PV2JA9YdWE2fvgnohEqQ3oKOfnA/s320/side-portrait-mature-loving-couple-260nw-200540774.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later, when
I am back in the locker room and, of course, it’s just Alice and Bella, I
refrain from taking them to task. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, darn!”
Alice harrumphs! “I forgot my underwear!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We all
chuckle.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But at
least I have my bra! Can’t live without that!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t
have to worry about a bra,” Bella observes as she pulls her gray sweatshirt
over her head with a strange black image on it that looks like a spade with a
devil tail on it. “I am so flat. I just use those pasties. I feel so free!” she
proclaims.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Alice lets
out a guffaw! “You’re lucky! Mine would be hitting the floor by now if I didn’t
wear a bra!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I can’t
help but laugh at them. Who could be mad at these two women? They’re hilarious!
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I pull my
big parka on over my layers of sweaters before heading out the door.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You ladies have a great rest of your Sunday,” I call out.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You too,
Carol!” they both answer. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I rush
out of the facility into the windy winter afternoon, I can’t help but grin to myself.
Yoooouwhoooo indeed!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-61276684473672933182024-02-05T19:12:00.000-08:002024-02-05T19:13:37.011-08:00She’s Chinese<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKqwRF03ySsZkN6TiKMFjT99zek_QX4hU1BoBiOGE6GFCtucil_as_q544zU3UNcOFCPL2WE87PqJ0gqzV5S0P33o3yhWHE5k4yccHdKZThkzDqIWxVp9vFHsU4p1xH_twBccj9hEu4nX641u1G5lL0oGZ1qVfN9Y_EwVbtxvHXsYXdt_di1JOUw/s432/34b92a74-4334-4273-843c-050eac6bfb91.f3c407c76ee0ebef5b0188d723138966.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="320" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKqwRF03ySsZkN6TiKMFjT99zek_QX4hU1BoBiOGE6GFCtucil_as_q544zU3UNcOFCPL2WE87PqJ0gqzV5S0P33o3yhWHE5k4yccHdKZThkzDqIWxVp9vFHsU4p1xH_twBccj9hEu4nX641u1G5lL0oGZ1qVfN9Y_EwVbtxvHXsYXdt_di1JOUw/s320/34b92a74-4334-4273-843c-050eac6bfb91.f3c407c76ee0ebef5b0188d723138966.webp" width="237" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You’re just like my wife. Hafta get your laps in!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Pineapple Swim Trunks Man, too tan
white guy, middle aged, eyes that wander without focus, eases himself into the
hot tub where I’m recovering from a rather invigorating swim in the unheated
pool. A zebra dove calls in the background as the palm trees whisper overhead.
Puffy white clouds drift lazily in front of the emerald crags of Kaneohe’s
mountains. I was relaxing, beginning to warm my frozen hands, but now?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Not knowing his wife, I just nod,
agree that getting my laps in is a priority. But his tone had been disparaging.
Like getting in your laps is somehow a waste of time or something that is
beneath him. I can’t gauge what the issue is with his wife…. yet…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“She’s at Costco now.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmnSgkur9AiVlM8lU5OUxU-1xZGOd5i4ovvE39j9uoClPr_eicChtXzaBdDD9yrZsZxOigvMxS2CvUb8dgwvJT_uLAUg2VwsuhgII5ponFZc3-HWs4B-AsMvz-KMoIKmDI89n3W4mVv2ak8JAR6egFM_ZO89kZo16mQ18TTRMJHvVIck7rKV1_Zg/s1425/have-to-admit-one-of-my-favorite-parts-of-hawaii-are-my-v0-oq0qoj0sq7cb1.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1425" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmnSgkur9AiVlM8lU5OUxU-1xZGOd5i4ovvE39j9uoClPr_eicChtXzaBdDD9yrZsZxOigvMxS2CvUb8dgwvJT_uLAUg2VwsuhgII5ponFZc3-HWs4B-AsMvz-KMoIKmDI89n3W4mVv2ak8JAR6egFM_ZO89kZo16mQ18TTRMJHvVIck7rKV1_Zg/s320/have-to-admit-one-of-my-favorite-parts-of-hawaii-are-my-v0-oq0qoj0sq7cb1.webp" width="243" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I frown, shake my head. “That
sounds awful!” I sink a little further into the hot water, watching as a redheaded
cardinal swoops down and lights atop the fence. Costco would be the last place
I’d wanna be at any time, let alone in Hawaii.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfubbha7LB90CdhZjtil__czN0iLB1mwn7kd9peIGMXHtU0inbRJvAzYRWv6or_Ivxe7ULjlbVyndbuutESF0suajhKiSkrSB-3mRkG6XQ4dFVLvvWvlHNetQ40RzfDFgkx4il6ziWRO-zjXgleissaUql-2a02nJ4KFcd-sSJMhWZxG27CF_v7w/s760/web1_20200313_b1_costco.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="507" data-original-width="760" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfubbha7LB90CdhZjtil__czN0iLB1mwn7kd9peIGMXHtU0inbRJvAzYRWv6or_Ivxe7ULjlbVyndbuutESF0suajhKiSkrSB-3mRkG6XQ4dFVLvvWvlHNetQ40RzfDFgkx4il6ziWRO-zjXgleissaUql-2a02nJ4KFcd-sSJMhWZxG27CF_v7w/s320/web1_20200313_b1_costco.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Yeah, well, if you’re gonna do it,
I guess today is as good a day as any. Like she needs more stuff! The other day
we were cleaning out a pile of junk and I found a receipt from Radio Shack from
1972! And I said to her, ‘I don’t think we need this anymore.’ But she never
throws anything away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What do you
expect? She’s Chinese.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m still processing the receipt
from 1972 and agreeing with him in my mind that it probably can be thrown away
when he tosses in the line about her being Chinese and that’s why she’s a hoarder.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Later, as Ian and I are strolling
down the lovely shore of Kahana Bay, the sand a smooth caramel color, the aqua
water lapping at our feet in languid warm waves, Ian mentions this comment and
I say how racist it was and how sorry I felt for this poor woman that’s married
to this jerk. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I have never heard of this
derogatory bias against the Chinese---that they are hoarders. But I live in the
Bay Area and even if somebody thought this, they would never utter it aloud.
Sometimes, I forget that the area I live in is sensitive and respectful of
other cultures more so than other parts of the world, even Hawaii. Here in
Kaneohe, even though the environment is paradise, the military culture had
taken over. Nothing against the military---well, maybe I have a little bias
against the military, but that’s a whole other blog. I do, however, think that
there may be a lot of derogatory biases against other races in the military, particularly
women, and women of color doubly so. Of course, I don’t have any proof that Racist
Guy is in the military or is ex-military. It’s just a vibe. One of narrow-minded
dismissiveness. Of swimming. Of women. Of other races than himself.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTmCcX11-6s7zkgaCwS3PsXDBd9z1HHWOOL_zvVHjsG06y2bNOV_JByBi-40chKkv-r6RpowcWHkPrupUMCJL0f5AHPD_MrAIQVIkO6L0CRJcuoaUOosYRX_IOlfJ1PxUsbkN79FsIfcVunaXaCVh6d2U8yed4XFJBiUwz1AqudWHxZ7F8a4gbhA/s1024/marine-corps-base-hawaii-kaneohe-bay-hawaii-october-dbe308-1024.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="682" data-original-width="1024" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTmCcX11-6s7zkgaCwS3PsXDBd9z1HHWOOL_zvVHjsG06y2bNOV_JByBi-40chKkv-r6RpowcWHkPrupUMCJL0f5AHPD_MrAIQVIkO6L0CRJcuoaUOosYRX_IOlfJ1PxUsbkN79FsIfcVunaXaCVh6d2U8yed4XFJBiUwz1AqudWHxZ7F8a4gbhA/s320/marine-corps-base-hawaii-kaneohe-bay-hawaii-october-dbe308-1024.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">As Ian and I continue our stroll
down the beach, we spy a little girl, busy in the sand, building something. As
we walk past, she calls out to her mom: “Mommy! Look! I’m making pizza!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Ian and I laugh, delighted by her
imagination, but another part of me thinks how, of course she’s ‘cooking’
something. Preparing a meal for her family. It’s woman’s work starting at an
early age.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Let’s just hope that when she grows
up, she doesn’t marry someone like Racist Guy who belittles her to total
strangers in the hot tub. That her industry is rewarded instead of ridiculed. That
even though she comes from the white privileged class, she learns to accept and
respect other races and cultures.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">How will this happen?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">One pizza at a time. One pizza at a
time…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJnrOn49rdu9uo98YhcPIMds8a419Z7iXAHltMC4oj13G8JUUP-9pq7DtBADNoNgJn4YXNj4tYsqLcYxpA1g6BaLrkswoNpvIVicoT8APx_U5LQ_TMGLGQ0UreBjy_p63s9oyO3Cdr72gpR-CiEM7KB4GfYaDT30nSizbSMhdPxQ7-dMCIzPPwmw/s390/young-girl-playing-sand-on-260nw-2225261065.webp" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="390" height="230" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJnrOn49rdu9uo98YhcPIMds8a419Z7iXAHltMC4oj13G8JUUP-9pq7DtBADNoNgJn4YXNj4tYsqLcYxpA1g6BaLrkswoNpvIVicoT8APx_U5LQ_TMGLGQ0UreBjy_p63s9oyO3Cdr72gpR-CiEM7KB4GfYaDT30nSizbSMhdPxQ7-dMCIzPPwmw/s320/young-girl-playing-sand-on-260nw-2225261065.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-76861106977451781522024-01-16T15:13:00.000-08:002024-01-16T22:51:50.964-08:00Mustang!<p> </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSCQxk_eztL-XTnfFXpoygVA5Jg0rjoQOsVaeUVJIFxOJo_pMc9tKWNSCq-eAUNHWogx3Dz8LdmkF7im6qA7fnfGAWDTLV81hzLO2BKyXnP5WMi58317kbIvMIY3tIKvvCCwLd7oTFSBsKrkhVVMAvsmBNs5WSD3sAlgkEcOqyG_0k334feUCTOLFl87M/s348/Dollar%20rent%20a%20car%20line.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="348" data-original-width="348" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSCQxk_eztL-XTnfFXpoygVA5Jg0rjoQOsVaeUVJIFxOJo_pMc9tKWNSCq-eAUNHWogx3Dz8LdmkF7im6qA7fnfGAWDTLV81hzLO2BKyXnP5WMi58317kbIvMIY3tIKvvCCwLd7oTFSBsKrkhVVMAvsmBNs5WSD3sAlgkEcOqyG_0k334feUCTOLFl87M/s320/Dollar%20rent%20a%20car%20line.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">The line was a mass of static disgruntlement. Packed into the stuffy waiting room of the Dollar Rent-a-Car at Honolulu airport were at least a hundred travelers, their luggage stuffed, their phones in hand, their children running and jumping underneath the useless line markers, their faces full of resignation and frustration.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This can’t be right!” I exclaimed to Ian. “We’re going to be here all afternoon!” I’d had visions of landing at Honolulu airport at 12:05 pm, taking the rental car shuttle and then whisking away 20 minutes later to Kalama Beach where the warm embrace of the Hawaii’s sea awaited me.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Talk about a fantasy!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think we should try to call Dollar and find out if we’re in the right place,” I said to Ian.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think this is right,” he said, squeezing into the stuffy too-lit room for a place in line.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But where are the cars? Shouldn’t there be a garage where the cars are?” I stared at the 2 beleaguered clerks at computers, blocked by the black mass of travelers. No way could I walk up and ask one of them.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A couple behind us shook their heads, the man muttered, “She thinks were in the wrong place too.” He pointed to a pale, blue slacked older woman on the phone outside the waiting room. “She’s calling now.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think I should call, too,” I say to Ian, the claustrophobia hitting me hard suddenly. Between the too early wake up at 5 am and the long flight with only a strange sausage sandwich for a snack, I was starting to feel peckish.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I need to get out of here,” I said, staggering through the crowd and out into the bright Honolulu sunshine.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hello, Dollar Rent a Car—How may I help today?” I’d waited for 10 minutes to talk to a person after finally finding the 800 number on the website.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hello, yes, a person…. thanks…. I just wondered if you can tell me if I’m in the right place to pick up my rental car?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, Ma’am, of course. Where are you?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here was a question. I knew I was at the Honolulu airport, but where exactly? I had no clue. I told her how we’d taken a shuttle. How it’d dropped us off at this structure. How the line for getting our car was enormous and non-moving.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can you tell me if the structure is facing east?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I am so tired and cranky. I can’t tell what direction is east on the best of days when I’m able to orient myself. Now? No way.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, I can’t. Can you just tell me if it’s normal to have 100 people in line to pick up a car?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Today is a holiday, Ma’am. There is a higher percentage of travelers.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I could tell that this phone call was going to get me nowhere. “Okay, thanks for your help.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank you for choosing Dolar Rent a Car. Have a nice day.”<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLBG3v9_IzK8rD5oiwuGbZ4G3JfXIJAyK_tSuwCnk2DDcPHQFblFK5MMi-Lp4MVC0c11ukGHzivqIrITqdaaJqK_DoVOq8bPZJthjNMVqiCf52jzK5ZekPT2d1OUY4FhyhbFXAYkOYINbPPMx2cwkzBPGcVykvGqv9t3YpyATwy8su216KtXA6F0KzU2U/s537/gluttony.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="356" data-original-width="537" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLBG3v9_IzK8rD5oiwuGbZ4G3JfXIJAyK_tSuwCnk2DDcPHQFblFK5MMi-Lp4MVC0c11ukGHzivqIrITqdaaJqK_DoVOq8bPZJthjNMVqiCf52jzK5ZekPT2d1OUY4FhyhbFXAYkOYINbPPMx2cwkzBPGcVykvGqv9t3YpyATwy8su216KtXA6F0KzU2U/s320/gluttony.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I head back into the 9<sup>th</sup> circle of hell. “Did you get ahold of someone?” Ian asks.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, but she was no help.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think we’re in the right place.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, I guess we’ll find out in 2 hours.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The White man behind us, (oh the entitlement of the Patriarchy!) was now crinkling and uncrinkling a plastic snack bag of granola. Then chomping on it with his mouth open. Needless to say, he had no mask on. In fact, no one did except for me and Ian.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was near a nervous breakdown. With hours to go before we got our car.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“MOM! I’m hungry!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay, baby, me too. Can you find your daddy and see if he can buy us some snacks?”<br /><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I have to go to the bathroom too!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Mom rolled her eyes, pushed a lank curl out of her eyes. Earlier she’d been near a nervous breakdown too. In the shuttle. Asking if she could borrow a fellow traveler’s cell phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“We got separated from my husband. He has my phone and my wallet.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Evidently, the husband was still missing as the line inched forward.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ian, I’m going to scream.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t scream.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I nod. Of course, I wasn’t going to scream, but I felt like it. It’s hard not to sometimes. But I try to avoid outbursts in public.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A half hour goes by. We inch forward. An hour goes by. We’re still not at the counters.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">The waiting is so boring. Do I tell instead of show? I’ll show a little: Woman behind me in line, her lank dark hair exposing a tender pink part, squats down and sighs deeply. On the verge. Three young Asian Women, huddled together in a triangle, draped with colorful beach towels, chattering for a moment, then dully silent. Two tall Black women, dressed in golden and ruby finery, animating their discussion with waves of silver pointed fingernails and spangly bracelets.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The waiting continues. And continues. And continues. Will we ever move? Let alone speak to a clerk and get our car?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But the line does move. Slowly oh so slowly until…. finally, after an hour and a half, we reach the clerk.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wow, I never thought we’d be talking to you,” I exclaim.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She doesn’t even crack a smile. “Name?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I give her the info. She types it into her computer. The rigamarole of renting takes no more than 5 minutes.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now what?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Go out and turn to the right, down the elevators to the garage to pick up your vehicle.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Great!” I am so relieved. It’s now 2:30, but maybe there’s still time for a swim in the sea.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As we step off the elevator to the vast empty garage a box of an office is in front of us. We give the young woman our info. “How long before we get a car?” Ian asks.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We’ll try to get one for you within an hour.”<br /><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“An HOUR!” I can’t keep the horror out of my voice. “Do you know what we’ve been through upstairs?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She nods, shrugs. “Oh, yeah. Take a seat.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Resigned, we do. Rolling our bags over to the concrete bench. “At least we can sit down,” Ian says.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don’t answer. Sitting down is NOT what I want to do. I should have been in the ocean by now. Floating under the bright blue sky with puffy clouds floating overhead as the warm water embraces me with its Aloha warmth.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkuA-yQyhibRxbgQmO3UeHyEbfX1sp3m1OxcF0D3IwGXEWphDVfQEloSjHQ2S1mRYLrWPqwQVhqL1R-u6XnZAlAgXlqYdg98HlGa64fD5Lu1rTQTvLEkPs-NAJQbR7iYNv-udXb5f_w1ogzWaNWn1s_H7sD_DrQPxxsvDzGg1wByJ4MP1Zzkg6kA/s1080/Hawaii%20clouds.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="567" data-original-width="1080" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkuA-yQyhibRxbgQmO3UeHyEbfX1sp3m1OxcF0D3IwGXEWphDVfQEloSjHQ2S1mRYLrWPqwQVhqL1R-u6XnZAlAgXlqYdg98HlGa64fD5Lu1rTQTvLEkPs-NAJQbR7iYNv-udXb5f_w1ogzWaNWn1s_H7sD_DrQPxxsvDzGg1wByJ4MP1Zzkg6kA/s320/Hawaii%20clouds.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I watch as the couple that had been in line behind us climbs into an oversized brown Jeep Cherokee. “Why did they get a car before us?” I ask Ian.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They must have ordered that car and it was available. We’ll just have to wait till our car that we ordered arrives.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Minnie!!! MINNIE CHAN!!!!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Man in charge is striding around, waving a paper over his bald head, his wire-rimmed glasses sitting atop his bulbous nose.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ian!” I whisper. “Doesn’t that guy who’s in charge look like that actor who was in that movie about the mean drum teacher?”<br /><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ian gives me a blank stare.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do you know who I mean?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m not sure.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglREWdEenUtw-mXMwsA1AhyphenhyphenLaxM4CjEjjFNuYtrvB7SwXfRo5bazHbeJChmEleGmWdpu-OgQzyJl9Q0OuI0d2vh845o0w7SYOyTKGAwWokv7XRlpigk1GfyNhOJK7iMYDDY-tMejiEgdM3QRwIPwk1XJvt7tTaGGFuhBjacNvecaGVpr1XHyERpoPiJD8/s1280/jk%20simmons.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglREWdEenUtw-mXMwsA1AhyphenhyphenLaxM4CjEjjFNuYtrvB7SwXfRo5bazHbeJChmEleGmWdpu-OgQzyJl9Q0OuI0d2vh845o0w7SYOyTKGAwWokv7XRlpigk1GfyNhOJK7iMYDDY-tMejiEgdM3QRwIPwk1XJvt7tTaGGFuhBjacNvecaGVpr1XHyERpoPiJD8/s320/jk%20simmons.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can’t remember his name.” I have a phone. I have time. I google ‘mean drum teacher film’ and up pops “Whiplash” starring J.K. Simmons.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“J.K. Simmons!” I announce, pleased to have accomplished something easily.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, yeah, you’re right,” Ian nods.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Minnie Chan?” JK has found her. She’s 90 pounds in a pale green mini skirt, her frail bare legs ending in pink flip flops. “You can take this vehicle, but you’re responsible for it.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He points to an enormous SUV black monstrosity. Minnie nods, but I can sense her fear. Could she really drive such a vehicle?<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yet, how long has Minnie been waiting? Hours.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She takes it.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>JK yells for the next customer.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A plump, exhausted woman motions at our bench. “May I?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ian moves over, “Of course.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She plops down. “Wow. It’s a zoo here today.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You can say that again,” I agree.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where you from?” she asks.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We tell her the SF Bay Area. Turns out she’s from Concord. We trade banalities about geography.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“LAMBTON!!! IAN! LAMBTON!!!” JK bellows.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Here, here!” Ian rises, waving his arm.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>JK approaches. “Listen, I don’t have the economy car you ordered, but I tell you what I’m gonna do.”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He points to a beautiful white convertible Mustang.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You want it?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We both break into big grins. “YES!!!” I cry.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Concord Woman whoops. “Look at you! A Mustang convertible for Paradise!”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And as we roll our bags over to the Mustang my grin grows wider and wider. My father immediately pops into my mind; he was such a Mustang man --he would have loved this car! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTARgVo27pnoC4Ki9P94jLjBtWsIoGeysi6FHs4kOv1JLSS7Qi11lIZgGm7-sQPpfK83rzMYgpQ4Zr-VSNbfFETWlqVUnXTwgrGiWJAfKG1X6V7S7vPHxaRWzSuhS9T6xaCl4R93qRNtd8B4yTmrEXB1B9mPnevwaVHeHVo7ac6LtsZbj5KLpBw/s1200/Bob%20and%20his%20Mustang.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="553" data-original-width="1200" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSTARgVo27pnoC4Ki9P94jLjBtWsIoGeysi6FHs4kOv1JLSS7Qi11lIZgGm7-sQPpfK83rzMYgpQ4Zr-VSNbfFETWlqVUnXTwgrGiWJAfKG1X6V7S7vPHxaRWzSuhS9T6xaCl4R93qRNtd8B4yTmrEXB1B9mPnevwaVHeHVo7ac6LtsZbj5KLpBw/s320/Bob%20and%20his%20Mustang.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> And a</span> Mustang convertible!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We plop our luggage in the trunk and climb into the car. Ian presses a button. The top floats up and down. And we’re off. Out of the reality of Dollar Rent a Car and into the fantasy of Hawaii!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Alooohaaaa!<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrO7kkZpCIrW4-QhTtfJEoqp64VYyD6xQdhnwSzz8DualKR4VgEuVjDCoChn3gfAUIes325KWj9X9PIHI0OxLNt8fK6EWlnKBe3lcCrbcgLy43q5JDUnRdYrp7fTlwo8HkTf4CTN4Bped155pZ7xbRX-BriWdXvVEe0h6lsEl2yQ_diHObFgJtENKETY/s1080/Cj%20in%20Mustang%20Jan%202024%20Kaneohe.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="810" data-original-width="1080" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQrO7kkZpCIrW4-QhTtfJEoqp64VYyD6xQdhnwSzz8DualKR4VgEuVjDCoChn3gfAUIes325KWj9X9PIHI0OxLNt8fK6EWlnKBe3lcCrbcgLy43q5JDUnRdYrp7fTlwo8HkTf4CTN4Bped155pZ7xbRX-BriWdXvVEe0h6lsEl2yQ_diHObFgJtENKETY/s320/Cj%20in%20Mustang%20Jan%202024%20Kaneohe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-10439628820977938412023-10-28T14:48:00.004-07:002023-10-28T15:09:31.454-07:00The Perv and the Patriarchy<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEqpqY-ApsIhyIP_oeG2r6TOSOt_UyQ6orjF1noOEPxXvdI0Na9AsZgCUmcobJuq9ve_TsH2x2WhdkgSLoSRPXpEKBXbPGVMlA5K6X1id2Mm6_jvrqJ7TKbnalrwA9p9pg2Ja8E1qEWI7ct3XRe98RSS_6c4WFp8C2hFUuQOo-tSSPF-9cEu-vmA/s1000/8e17ab8a5056704b0725828385b60e29.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="762" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEqpqY-ApsIhyIP_oeG2r6TOSOt_UyQ6orjF1noOEPxXvdI0Na9AsZgCUmcobJuq9ve_TsH2x2WhdkgSLoSRPXpEKBXbPGVMlA5K6X1id2Mm6_jvrqJ7TKbnalrwA9p9pg2Ja8E1qEWI7ct3XRe98RSS_6c4WFp8C2hFUuQOo-tSSPF-9cEu-vmA/s320/8e17ab8a5056704b0725828385b60e29.jpg" width="244" /></a></div><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>I.</b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">He waves for me to approach from
atop his throne of power. A burly, tank-like white man, middle-aged, scruffy
beard. The Lifeguard. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What
could he want? I think as I put the kickboard back in its stack, still cold and
shaky from my swim. I’d gotten the Covid booster the day before and its side effects
were giving me the chills, making me tired. Plus, my arm hurt. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
honestly just wanted to get in the hot shower. Not have any sort of conversation
with the lifeguard. But maybe he just had some pool news to tell me.
Maybe the pool was closing early next week and he wanted to inform me. Who
knows?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
leans toward me, his usually booming gruff voice softer, conspiratorial. “I can
see through your swimsuit,” he says. “You might want to consider replacing it.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shit.
I am mortified. Embarrassed. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
sorry,” I mumble, trying to cover up by wrapping my towel around my waist. But
what part of me could he see? If it was my ass, then the towel would help, but
if it’s my tits, then what could I do to keep him from seeing?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To
be suddenly so exposed by a MAN was beyond creepy. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
hurry off the deck, into the sanctuary of the women’s locker room, full of the
usual cackle and chatter. I turn on one of the showers, letting the hot water
rinse off my shame. I don’t participate in the women’s banter, but hurriedly
dress and head out to hang with the post swim crowd in the parking lot.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>II.<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">They’re gathered there as usual, chatting about Ian’s not
pursuing the cello as a child. I’d heard the story before, but was too distraught
to take up the thread; instead I interrupted.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You guys
won’t believe what just happened to me.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They stop
talking, LS and her husband, who is busy on the phone, and Ian. “The lifeguard
told me that he could see through my suit and I should consider replacing it.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s awful,”
LS murmurs. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’d like
to see that,” Ian quips. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not
helpful, honey,” I answer. “It was horrible. I was so embarrassed. Mortified. I
couldn’t believe that he singled me out to tell me that! Coming from a man.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntXBdu5Bm1O0nSlIYC4H9NngW2xx9cQkRoRKcn5_9Ca5J4a3gHMyKYeA5gfR3FzlrS4phkoW49K1bczhbxUVtOxCa1AQxl2FyEXhM6tAqf_6fWcLY1DdQfo_2rRlWMC5zPfUNRBoNScVqttDVAxws1XbCUNoB2TAmB_iv0SvNYwI1BkByE4Rkqg/s615/preaching-in-church-11287576388r0hl.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="615" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjntXBdu5Bm1O0nSlIYC4H9NngW2xx9cQkRoRKcn5_9Ca5J4a3gHMyKYeA5gfR3FzlrS4phkoW49K1bczhbxUVtOxCa1AQxl2FyEXhM6tAqf_6fWcLY1DdQfo_2rRlWMC5zPfUNRBoNScVqttDVAxws1XbCUNoB2TAmB_iv0SvNYwI1BkByE4Rkqg/s320/preaching-in-church-11287576388r0hl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Maybe,
since he’s a former Pastor,” LS offers, “he is just trying to take care of his
flock.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I dunno,” I’m
shaking a little. Is it the after effects from the vaccine or the incident I
just went through? “Maybe. I guess…. but it seems so inappropriate for a male lifeguard
to tell a woman that he can see through her suit, you know?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They nod. Not
reacting much. Was I being too sensitive? Making too big a deal out of the incident?
Maybe he was just trying to do me a favor.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It didn’t
feel like that.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I need to
get home,” I tell Ian. “I’m not feeling very well.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, you
said you were cold,” LS says, offering sympathy and understanding.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure, let’s
get you home,” Ian says, grabbing my swim bag for me and heading for the car.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b>III<o:p></o:p></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I was thinking about your text,” DL says, “and that lifeguard
is a total Perv. He had no business telling you that he could see through your
suit. It was shaming, Cj, shaming.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes! I was
mortified.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of course,
you were. That was his intention. He was using his position of power and authority
as a member of the Patriarchy to make you small. Here we are in our bodies, and
for years, we’ve been owning them, and then to have someone like HIM belittle
you like that. Well, it’s shaming and outrageous.”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, and agist, too, DL. I
mean, there was another woman whose suit was thin, but she was young and cute.
Did he tell her? NO! He singled out the old lady who has no sex anymore to make
her feel small and shameful.”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Exactly! Sexist. Ageist. Not
only would he not tell her, she’s young and sexual still. But if a DUDE had the
same issue, would he tell them he could see all their stuff?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I laughed. “No way!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“…and the bit about his being a
former pastor,” she continues. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Well,
that just adds to the Perv aspect of the situation.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes! You’re
right, I hadn’t thought of that. Why is it that the clergy has such license for
perversion.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>DL frowns,
shakes her head. “They just do. They have the power. The establishment behind
them. They know there are no consequences for their actions.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I think of
how the vicars of Trollope are always ordering their women around. “Make me
some tea dear. Have you posted the mail yet? When will supper be ready?”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPJkazaWncybMxgJdf4Z4BGvaTHe-esq_ZQloL0h-IpQ9EZGqT01ysWuihVmkMHn4bYioJYVcu_78kYYUMK5q_seAVqEfo-4P34gv1Y_j7sqAc-J6CUSAwewF3lNIKUyVtwduxGci4biWI2vi8mVZ4jPadqnmEuy4-3Nk6dNHDQxV1ybdMEvQm4w/s1740/1200px-Claverings_-_Lady_Ongar_and_Harry_Clavering.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1740" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPJkazaWncybMxgJdf4Z4BGvaTHe-esq_ZQloL0h-IpQ9EZGqT01ysWuihVmkMHn4bYioJYVcu_78kYYUMK5q_seAVqEfo-4P34gv1Y_j7sqAc-J6CUSAwewF3lNIKUyVtwduxGci4biWI2vi8mVZ4jPadqnmEuy4-3Nk6dNHDQxV1ybdMEvQm4w/s320/1200px-Claverings_-_Lady_Ongar_and_Harry_Clavering.jpg" width="221" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And the
women, in their buttoned-up Victorian dresses, dutifully serving, submissive,
quietly suffering the patriarchy’s unrelenting suffocation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wasn’t
buttoned up in my see-through suit. The nerve of me to expose my body! The Patriarch
was disgusted. I must be put in line. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Will you
report this to the management?” DL asks. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, I don’t
think so,” I shake my head. “Even though part of me is very angry about this. I
don’t feel comfortable going to the pool now with this Perv in charge. But, I’m
not gonna let him stop me from swimming, you know?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
understand,” DL shakes her head.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But if he
says anything to me again, I’m gonna let him have it. And I’ll report him then.
Let’s hope he doesn’t.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We both
laugh. “Watch out for CJ!” DL declares. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And he
better, I think, he just better. <o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-69329321060819112532023-10-05T15:20:00.000-07:002023-10-05T15:20:04.333-07:00The Three Carols<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqkfZBarHfVchWD56NM_JnFHy-KGswnMDYbjJXwpBWs8DC4hoaQMD1ZCVOom-mMbP3cAm5oPue-01lQhhD8H6btChKQ4NTpgfcE9yQ5idIOHBqdLYAssOViFTdmhhZ9a5tiqQQsoC0tTSNKD2bkHxqqvvAbI3yGxy8iyEhtJjm-4oFvsBH-0XC3w/s1200/1_i_wQatG_ahkZHoVV4lpvUQ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqkfZBarHfVchWD56NM_JnFHy-KGswnMDYbjJXwpBWs8DC4hoaQMD1ZCVOom-mMbP3cAm5oPue-01lQhhD8H6btChKQ4NTpgfcE9yQ5idIOHBqdLYAssOViFTdmhhZ9a5tiqQQsoC0tTSNKD2bkHxqqvvAbI3yGxy8iyEhtJjm-4oFvsBH-0XC3w/s320/1_i_wQatG_ahkZHoVV4lpvUQ.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">“Hello, Carol.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I hear my name and answer to the other Carol that I know in
the locker room. “Hello, Carol.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But then, there’s another woman in our midst too---and,
guess what? She answers too: “Hello.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Wait a minute,” Carol #2 says (I’m #1 of course), “is your
name Carol, too?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, it is,” Carol #3 says. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“WOW! I exclaim. “Three Carols all in the same place at the
same time here in the locker room of Kennedy High Pool!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Is your name spelled with an e on the end?” Carol #3 inquires,
“or are you a Real Carol, with no e.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Oh, I’m definitely the REAL Carol!” I grin, plopping my
swim bag on the wide bench and rustling around for my shampoo and conditioner
out of its depths. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes, me too,” Carol #2 says. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Me too,” Carol #3 says. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We all start grinning. “Are you Carol Ann?” Carol #2 asks
me. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Our middle names will surely distinguish us. Not that we aren’t
already quite different. Yes, we’re all women, we’re all white, we are probably
of nearly the same generation. Though I think I’m a bit younger than the other
two Carols—but I always think I’m younger than I am. I forget that I’m a senior
citizen now until I look in the mirror. But these two women, while both women
and white, are physically very different. Carol #2 is a wide square load
with a painful and slow gait caused by a fall. Carol #3 is delicate and slender,
almost too slender. You can see her tail bone poking through at the bottom of
her back when she bends over. And, me? I’m just a petite swimmer athlete, with a
perky step and no bones showing. Well, maybe a few rib bones if I suck in my
stomach.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But, I’m no Carol Ann, “Carol Leslie,” I answer, heading
into the shower.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Carol Lynn,” Carol #3 announces. “But two separate words!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She laughs softly. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Oh, I know that one. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I often get called Carolyn, one word. Not sure why since it’s
a longer name and doesn’t really sound like Carol by itself. In fact, there’s a
fellow swimmer here who calls me Carolyn. I’ve thought about correcting her,
but then, I shrug and think ‘Why bother’? I can be Carolyn for her.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ayc5mcvILzyZKfo8WIQZYTV7r2S5QP-RERT2Ft-S_WkxaEKOR52LeBrtSB2SFJei0qYHGakG81PUEzhCn_3_RB-9m8j83Diy16HlEDzHWlBj0qy5BssOPAH3JUnD0coWafguuYq7KHGV_dXYSRnviFuulcH3WYwTDh5K7-68RqzTo2I7Ry7wBw/s800/275331-800x533-public-domain-christmas-songs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ayc5mcvILzyZKfo8WIQZYTV7r2S5QP-RERT2Ft-S_WkxaEKOR52LeBrtSB2SFJei0qYHGakG81PUEzhCn_3_RB-9m8j83Diy16HlEDzHWlBj0qy5BssOPAH3JUnD0coWafguuYq7KHGV_dXYSRnviFuulcH3WYwTDh5K7-68RqzTo2I7Ry7wBw/s320/275331-800x533-public-domain-christmas-songs.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>Now as I
turn on the hot water and dip my head under the tap, I think about names and
Carols. How my mother told me I was named Carol because she was very pregnant
at Christmas and there were Christmas Carols in the air. Plus, I think she
thought it was a pretty name.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And it is.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Though I
have taken on other names over the years. I was “Nora” at Avenue Books because
there was another Carol. And I’m Cj to a few of my friends. My sisters call me
Snart because we couldn’t say fart when we were kids so Fart and Snot became
Snart. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now I’m
part of the Pool Carol Club. And I like this. Though part of me is always a little
surprised to meet another Carol.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Aren’t I
the only one?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I rinse
the conditioner out of my hair, turn off the shower and head out into the
locker room to contine the Carol talk, I find myself alone now.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No more
Carols in the locker room.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now I am
the only one.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And boy do
I like that!<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK_tPQEt-3A3Mr2bJ04sL08HmqojGgfTBxsdvxIYk5w7czrvpLiKIjlNbZzhbw0qmsAUnIVZa7EFby7GQ2dKwfuXHL6En2IJjl_3pL_AKFK3Hnq9YfGa-meHpH5j7BHqVisT_HnxOYMxIlHMvL3ieHa-2ESPD6mt88NvZ5qRMxw7KHUy5r3X-TDg/s908/Carol-name-print-classic-g01-dark-pink_0f518cd3-de14-4857-b857-cd2b458dfb42.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="908" data-original-width="800" height="606" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK_tPQEt-3A3Mr2bJ04sL08HmqojGgfTBxsdvxIYk5w7czrvpLiKIjlNbZzhbw0qmsAUnIVZa7EFby7GQ2dKwfuXHL6En2IJjl_3pL_AKFK3Hnq9YfGa-meHpH5j7BHqVisT_HnxOYMxIlHMvL3ieHa-2ESPD6mt88NvZ5qRMxw7KHUy5r3X-TDg/w502-h606/Carol-name-print-classic-g01-dark-pink_0f518cd3-de14-4857-b857-cd2b458dfb42.webp" width="502" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-75219955844828457602023-08-10T14:38:00.033-07:002023-08-11T22:36:12.384-07:00The Talking Corridor<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo5cbawiplIFhvJwnvx5QXVjz-PemQRIYHNGUNu1YOKwIDjyIbWb8EDc_HZ6Sse_5fQSmo6CJOcx2H3bU48mLaSgHUdcXwKe4Hu_c6E_2UxdMSlffnh9wm_8-3MyQNa4y8BzIqw56s7VXknefyjcPfebZv5e3Gn3_pcrEsEpcZeQFehuFVDysOzA/s1920/t_c9f2212be32e458ab5b865a414af0f41_name_t_f10cf6addc5c476c92a73119e06eafae_name_file_1920x1080_5400_v4_cropped_.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1920" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo5cbawiplIFhvJwnvx5QXVjz-PemQRIYHNGUNu1YOKwIDjyIbWb8EDc_HZ6Sse_5fQSmo6CJOcx2H3bU48mLaSgHUdcXwKe4Hu_c6E_2UxdMSlffnh9wm_8-3MyQNa4y8BzIqw56s7VXknefyjcPfebZv5e3Gn3_pcrEsEpcZeQFehuFVDysOzA/s320/t_c9f2212be32e458ab5b865a414af0f41_name_t_f10cf6addc5c476c92a73119e06eafae_name_file_1920x1080_5400_v4_cropped_.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“...her name is Fiona Hill and her last book….”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“…. Mrs. Dalloway’s had….”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“…. read the….”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“…. if she tells me again….”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m swimming between two walking
ladies at the Kennedy Pool. They are talking. I am catching only snippets of
their conversation each time I pass between them on my way up and down the
lane. I am here to swim. They are here to talk. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s a
different kind of workout. The Talking Workout. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And in the
shallow lanes, there is definitely more talking than swimming going on. Part of
it, of course, is the fact that they are walking in the water vs. swimming in
the water. Water walking just lends itself to talking, and if the walkers are ‘regulars,’
well, they have a rapport going already. Ripe for talking. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwCGWN96S_1Gq1Sg8wOMUooX3chn0BbohsO9wJyxSSkPfNG88QSOSZ5fml81JrjLgFIe9DzhsRxyLqkM_6KBTmGz4RPnjTl-sStzpAQjSN5jDYAnA4DMkK96UqnoFa0MBXY3BgHLEsde05RSj--BRBYvFPPDu8NhI7xrrlkOK1eFXULS_3mfgmA/s612/istockphoto-930396678-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="376" data-original-width="612" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJwCGWN96S_1Gq1Sg8wOMUooX3chn0BbohsO9wJyxSSkPfNG88QSOSZ5fml81JrjLgFIe9DzhsRxyLqkM_6KBTmGz4RPnjTl-sStzpAQjSN5jDYAnA4DMkK96UqnoFa0MBXY3BgHLEsde05RSj--BRBYvFPPDu8NhI7xrrlkOK1eFXULS_3mfgmA/s320/istockphoto-930396678-612x612.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Today I
knew I was taking my chances getting in the shallow ‘lap’ lane. I knew that a
walker would probably get in with me and this is fine, but naturally, I’d
rather have the lane to myself. I don’t like to share. So today, when one of
the ‘Talkers,’ Alice, got in the lane next to me, we exchanged smiles and she
started in on her walking and I continued my swimming. But then Granny Glasses
Woman got in on the other side of me and started walking and talking over me to
Alice as I swam in between them.<br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They completely
ignored me. I wasn’t even there even though I swam between them every minute or
so. The conversation continued over me and I couldn’t help but catch fragments
of it as I swam past.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“…..and you
just have to watch out for them. They all have a mean streak. Men! I love ‘em
but I stay away from them….”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk2L-NnE5WfwPQPSa3q8T-pIio0zXkwzRobISwDMZcVsBwMZhDhfF6Hbax-XnXox9Q4JSXI12jb0WPsBW3aAL89ZhukoZ46NHydPEv5XX47UtgDrW1n2VyVbHV3Lz41Y0mfUH35FnvSaWtfYgaomLK87Ql3U88gJhidqk9yVRQqzhC2_NeoG0Lrg/s1200/mean-girls-fb.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1200" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk2L-NnE5WfwPQPSa3q8T-pIio0zXkwzRobISwDMZcVsBwMZhDhfF6Hbax-XnXox9Q4JSXI12jb0WPsBW3aAL89ZhukoZ46NHydPEv5XX47UtgDrW1n2VyVbHV3Lz41Y0mfUH35FnvSaWtfYgaomLK87Ql3U88gJhidqk9yVRQqzhC2_NeoG0Lrg/s320/mean-girls-fb.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Alice
frowns and shakes her head as this pronouncement floats over me. It strikes me
as wrong. In my experience, I find that most men aren’t the ‘mean’ type. Women
are. Maybe I got this from when I was a teenager and the ‘mean’ girls
ostracized me from their ‘in-crowd’ when I told them we were moving out of
Hacienda Heights to Irvine. For some reason, they took this as an affront to their
community and wouldn’t speak to me for the remainder of my time there. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
MEAN!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And, in Soap Operas, sure the men are scheming and manipulative,
but not ‘mean'. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watch out for Victoria on the <i>Young and the Restless</i>.
She’ll eat you alive if you try to commit any corporate espionage on Newman
Enterprises! “Tucker, you may think you have leverage over me, but my people
have discovered several emails that will be quite detrimental to your continued
business ventures. “Are you threatening me, Victoria.” Victoria smiles smugly. “Of
course not. I just think you better be on your guard. I don’t just growl. I
bite!”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiS8v7Te0s1jqz4Y3N0XwX1_aQxlV6u6mV0u2twxsqyzlonBFzR0JsOoes87WrGb37R2HaXLbAZ3F9Wl8Xj2xYUDX4Z62u4tmGOUwbJR-8z1v5EjIX38yi-ieWekrSx0nSoa6c7vBHy2A1IHp-ynmxTvRvKq0LauperYgUgvhxoHk9dpK4dfcNRw/s700/The-Young-and-the-Restless-Victoria-Newman.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="357" data-original-width="700" height="163" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiS8v7Te0s1jqz4Y3N0XwX1_aQxlV6u6mV0u2twxsqyzlonBFzR0JsOoes87WrGb37R2HaXLbAZ3F9Wl8Xj2xYUDX4Z62u4tmGOUwbJR-8z1v5EjIX38yi-ieWekrSx0nSoa6c7vBHy2A1IHp-ynmxTvRvKq0LauperYgUgvhxoHk9dpK4dfcNRw/s320/The-Young-and-the-Restless-Victoria-Newman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I turn at
the wall and continue back down the lane, words floating over me:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“….my Volvo
needed an oil change and….”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“….my car
is smaller so….”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“…. the
mechanic told me…. if I want to be good to my car…”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Talking Ladies continue their discussions over me, going
from books, to men to cars.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wonder if I
should stop my lap swimming and ask who their mechanic is. Sounds like someone
that I’d like. Though the guys at J&E on 23<sup>rd</sup> Street are very
nice and I really don’t need a new mechanic. Plus, I hate car stuff.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> It's 11:00 a.m. and the pool is closing. </span>The lifeguard
gets off his throne and paces slowly up the cement center between the deep side
of the pool and the shallow. He’s young and shy. Doesn’t blow the whistle or
yell for us to get out, but his movement is effective. Everyone gets out. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Even the
Talking Ladies. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wait to
get out at the ladder, but Granny Glasses is blocking
my way out. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>“I am going to try this Sushi place on….” Alice is yelling over me.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“…. since
Covid I ….” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> Instead of trying to manuever past Granny Glasses to get out at the ladder, </span>I decide to
just heave myself out onto the deck. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span> Sitting on the wet cement deck for a moment, I can't help but grin. "....if you wanna come to lunch with me, I...."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span> Of course, she's not talking to me. But that's okay. I can listen.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span> </span><span> </span> </span><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-27564326091089979812023-08-02T14:35:00.042-07:002023-08-02T15:01:09.738-07:00Distraction and Delusion <p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYXQUuxp15NvNxUiU9Xu4S_nmp5qZ_kBn4bR-6T5wGxzx9qGDFr5Y_U0rEAnNYD8johvTAhNdTWVX-jUkYf7sLlCtYtEMnxaEeXjyogvpZdfzZrR65CKVibowz9k20mcobBUt3Gx0BGDDjVDF6xJ_fVhg6dnGfNTPObJRpi784Vl9BYYPCdyBqXw/s1200/Somebody_Feed_Phil_S6_E3_00_05_38_10_R.0.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYXQUuxp15NvNxUiU9Xu4S_nmp5qZ_kBn4bR-6T5wGxzx9qGDFr5Y_U0rEAnNYD8johvTAhNdTWVX-jUkYf7sLlCtYtEMnxaEeXjyogvpZdfzZrR65CKVibowz9k20mcobBUt3Gx0BGDDjVDF6xJ_fVhg6dnGfNTPObJRpi784Vl9BYYPCdyBqXw/s320/Somebody_Feed_Phil_S6_E3_00_05_38_10_R.0.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“Hope you have a good lunch now!” I call out to the janitor
who has just finished cleaning the locker rooms of the Kennedy High Pool.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t
eat lunch,” he asserts. “Don’t drink water. Just eat salad and drink watermelon
juice.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I think how
it’s crazy not to drink any water. Haven’t we always learned that drinking 8 glasses of water a day is the first step to good health?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I love
those two things,” LS nods at him, calls out softly, "salads and watermelon."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ignoring
her, he barrels on: “Most people, they think they have to eat 3 meals a day but
you don’t. You have breakfast, right? That means break the fast! You’ve already
gone 8 hours without eating, just add on another 4 hours and then another 4
hours. Then you fasting.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I think how
I can’t go more than 2 hours without eating, but don’t divulge my weakness to
him. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And, the
other thing is people eat pork and they eat beef. We not supposed to be eating
those things. Those things are poison.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,” LS
and I both say. I can agree with this, remembering how my mother was telling me how she had started a series of paintings about Kelp.
How growing and farming and eating kelp is so much better for the planet than beef.
If only people would stop eating cows the world would be so much better off.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And another
thing you can do,” he continues, inching closer to us, his dark eyes wide and
intense behind smudgy round wire rimmed glasses, “eat turmeric and magnesium.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve heard
that magnesium is very good for you,” I offer.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7Uyo8fnmWK-puPBWkY75krdCiS5gzDkjmM5QekjJsxDbSoWki_Fl_-JiXLERMnEiA-UYHxnqlr2iv4GCOHQOOUbphmOCFrc6HrzV-aeIaOLlPw9qn6JuM5LupKlIjJXOGfE-GILiYM14Gblfk8G7wX7kPh5lF4XgpjwdoSpvGXgLHcQR6-Qc3g/s1200/Port_and_lighthouse_overnight_storm_with_lightning_in_Port-la-Nouvelle.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw7Uyo8fnmWK-puPBWkY75krdCiS5gzDkjmM5QekjJsxDbSoWki_Fl_-JiXLERMnEiA-UYHxnqlr2iv4GCOHQOOUbphmOCFrc6HrzV-aeIaOLlPw9qn6JuM5LupKlIjJXOGfE-GILiYM14Gblfk8G7wX7kPh5lF4XgpjwdoSpvGXgLHcQR6-Qc3g/s320/Port_and_lighthouse_overnight_storm_with_lightning_in_Port-la-Nouvelle.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And stay
out of the chlorine pool. That water is poison. Go to the ocean. Stand in the
water. You can feel the electricity. We are electric beings. You have a choice.
We are all born millionaires. Just look at your social security card. Right
below your signature, take a close look. There are numbers there. They give you
your million dollars. Just look. And no offense ladies, but our world is full
of distraction and delusion.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wonder
where the hell he is going with this? I mean how was he going to offend us with
this next segment of the diatribe?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Men and
women. Distraction and delusion. Republicans and Democrats. Distraction and
delusion. Right lung left lung. Distraction and delusion.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We both
nod. I glance over at LS, but she’s got her big dark glasses on so I can’t tell
what she’s thinking. It’s probably a good thing I can’t make eye contact with
her; I might lose it and start laughing. Which probably would be a distraction.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Or a
delusion.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXZmHF7JmIa1mNNAv19MdUDMD3AnepXwzlQGFaqNjviekPvIuFJf7ASanKPnYSouzMEGL218TmBz75-wGwbsPR7kgPK0YfQdgL_60wUSkc9h3zNQhH-bdIVZQ7wcVUtPGW7gswnieNXnHKvIN3oaeS2nm6yCPt8_fKaHJfz8c8RSUFRHKXtRPlqg/s1500/VWHealth-Valentines-Day-Red-Dye-Health-Hazard-V2-2-edit-13fb5c50627e46829368b6800893793a.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="1500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXZmHF7JmIa1mNNAv19MdUDMD3AnepXwzlQGFaqNjviekPvIuFJf7ASanKPnYSouzMEGL218TmBz75-wGwbsPR7kgPK0YfQdgL_60wUSkc9h3zNQhH-bdIVZQ7wcVUtPGW7gswnieNXnHKvIN3oaeS2nm6yCPt8_fKaHJfz8c8RSUFRHKXtRPlqg/s320/VWHealth-Valentines-Day-Red-Dye-Health-Hazard-V2-2-edit-13fb5c50627e46829368b6800893793a.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"> “And don’t
eat any red dye no 5, 6 7 or 12,” he continues, heated now. “It’s poison. And the Walmarts? They’re all
being closed up. America is a corporation. The Corporation is closing all the
Walmarts. They aren’t going to be there anymore. And you know what’s going to happen in 2026?”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,” I can’t
wait to hear this. But as he inches closer to us, I start to feel a little uneasy.
I don’t think he’s dangerous, but he obviously is crazy. This might be what
happens when you spend your days having to work cleaning up other people’s messes
in various Richmond City facilities.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll tell
you, in 2026 there is going to a thing called COVID and it’s going to kill over
2 million people most of them children.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He pauses
for a moment. I think this is getting too weird and start to pick my swim stuff
up off the cement, placing my mask in its case, tossing my cap into my bag. I’m
getting out of here is what I’m trying to say with my actions. Yet will he pick
up on this?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He seems to,
now backing up a little and reaching for his keys to open the door of his white
Richmond City of Pride and Purpose work van.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgobAj8Js39CysYcm8i1GFxpYf-qmfq9yAa9B3d6m4VVse87gaqbGC0z22v3RmGL_1ggVgO0IVfQqIbFGpJqLsqKrLhIJMXpEQFsRQ36R_pVeeoM0pPGyZgvmP4r5C9n3eyBAQSEz28X1XQstT5K0NT79tE8pVhkXYs0jBsyMNeRKoVJ-E9DK3FiA/s1200/Richmond.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="630" data-original-width="1200" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgobAj8Js39CysYcm8i1GFxpYf-qmfq9yAa9B3d6m4VVse87gaqbGC0z22v3RmGL_1ggVgO0IVfQqIbFGpJqLsqKrLhIJMXpEQFsRQ36R_pVeeoM0pPGyZgvmP4r5C9n3eyBAQSEz28X1XQstT5K0NT79tE8pVhkXYs0jBsyMNeRKoVJ-E9DK3FiA/s320/Richmond.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>LS sings
out sweetly, “Thanks again for your work.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He nods,
getting into his van, then pulls out. Drives away. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I exhale. Relieved
he’s gone. Then, look at LS and grin. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
gonna take a while to process,” she says.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My blog is
written for today!” I exclaim. “It’s the only way I can process it all.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I wonder
where he gets his information,” she muses.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who knows.
It’s not the <i>Guardian</i>!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We both
laugh. She gets on her bike, and starts to cruise off. I wave goodbye as I
climb into the Fiat, thinking about how hungry I am. The hunger is definitely a distraction. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span>But a delusion? </p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /><span> Nah, it's real, I think, as I close the car door, put the key in the ignition and back out of the parking lot, turn onto 41st and head back to The Mansion for some Cheetos, M&Ms, Hagen Daz Ice Cream and water. Lots and lots of water!</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46eTf-8s0dnVW7IZZtzJtsJJu-iUJMzzEYk3O3V67ZakWE6_-MffDv2FREJzRWwJsdyf2k0pHCgEwI2TVzDFDiiGl3PRDZ4SxN-skhxWvhgsqnZpRZUPtLSkUZraFjwmayUUHMKXxdebRVpRrAW62Z0HzE_NKqzbszVcCbKfmvK8Jpy4mcsVIMw/s640/istockphoto-1163859419-640x640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj46eTf-8s0dnVW7IZZtzJtsJJu-iUJMzzEYk3O3V67ZakWE6_-MffDv2FREJzRWwJsdyf2k0pHCgEwI2TVzDFDiiGl3PRDZ4SxN-skhxWvhgsqnZpRZUPtLSkUZraFjwmayUUHMKXxdebRVpRrAW62Z0HzE_NKqzbszVcCbKfmvK8Jpy4mcsVIMw/s320/istockphoto-1163859419-640x640.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-82957148131629351612023-07-18T15:33:00.012-07:002023-07-18T15:43:31.554-07:00You'd Never Be Alone<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEeqoRhuYipzRh1Us4W5tNM3fvRGDBiUlJFOMh1QvNP60Oay8U9sn3vX0KZH8IIOK9uQleTPi7pDw5MvVlPW6MMvEfPiNkuIWi6QUyktJ756gpcwNC8wxorWThnqy_iKkqNOmuH_jyOh5P0-hX5cTU036PQFUR_X6dhrri_l28J2HPgIZ8c_Z7dA/s500/FINIS-Yellow-Zoomers-Gold-Revew.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEeqoRhuYipzRh1Us4W5tNM3fvRGDBiUlJFOMh1QvNP60Oay8U9sn3vX0KZH8IIOK9uQleTPi7pDw5MvVlPW6MMvEfPiNkuIWi6QUyktJ756gpcwNC8wxorWThnqy_iKkqNOmuH_jyOh5P0-hX5cTU036PQFUR_X6dhrri_l28J2HPgIZ8c_Z7dA/s320/FINIS-Yellow-Zoomers-Gold-Revew.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p> “I really like your fins.” Square Woman with Yellow Zoomers has
gotten into my lane. I don’t mind swimming with her, but she requires a wide berth.
And, today, I discovered, she also needs to know when to stop talking!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I know I can’t
be the only one who doesn’t want to ‘chat’ in the middle of my workout. I mean,
there is only so much time! And, I cut it close. I want to get in my 2500 yards,
and I can do this in 53 minutes, but I often only give myself 55. So, it’s a race
against the clock before they kick me out of the pool.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Now, I have
to contend with a Chat Lady? Ugh!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I had fins
like that,” she continues, completely oblivious to my hostile don’t talk to me
vibe, “but when I went to Strawberry, I had them on the side of the pool and if
things aren’t nailed down, someone steals them. I turned around after putting
them on the deck and before I knew it, Poof! they were gone. Now I have these fins….”
she holds up her foot with the bright yellow Zoomer attached, “and they are too
stiff. What size foot do you have?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “6 ½”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “That’s
small, isn’t it. I’d probably take a large.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Why are we
talking about foot size between my intervals? I have to cut her off, but how?
She’s just getting started, I can tell. I could just take off, push off the
wall, during her mid-sentence, but that is so rude. Or is it? I mean, isn’t she
the rude one keeping me from my workout?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I got
these at Transporters cuz they’re the only ones they have. What are those
called?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She peers
at my fins, now sitting on the deck. “Umm….they’re called <i>Finis</i>.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ZDhA_vQEXK7FsCCFS8uSPpyUOYsClpyKFoq9XLdWT38eZacBfe3P3t4KRGd7q4n7PBr4x5-VGjBIxRbzh5ICY10LQk6b5TYko_FM5Wk1Ee9tCBjRZ00cKGK2EifHVEEmAanf4KWEw_jmooMDXiFyADEBDezxqwYmY2Snwqv1Qo5lagKfVafcSA/s350/914lAaaJF8L._AC_UF350,350_QL80_.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="350" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5ZDhA_vQEXK7FsCCFS8uSPpyUOYsClpyKFoq9XLdWT38eZacBfe3P3t4KRGd7q4n7PBr4x5-VGjBIxRbzh5ICY10LQk6b5TYko_FM5Wk1Ee9tCBjRZ00cKGK2EifHVEEmAanf4KWEw_jmooMDXiFyADEBDezxqwYmY2Snwqv1Qo5lagKfVafcSA/s320/914lAaaJF8L._AC_UF350,350_QL80_.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Where did
you get them?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I think I
just got them at Amazon.” Doesn’t the whole world know that you get EVERYTHING
at Amazon?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She takes a
breath, and I take off, hoping that this is the end of her talking, but no….
when I return to where she’s still standing, I take a short pause between my
intervals to grab my kickboard, and she starts in again: “I used to swim at the
Berkeley Y. I really love the sauna.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh, yes,
me too!” Cj what are you doing? This is encouragement!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I haven’t
been there in 5 or 6 years, and I got a senior low-income rate of $40 a month
and most people complain about the parking, but since I’m a handicapped senior,
I got a placard so I could park in front, but you know often even those spots
are taken and I have to drive around and around and with my injured shoulder
this causes me pain and…”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I just take
off. I can’t listen to her anymore. What am I doing talking to a crazy lady
about parking at the Berkely Y in the middle of my workout? She’s sucking away
valuable time!<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPcd_xfdEf3hq2FkP5Y-rav-EMDv8trGpKPJo6Ia-PuUon-ZJbARPAmePl7WbTDJh0pL5LWKF66NG9dXRSpzwHhpyKlLb-JSo8Hd-A0jiDm_079oxPXocAN7_yrntPgyES5sgwGxb1TA5-xoinFFt4iwnH8wgJwSzZyppNlBM9iXipnF1NQ9cS2g/s1139/BerkeleyYMCA_01.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="840" data-original-width="1139" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPcd_xfdEf3hq2FkP5Y-rav-EMDv8trGpKPJo6Ia-PuUon-ZJbARPAmePl7WbTDJh0pL5LWKF66NG9dXRSpzwHhpyKlLb-JSo8Hd-A0jiDm_079oxPXocAN7_yrntPgyES5sgwGxb1TA5-xoinFFt4iwnH8wgJwSzZyppNlBM9iXipnF1NQ9cS2g/s320/BerkeleyYMCA_01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal"> As I turn
at the wall opposite, she’s floating on her back toward me in a crooked lane
takeover way. Then she starts coughing spastically. Damn. Is she okay? Do I ask
her if she’s okay?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I glance
over at the lifeguard who is frowning. Who can blame her? It’s a busy morning
at the pool and I noticed earlier how Chat Woman caused an issue by asking the lifeguard
to fetch her a kickboard and pull buoy. “I’m not supposed to get equipment for
people,” the lifeguard had explained. “You can pick it up before you get in the
water.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I couldn't
hear what Chat Woman had said. Probably something like “I’m already in the water. I
didn’t see where they are! Can’t you just get them for me this one time? I’m a
senior with a disability and it’s a challenge for me to get in and out of the
water and….”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Now, as I
pass Chat Woman, still coughing, I think, No way am I going to ask her if she’s
okay. Frankly, at this point she can drown.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Afterwards,
hanging out with the cool swimmers in front of the building, B says that he might
do the lifeguard training again. We all say we should, and when D comes out, one
of the lifeguards, hearing our conversation, tells me that, yes, I could be a lifeguard.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “But I’m so
old and I’m not very strong.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “You could
do it. You can swim. You’d never be alone! Others would help!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “You’d
never be alone!” LS calls out, grinning. I know what she’s thinking. We
like being alone!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> But now, I
don’t tell them all how I wished Chat Woman had drowned. If I am going to be a
lifeguard, it might not be a good idea to divulge such wicked thoughts. Besides,
if I never were alone, someone else would save the drowning person. They’d
never know what I was thinking: “Drown, Chat Woman, drown drown drown!”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgltpGyuw5VjjDAR6-xWaioc-36xHsWELrTn5MFTVBGluvDBEYXa6LRhEV_kcyBr6fvvtrBtjESLAZns1SIgAYrpJ6xzPwueQNLbEc3FXc17fOizwOknH-pO1xysPyCrm6mG18NLHq6BTAvzspOWLe730Mg_Gqr3PtTGi3Lc0UiurrlgUyma6WCYw/s540/360_F_445477158_4tXjhay3aLkjHRIVFd89lysHYvl5ZsSz.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="540" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgltpGyuw5VjjDAR6-xWaioc-36xHsWELrTn5MFTVBGluvDBEYXa6LRhEV_kcyBr6fvvtrBtjESLAZns1SIgAYrpJ6xzPwueQNLbEc3FXc17fOizwOknH-pO1xysPyCrm6mG18NLHq6BTAvzspOWLe730Mg_Gqr3PtTGi3Lc0UiurrlgUyma6WCYw/s320/360_F_445477158_4tXjhay3aLkjHRIVFd89lysHYvl5ZsSz.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Not that I
would really let anyone drown. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Or would I?</p><p class="MsoNormal">No, of course not. I can't even let a fly drown in the cat bowl water, always scooping it up and tossing it out the window. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Admittedly, scooping Chat Woman out of the pool would be more of a challenge. But remember, I'd never be alone! And in this instance, that would be a very good thing!</p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-76730642000914365812023-06-08T15:01:00.011-07:002023-06-08T15:05:09.789-07:00Happy Birthday in the Shower<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZxIogB3f38LVFCDIeLA809zgqWAY76H-rHnp6AUc8CwBBv8FB0TX4dZEdEL20Uu862zD1GTX3CX477Vv9F-EhVOkgzd3xTrtLVgHp2FoBq-iuK9G7yLZQrEkAl98OawaGMDLWImdxz8GeEa69W-2N4PST59zqk9StQZFcNPEezcp3Yte60U/s600/3d13a8ae-833d-4a43-ae72-effac0fee3c7hat189ea-led-birthday-cake-hat-model-2019.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPZxIogB3f38LVFCDIeLA809zgqWAY76H-rHnp6AUc8CwBBv8FB0TX4dZEdEL20Uu862zD1GTX3CX477Vv9F-EhVOkgzd3xTrtLVgHp2FoBq-iuK9G7yLZQrEkAl98OawaGMDLWImdxz8GeEa69W-2N4PST59zqk9StQZFcNPEezcp3Yte60U/s320/3d13a8ae-833d-4a43-ae72-effac0fee3c7hat189ea-led-birthday-cake-hat-model-2019.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>“Spppp! Spppppiissss! Carol!”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">In the shower across from me,
Maggie is trying to get my attention. My hair foaming in shampoo, most of which
is falling in my eyes, blurs her motions to me for a moment. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“It’s Alice’s birthday today!” she whispers
through all the spray as 6 women soap up after swimming. “She’s coming! Let us
know, okay?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I’m in the prime vantage point to
see Alice’s approach. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“…and then we’ll all sing her “Happy Birthday!” Maggie beams
as the water streams down her.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Happy birthday in the shower? I’m,
of course, completely delighted as Alice comes lumbering into the locker room
and heads for the shower. I wave my arm up to get everyone’s attention; the
other women watching me for direction.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Alice enters the showers and, “Happy
Birthday to you! Happy Birthday to you!” Everyone bellows the familiar song in
wild shower abandon. We’re all laughing too as Alice stops and watches in
wonder, starting to give us all her boisterous laugh. I remember the time she
told me how her laugh was one of her best qualities. I had agreed at the time
and today, it certainly expressed her surprise, appreciation, and joy.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0rS1pGY8fK7lgPbMxHYIEiuq5rzLPXjBzI7_kI3yWeqsDfc_NRQkglncSrpVspbBBLzyqqYa6tk2UY8TIQ6bU_8uYwaLUrZoFfhMcB8KAw70ItujZItkSbzWJHqZ1lqb2LHCh22zAMZ6kEZji1g2-YmaaW5Uf8qpC7CRS_pqxIEEk0MgwFpk/s480/drag-queen-person-singing-shower-footage-166673699_iconl.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="270" data-original-width="480" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0rS1pGY8fK7lgPbMxHYIEiuq5rzLPXjBzI7_kI3yWeqsDfc_NRQkglncSrpVspbBBLzyqqYa6tk2UY8TIQ6bU_8uYwaLUrZoFfhMcB8KAw70ItujZItkSbzWJHqZ1lqb2LHCh22zAMZ6kEZji1g2-YmaaW5Uf8qpC7CRS_pqxIEEk0MgwFpk/s320/drag-queen-person-singing-shower-footage-166673699_iconl.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Finishing up, we join in Alice’s laughter.
<br />
“I can’t believe it!” she exclaims.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“When was the last time you had six
naked women singing you ‘Happy Birthday’ Anne asks. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Uh…never!” Alice erupts in laughter.
“I’d ask to take everyone’s picture, but I suppose that would be X rated.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">We all grin. And, indeed, 6 naked
women singing in the shower at Richmond High School’s pool would be quite a
photo. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Anne starts singing, “On the day of
Alice’s birthday, 6 women sang to her. 6 women showering….”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">More hilarity. Maggie gives up her
shower to Alice. It’s Alice’s favorite. All for her birthday. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Earlier, when I was swimming, I’d noticed that
there was a woman in the water walking section of the pool with a fabulously
decorated hat. Looking more closely, I saw that it was a 3-dimensional cake with birthday
candles affixed to the top and “Happy Birthday” written in lime
letters around the rim. I’d thought it was her birthday and she was celebrating
herself with a water walk and a hat, but, in fact, it was Alice’s birthday she
was wearing the hat for.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Five minutes ladies!” One of the
guy lifeguards hollers at us from out in the hall.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“HEY!” I holler back, “it’s Alice’s
birthday! You need to give her an extra five minutes for her special day!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Alice guffaws. “THANK YOU, Carol!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I grin. Alice is always the last
one out of the locker room. The least they can do for her birthday is to not
yell at her to get out!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Where do
you want to go for lunch?” Anne asks now, trying to pull on her colorful
flowered leggings. “That sushi place you like?”<br />
“Nah, I don’t think so. There’s
no sit-down area there.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “What about
that other place you like…. oh, I can’t remember the name…it has artisan in the
name.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Artisan a
Sushi”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzZPcP3XjLX5RwD2TXPaFxw7HmjhvHLgH5ky6XNZqHRRYi64NxQASDpea_gUBmZVd379Npuuwk9zhYH82HsiFWg2_Qwg6UdBSYzk4VSzJ7fhPtGAsqseL_lqgYNEwjwxBI3ZugHVXwDWaf9HYPxWbOELZP3jVvvqBbRJrTsCffEvaUaohCWY/s612/istockphoto-860147472-612x612.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="612" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivzZPcP3XjLX5RwD2TXPaFxw7HmjhvHLgH5ky6XNZqHRRYi64NxQASDpea_gUBmZVd379Npuuwk9zhYH82HsiFWg2_Qwg6UdBSYzk4VSzJ7fhPtGAsqseL_lqgYNEwjwxBI3ZugHVXwDWaf9HYPxWbOELZP3jVvvqBbRJrTsCffEvaUaohCWY/s320/istockphoto-860147472-612x612.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes! That’s
it. Do you want to go there?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I don’t
know. We can talk about it.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Anne
glances across the room at me as I’m trying to stuff all my gear into my swim
bag. “Carol, you are welcome to come with us.” She smiles warmly and I’m touched
to be included. But not today. I have work to do. And tell her thanks but have
to decline.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> The lifeguard's
yelling stopped after my hollering back. I finish with collecting my stuff and
start to head out, part of me wishing that I could go with them, but another
part of me knowing that I really am quite antisocial. And, sitting inside a restaurant
still makes me anxious. I know everyone says that the pandemic is over, but DL
told me she knows of 4 people who came down with COVID last week.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeuQYsiIOCOGqdrkeVesdqNsFKt0blzBC2j5qUj1l8CuB58rj9YAxcjQQ61Ig0bbGJAD6ipAEdvIjBn8DhsSCKy3wUoMALVKvdqc6IqmkPs2yYhPGja8m5yF4qfr8_ZtflOnY8vuZILOYhY66QNf7CPfmaQytjOkitXiWQUe68aX7gXddfCOc/s600/Pool-with-mask-tiny.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeuQYsiIOCOGqdrkeVesdqNsFKt0blzBC2j5qUj1l8CuB58rj9YAxcjQQ61Ig0bbGJAD6ipAEdvIjBn8DhsSCKy3wUoMALVKvdqc6IqmkPs2yYhPGja8m5yF4qfr8_ZtflOnY8vuZILOYhY66QNf7CPfmaQytjOkitXiWQUe68aX7gXddfCOc/s320/Pool-with-mask-tiny.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Yikes. I
don’t need to risk that. Even for Alice.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Have a great
lunch,” I call back to them, heading out the door. “Happy Birthday.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Thanks,
Carol!” Alice calls after me. “It really is shaping up to be quite a special
day!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> And she
laughs and laughs and laughs, the mirth floating out of the locker room and following
me into the parking lot. <o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-45279305352822867742023-05-02T15:13:00.019-07:002023-05-02T15:24:03.434-07:00 What Women Do<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“Accch! I haven’t made it on a Tuesday in I don’t know how
long!” Alice announces to no one in particular as she turns the shower on, dipping
her head back to soak her white hair.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL2Lry2ebT7t-chnvpmcqG947TzMgbIEF7MIzibkht_-g2mVCNAZge30nvjaIMpE2BszJCTdwbHZCtlzPXYO-OZRHEQUIxjZHJ3NODF9oMHt23D5Q2kerJNt5ciCtJE2twFGtZAl2Ue0VvHiEhE0cJttQVZpj55DjSjeeeLHvr4roeypJh7Ug/s296/images%20pool%20schedule.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="170" data-original-width="296" height="184" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL2Lry2ebT7t-chnvpmcqG947TzMgbIEF7MIzibkht_-g2mVCNAZge30nvjaIMpE2BszJCTdwbHZCtlzPXYO-OZRHEQUIxjZHJ3NODF9oMHt23D5Q2kerJNt5ciCtJE2twFGtZAl2Ue0VvHiEhE0cJttQVZpj55DjSjeeeLHvr4roeypJh7Ug/w320-h184/images%20pool%20schedule.png" width="320" /></a></div></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes, I
haven’t seen you here on Tuesday in a while,” I say, though I honestly don’t keep
track of the days that she’s here. I often lie to keep the conversation going. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Do you
swim every day?” she asks me, soaping up her hair after tugging off her wet swim
shirt and suit.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> "Nah, I can’t
swim every day. My body can’t take it," I answer, trying to focus on getting all the shampoo out of my hair. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Well, you’re
here every day that I am!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I plan it
that way! I think to myself before I leave the house, ‘Is Alice going to be at
the pool?’ And if I think you are, then I head on over!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Alice guffaws.
The other two women, her friend, Linda, and another woman whose name I don’t
know, join in the giggles. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “We’re both
reading the same schedule!” Alice continues.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes, but
it’s only a schedule for Alice and Carol. No one else is privy to it!” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Again, more
laughter. I’m on a roll today with the shower laughathon. I used to think it
was so strange to chat in the shower, naked, tired, and soapy, but now I know it's just What Women Do. At least here at the Kennedy High Pool.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “The schedule
reminds me of statistics!” Alice continues. “I won’t give you the details!”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdgg5N1i13aqgW4qldiWfZuvHn7HQsmuIApJdWJKbMmltEeQayBBQQaEbcO2f9tSvNGMoFIg-CVBzjYdT_viW3BhMNntuF1CZhQt3dwMAzzFQaLTQqtYM8xOsp37IWkKx2xzUgB-sdnabyn9csuAGTtVFh8wQCLXHU5ZgFml7kHvoMn8oHqYM/s290/Iris_Pairs_Plot.svg.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="283" data-original-width="290" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdgg5N1i13aqgW4qldiWfZuvHn7HQsmuIApJdWJKbMmltEeQayBBQQaEbcO2f9tSvNGMoFIg-CVBzjYdT_viW3BhMNntuF1CZhQt3dwMAzzFQaLTQqtYM8xOsp37IWkKx2xzUgB-sdnabyn9csuAGTtVFh8wQCLXHU5ZgFml7kHvoMn8oHqYM/s1600/Iris_Pairs_Plot.svg.png" width="290" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Thanks,” I
say, though I wonder how the pool schedule reminds her of statistics. Is it the
boxes? Or the outcomes? What the hell is statistics anyway? My students are
always citing evidence from a source called ‘Statista’ but I have no clue what
it is. It seems to tell them something about business, but I don’t know what.
And, I remember that in order for me to be a psychology major at UC Santa Cruz,
I had to take statistics.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> That’s when
I switched my major to Literature.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “OH!” Alice
exclaims now that we’re all out of the shower and hurrying to dress before the
15-minute-get-out-of-the-locker room shouting begins. “We’re doing pretty good
today. 7 minutes left.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes, we’ll
make it,” I say, shoving some of my stuff into my swim bag and digging around for my
brush.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “You know what
slows me down?” Alice continues, and I think to myself, “TALKING!!!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> But say
instead, “No.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Q-Tips. I
love just sitting here, digging around in my ear with the Q-tip, waiting for
the water to drain out. I just can’t get out of my ear!” She laughs joyfully.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2qCTWSG98lYwLWen1tPhrlpEZC_9R_TagdPRLr8Ly-WJDXYXorMS3tDCAE0Dna81Hq6KLwWuFmTAcHlN-cGfoiKdp3SSAe_LGqS2vGJHjytpGdcwL_cdcrw2i0d9OGy_dqVtDb1j56gc-RoI6lM70ADfFoxzmq8ySbrnQslJx-yNblCWHjQ/s275/Q%20tips%20images.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-2qCTWSG98lYwLWen1tPhrlpEZC_9R_TagdPRLr8Ly-WJDXYXorMS3tDCAE0Dna81Hq6KLwWuFmTAcHlN-cGfoiKdp3SSAe_LGqS2vGJHjytpGdcwL_cdcrw2i0d9OGy_dqVtDb1j56gc-RoI6lM70ADfFoxzmq8ySbrnQslJx-yNblCWHjQ/s1600/Q%20tips%20images.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “That’s
really weird,” Linda comments, pulling up her solar system stretch pants in
what looks like an impossible task.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Again, we
all laugh, even the shy other woman who hasn’t said a word but has joined in
all the frivolity. She slips on her red bowed flip-flops and heads out the
door, “Goodbye!” she calls out, her soft voice filled with laughter.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “BYE!” We
all yell after her.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> 20 seconds
later, she comes back in. “She’s back!” Alice pronounces.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Shy Girl
grins, scurrying over to where she’d left her anti-covid face mask hanging on
the bar. Grabbing it, she puts it on, then waves goodbye again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I think how
I haven’t worn my mask today. I’m not sure why. Of course, it’s mostly habit at
this point, and I do remember thinking that I should put it on after I got out
of the shower, but then I thought, it’s just Alice and Linda and Shy Girl. Why
bother?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> So, I hadn’t.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> And this is
a first. To not wear a mask in the locker room. I’d been complaining about how
no one does to my swim friends. That I was the only one who wore a mask. “You’re
the only smart one,” Lauri had said.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Was I being
dumb today? Or is it really time to eschew the masks?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo68wwssA9SBBBgDl1zqFDFkJlo76xt5Efw2GpCnbotDvFV8abHs8ixrxPxQsbG8C0SXg6H-YMP4Lq1snBefOaifb7oKwmZXWSCYHouAfzQjiuzyvNi-gjdx4_jqirGrrATXKwhXNVoy2bw-U19ZXsM0i5veF9Wv3B-LbzIcGo-KM6xeVIOdw/s1000/woman%20wearing%20mask.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="666" data-original-width="1000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjo68wwssA9SBBBgDl1zqFDFkJlo76xt5Efw2GpCnbotDvFV8abHs8ixrxPxQsbG8C0SXg6H-YMP4Lq1snBefOaifb7oKwmZXWSCYHouAfzQjiuzyvNi-gjdx4_jqirGrrATXKwhXNVoy2bw-U19ZXsM0i5veF9Wv3B-LbzIcGo-KM6xeVIOdw/s320/woman%20wearing%20mask.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I finish
drying out my cap, rolling up my suit in my towel, and tossing all my stuff in my
bag. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> 12:14! I am
out of here with a minute to spare!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Bye, Ladies!”
I call out. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Alice
hollers something at me and she and Linda both crack up. I have no idea what
she said as I head out of the locker room and into the parking lot, the rain
showers paused for a minute as the puffy dark and white clouds float in
the sky above me. "Those dark ones look like they're full of fire!" Alice had said at one point in the shower. Maybe before the statistics chat. "But they're not! They're full of water!"</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjomDtwLiJeeli8aDuZM_VvNrWdpvPqaPtn0KdxTf4BCIFFTC1YPXSH5GikkaqByTrE7vUdVbpxieT99-g_XTdvbO_TCHBmu8Jv9PgGEWZHuZgK5KpMVRTTHcvyvNt5y381-RbkmhvZX_5QFcyzblYcA5Wso11Qva1vuSAI75NvhI6a6SqZqCY/s6000/505221-weather-sky.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="6000" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjomDtwLiJeeli8aDuZM_VvNrWdpvPqaPtn0KdxTf4BCIFFTC1YPXSH5GikkaqByTrE7vUdVbpxieT99-g_XTdvbO_TCHBmu8Jv9PgGEWZHuZgK5KpMVRTTHcvyvNt5y381-RbkmhvZX_5QFcyzblYcA5Wso11Qva1vuSAI75NvhI6a6SqZqCY/s320/505221-weather-sky.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span> As I climb into the Fiat, the water starts to fall. I raise my face to the sky and grin and grin and grin!</span><br /></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-36159270895423334752023-04-29T14:38:00.001-07:002023-04-29T14:38:19.394-07:00Oblivious<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKLwVm-vjNzRR6-1w73RO6SUMXdkjZkj7nCmT9DLd4ypZZ6Y4zyPVnluq-wycQ_MFgPHqy-r-O1Oax8liOHqcaefggJ9jFbfld-Gch_47xLMH-5v2GK0p7xKzzOBgxuKPuXeO-0nZGj88DdtEkagf5OkjMH20gmEfm_Bp9myFIXoHXGxDVMh0/s612/istockphoto-818560496-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="397" data-original-width="612" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKLwVm-vjNzRR6-1w73RO6SUMXdkjZkj7nCmT9DLd4ypZZ6Y4zyPVnluq-wycQ_MFgPHqy-r-O1Oax8liOHqcaefggJ9jFbfld-Gch_47xLMH-5v2GK0p7xKzzOBgxuKPuXeO-0nZGj88DdtEkagf5OkjMH20gmEfm_Bp9myFIXoHXGxDVMh0/s320/istockphoto-818560496-612x612.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p> “Excuse me? Hello…? Hello…?” In vain, I try to gain her
attention as she continues her inevitable descent down the ladder into my lane.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Her tiny
milky blue eyes stare past me, sunk in the pale wrinkled face. While I admire the
1940s-style white scalloped swim cap, I just want her to acknowledge the
reality of climbing into my lane. Which, actually, isn’t really a lap lane. It’s
the ‘water walking’ lane; narrow enough for a water walker or two, but two lap
swimmers? No way. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Yet, I can’t
even get her to make eye contact with me let alone respond. What is she
thinking? Is she even thinking? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She continues
to lower her square sagging hulk into my lane until most of her is submerged.
With the exception, of course, of her head. There’s no way she’s going to put
her head underwater. She’s the type. Old people with no awareness of the
others around them. They just climb in and go. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Did she have
a conversation with you?” one of the lifeguards hollers at me, shaking his
head. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Nope. I
tried. Is there a lane over in the shallow pool?”<br />
“Yes, lanes 14 and 15 are open
if you don’t mind swimming in the shallow water.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Don’t mind
at all,” I answer, trying to get past oblivious woman in order to climb up the
ladder. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> As I exit
the lane, I look back at her, now floating on her back, flapping her arms, her square
bulk taking up the entire narrow lane.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT7L6BM1u2cEIZCZ1xTGMZ5hmAIqxjmth_OXYrVc1n49u2Eyxtf5x2kIWrr9mGrhvCQ_pCkpFq7jTBMkm7dB26tDXpuniYUs-hIWrgWDng8VFMmcKLahjzLP6vph2rDmrnDImWPv7cpRZ2BdIDSBG3QYh51MDh6VKbjugefBzUVXjrfl0vwJ0/s640/640px-Angry_woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT7L6BM1u2cEIZCZ1xTGMZ5hmAIqxjmth_OXYrVc1n49u2Eyxtf5x2kIWrr9mGrhvCQ_pCkpFq7jTBMkm7dB26tDXpuniYUs-hIWrgWDng8VFMmcKLahjzLP6vph2rDmrnDImWPv7cpRZ2BdIDSBG3QYh51MDh6VKbjugefBzUVXjrfl0vwJ0/s320/640px-Angry_woman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I make a face
at her as I walk past, sticking my tongue out and wrinkling my nose, dripping
and pissed off. Why am I the one to move? Why didn’t she just go over to the shallow
pool and flail around there?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> All of this
happened because, at the Plunge, the Masters of Disasters swim team take over
the deep pool promptly at noon. Their aggressive energy demands that everyone
move out of their 4 designated lanes NOW! I know this is the routine, which is
why I didn’t start in one of their lanes. I purposely got into the end lane. I
even asked the Pool Manager, the-always-on- it, Paula Cooper, if it was okay
for me to swim in this water walking lane as long as I moved for any water walkers.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Sure, it’s
fine, but just don’t do the backstroke,” she told me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Why?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “You can’t
see the ladder.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Obviously,
I could see the ladder when Oblivious Woman got in. And she was no water
walker, just an old lady with apparently no perception of what she was getting
into.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> How does
this happen? Is she on drugs? Does she have some sort of brain situation that prevents
her from speaking or understanding if someone is speaking to her? Does she not
speak English? Was I not speaking English? Or is she just rude and doesn’t give a shit if
she pushes someone out of their lane?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Who knows. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I finish
the rest of my swim in the shallow pool. Harp Woman asks to share my lane. She
asks! “Of course,” I say, giving her the thumbs up.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQc6g3Y5nxfcrn5VFO9p8Yo3W9jjoK-Q_a7mnhAheudJh7IYawaJ0RgHTs68yXMtiKGgtDfzhmtDCjq0Q3FJEUUBD0DgV4LTgZavhRqav08_iXSZHhdvHvR80fqkCfWq16OECvgJBKSer14Y-QfbygMgN0W8ifsvCvLjq4ym8f26jKYPb-34/s800/portrait-woman-purple-celtic-harp-beautiful-brown-haired-female-flower-wreath-her-head-wearing-national-228026569.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="800" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuQc6g3Y5nxfcrn5VFO9p8Yo3W9jjoK-Q_a7mnhAheudJh7IYawaJ0RgHTs68yXMtiKGgtDfzhmtDCjq0Q3FJEUUBD0DgV4LTgZavhRqav08_iXSZHhdvHvR80fqkCfWq16OECvgJBKSer14Y-QfbygMgN0W8ifsvCvLjq4ym8f26jKYPb-34/s320/portrait-woman-purple-celtic-harp-beautiful-brown-haired-female-flower-wreath-her-head-wearing-national-228026569.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Later in
the locker room, I see Oblivious Snail Woman. She’s just as slow and clueless on
land, as I watch her sit on the wide bench, slowly drying off one foot before
slipping on her ugly black old lady clomper shoe. I consider for a moment ‘schooling’ her on
lane etiquette. But think, what’s the point? She probably wouldn’t even
remember me, let alone the fact that she got into my lane without telling me
first. Besides, was I the Lane Etiquette Instructor?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I think
not!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I wrap up
my wet suit, cap, and goggles and stuff them into my swim bag. She’s doing the turtle walk in front of me.
Again, blocking my progress.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We both
emerge from The Plunge into the cool spring air. There’s a soft breeze blowing and
the orange poppies are waving hi with their bright perky petals. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Oblivion
Woman slowly slowly slowly heads down the sidewalk. Part of me wants to feel
sorry for her. Who wants to be a slow oblivious old lady? It’ll happen to me
one day too.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Yet, I can
never see myself getting into someone’s lane without talking to them first. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> No matter how
old I am!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPb1zWaOPVeg2Ku7VeAZFq2_NtjvufEOyAiT0BckhmTg48PINR7gCskXfPJo6dKIKfhChinc1FHj6X3GHCB7-JlyAzitNIGoNykj6MLzBueZwETR0qV0xvGzgFX-ywVy3xX8q_phUTt3VtHkDCagKR2ubb1RWvVoRQ6QPyfbAPwIvF9zcwdIg/s612/gettyimages-483809209-612x612.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="612" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPb1zWaOPVeg2Ku7VeAZFq2_NtjvufEOyAiT0BckhmTg48PINR7gCskXfPJo6dKIKfhChinc1FHj6X3GHCB7-JlyAzitNIGoNykj6MLzBueZwETR0qV0xvGzgFX-ywVy3xX8q_phUTt3VtHkDCagKR2ubb1RWvVoRQ6QPyfbAPwIvF9zcwdIg/w400-h291/gettyimages-483809209-612x612.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-1224372090382773062023-03-15T15:17:00.009-07:002023-03-17T22:13:28.465-07:00 Missing Pants<p><b> </b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVFxYSGWVHT7UfM7vfPv42qtvCElU7UUI5sRrUagIK63Yl96eGb9d-PHhfjOjnLhtvyjLYCbYTB1lzx5JBQxcqj-nRojHnX-cwHTPdsQ8zOfEmXcVFSxl4ztcqzsoJPk3qZhY2toX4brk2nCEWauPO5BQGceJyCj5Z9rF8-tz21JwI9UkdP4/s700/adolphe-millot-fleurs-pour-tous-french-vintage-poster-leggings.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="700" data-original-width="700" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvVFxYSGWVHT7UfM7vfPv42qtvCElU7UUI5sRrUagIK63Yl96eGb9d-PHhfjOjnLhtvyjLYCbYTB1lzx5JBQxcqj-nRojHnX-cwHTPdsQ8zOfEmXcVFSxl4ztcqzsoJPk3qZhY2toX4brk2nCEWauPO5BQGceJyCj5Z9rF8-tz21JwI9UkdP4/s320/adolphe-millot-fleurs-pour-tous-french-vintage-poster-leggings.webp" width="320" /></a></b></div><b><br /></b><p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear! Where did I put my pants?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I glance over at Linda, one of the regulars
of the Old Lady’s Club, dripping from the shower, rummaging through her swim bag.
“They must be here! Oh!!!!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“Did you wear them to the pool?”
Alice, the president of the Old Lady’s Club asks.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“No, no….I had my swim pants on….oh
dear. Where could they be? I wonder if I left them in the car?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">Chuckling a bit too diabolically,
Alice sings out: “My mantra? Better you than me!” Her loud cackle rings through
the cold locker room. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I think how this isn’t a very nice
thing to say to someone who is supposed to be your friend, but then, maybe
these two women have this sort of relationship. Or, more likely, Linda is so distraught
over her missing pants that she didn’t even hear. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I wonder
if I left them on the pool deck?” she muses out loud. “Oh, dear! Maybe they
fell out of my bag? I’m NOT putting on my wet swim pants! I refuse to do that!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Why don’t
you ask one of the lifeguards to look on the deck for them?” Alice suggests.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “That’s a
good idea,” she says, and then yells: “HELLOOOO! YOOHOOO! LIFEGUARD! CAN YOU
CHECK ON THE DECK TO SEE IF I LEFT MY PANTS OUT THERE?” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Alice plops
down on the bench and wrings out her hair. “Do you think they heard you?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I don’t
know. Oh, I hope so! I just don’t know where they could be.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I stuff the
rest of my junk into my swim bag thinking how it would be a dilemma to be
pantless after the pool. Though, during the pandemic when there was no locker
room, I simply took off my suit from under my big stadium jacket and drove home
naked underneath it like a vixen in a Noir film showing up at the door in a
trench coat.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4WjInNwu1Oco9rRF6l8QCsMcn6lvm2fRGFO_6I3q3MHtgaOzUTyqs2SNYfWJCgeVY6icar4yzgRFHnTnSz72-6kCZn2vn92_x2fSmVanR4Vq4FlGKXt88flfCbUAmv8lrj71MgfdAwJLe1Rx3ZY908KqnkRQlkuhqQLGv4GT53_MmMBysQrw/s252/download.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="252" data-original-width="200" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4WjInNwu1Oco9rRF6l8QCsMcn6lvm2fRGFO_6I3q3MHtgaOzUTyqs2SNYfWJCgeVY6icar4yzgRFHnTnSz72-6kCZn2vn92_x2fSmVanR4Vq4FlGKXt88flfCbUAmv8lrj71MgfdAwJLe1Rx3ZY908KqnkRQlkuhqQLGv4GT53_MmMBysQrw/s1600/download.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> <span lang="ES-CO">“HELLO??? BLAH BLAH BLAAAAAH!” </span>Someone
yells from outside the locker room. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">“OH! I wonder if that is one of the
lifeguards? Maybe they found my pants. Could you hear what they said, Alice?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Alice
shrugs, “No.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I’ll go
take a look,” I offer, slinging my heavy bag over my shoulder. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh, thank you
thank you!” Linda gushes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I walk out
of the locker room, across the cement hallway to the noncashier cashier window
with a ledge. On the ledge sits a neatly folded pair of brightly colored
stretch pants. Grabbing them, I holler into the room where all the lifeguards
are sitting around, busy on their phones. “Thank you!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> One of them
nods at me before going back to his phone.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI4JVdZwduTNy9K5BKTOzScBglsl53CHr4DSyoQ6vLC3tnsh-jY-3piHtGpIpfpSUvlRAzbup39pCqStTqXkLv5z4GAPaw5hI8ZUO2EyBrXPYiN6Kn2PEVMSIQHUhtX_2-xH_ruM66g5avdu3kihmwTEyRNnEvbE0HH6qrnfoGB0OcKSdQJeQ/s1300/group-people-using-mobile-phone-group-people-using-mobile-phone-111362086.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="912" data-original-width="1300" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI4JVdZwduTNy9K5BKTOzScBglsl53CHr4DSyoQ6vLC3tnsh-jY-3piHtGpIpfpSUvlRAzbup39pCqStTqXkLv5z4GAPaw5hI8ZUO2EyBrXPYiN6Kn2PEVMSIQHUhtX_2-xH_ruM66g5avdu3kihmwTEyRNnEvbE0HH6qrnfoGB0OcKSdQJeQ/s320/group-people-using-mobile-phone-group-people-using-mobile-phone-111362086.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I head back
into the locker room, pants in hand, and give them to Linda.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “They found
them,” I grin behind my mask.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “OHHHH!
Thank you thank you thank you! Thank them! Ohhhh!” She is almost near tears. “I’ve
had such a day. It’s just been one of those days. I got here late and only had
time to swim for 20 minutes, but something is better than nothing, and then this
is yesterday, but I missed an appointment, I just totally forgot about it, and
oh! I am just so grateful that they found my pants!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes, me
too,” I nod, turning to head out again.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">*****<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Five
minutes later, I’m outside sitting with my back to the sun at one of the blue
circle tables, chewing tiredly on a granola bar. Alice and Linda finally emerge
from the Kennedy High Swim Center building, waddling toward their cars, talking
talking talking. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Alice waves
goodbye before heading to her vintage-era Nissan black sports car. Linda’s beige Jeep
is parked right in front of me. She glances over at me, her tiny pale eyes
watering in the bright sunshine. “Oh, it’s been a day!” she exclaims.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Well, I’m
sure the hard part is over,” I offer.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Let’s hope
so!” she sighs, before opening the car door. A crow caws above us and she
pauses, looking up.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQOlEsStH5AVTVQDTL6t6r0OeI-girowoqhA1SLv6CjdoDiiVj5-E2gG8guArvPtEA1OYmM3WxCfFyk10aNB5yMi5qNTr0l3egE570RyT_n7DaTpV0C5bTwaEN6xBqIuFRzQuSnMCNG6-p4hzjkbsVCLc8LVB1WC06IZEINjUaO3lrTso7uvc/s1758/05f84839cc403175aa5b56c0b5fd9790.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1732" data-original-width="1758" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQOlEsStH5AVTVQDTL6t6r0OeI-girowoqhA1SLv6CjdoDiiVj5-E2gG8guArvPtEA1OYmM3WxCfFyk10aNB5yMi5qNTr0l3egE570RyT_n7DaTpV0C5bTwaEN6xBqIuFRzQuSnMCNG6-p4hzjkbsVCLc8LVB1WC06IZEINjUaO3lrTso7uvc/s320/05f84839cc403175aa5b56c0b5fd9790.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Caw caw
caw!” she answers, face up to the sky. Not waiting for an answer, she tosses her
swim bag on the front seat, then slowly turns and heaves herself into the jeep,
slamming the door behind her. <o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-86665745064297861472023-01-31T14:22:00.018-08:002023-01-31T14:29:57.323-08:00Dear<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxIXZBGflYdNZs_OViznzuN9VpivHQsHJ_HotiDwjeADVSI-WMazjM3S7ELdfz0plfw-u1Zr6YdeMT9rNF5Q67QJmcn7sxZbbbPc7QJT_76i9M3KogNHqvy7KzeGMmrgpzNO8y3_ojZG85cRz9p7HKPS1Iq1_Gwudw6Vasb0tqMQbRPSdr_yk/s1200/download.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1200" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxIXZBGflYdNZs_OViznzuN9VpivHQsHJ_HotiDwjeADVSI-WMazjM3S7ELdfz0plfw-u1Zr6YdeMT9rNF5Q67QJmcn7sxZbbbPc7QJT_76i9M3KogNHqvy7KzeGMmrgpzNO8y3_ojZG85cRz9p7HKPS1Iq1_Gwudw6Vasb0tqMQbRPSdr_yk/s320/download.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="text-align: left;"> </span><span style="text-align: left;">“Hello Dear. How was the swimming today?” Middle-aged salt
and peppered pony-tailed man is getting into the car next to me. Do I know him?
He called me ‘dear’ like I was someone he knew. But then, he probably calls all
women dear. I should be offended by this, but I’m not.</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span> <span> </span> </span>He’s got a presence of authority and weight. I wouldn’t
dream of ignoring him. But do wonder if I know him or have chatted with him
before.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “It was
great!” I exclaim. Because it had been. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">When I’d arrived, checking in at
the front window of Kennedy High Pool, I noted how the lifeguard lane chart displayed
prominently on the counter in front of me was nearly empty. No red XX’s in any
of the lanes except for one. Could that be true? Only one other swimmer was there
today? “Looks like there’s lots of room,” I’d grinned behind my mask.
Toto, one of the senior lifeguards, almost smiled, “It’s your own private pool.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I’d laughed.
“I like that!” His smile broadened.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> And, when I’d
walked out on deck, only Dori, the beauteous Cello Player, was swimming her
languid flippered laps. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> It was a
beautiful dream.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_-DOG3qhtk8cIWo1GA3HfC0qsXBL9iDGY7E9Q1plDkm8eRBuc-Pw6ZTpY5r95GDJb62PuHBlTt8dwncg5UmJryrsx2y43Cf51gAy6kFIOqlerasfDE6dVlsw6TZz2vRghlTrFT8J0q65tGE1JccKEK7aPH-TkWghyMwOGl_XyTW-e8ni2AY/s612/istockphoto-508029070-612x612.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="408" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje_-DOG3qhtk8cIWo1GA3HfC0qsXBL9iDGY7E9Q1plDkm8eRBuc-Pw6ZTpY5r95GDJb62PuHBlTt8dwncg5UmJryrsx2y43Cf51gAy6kFIOqlerasfDE6dVlsw6TZz2vRghlTrFT8J0q65tGE1JccKEK7aPH-TkWghyMwOGl_XyTW-e8ni2AY/s320/istockphoto-508029070-612x612.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> So, now
when Pony Tail man asks me about my swim, I can’t help but spread my delight.
It was such a rare treat to have my own private pool!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “What’s
your stroke?” he asks me now.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh, lately
I like backstroke, but honestly, I’m a freestyler. How about you?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Freestyle.”
He nods, opening the car door to his massive SUV. He leans on the open door,
settling in for a chat. “I like a little breaststroke. I tried to master the
butterfly…” He chuckles.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yeah, me
too,” I agree. “But I could only move forward with my flippers.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> He nods, “And
then I did some springboard. Some platform. My brother, he was a platform
diver. On teams. Won some awards.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Wow! That’s
impressive,” I say. “I tried to do a little diving myself in high school, but
too scary for me. I stuck to swimming.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilj9hBpXl-xv9WJcNpOFD78iVam_fZ7q8_mhqeGg66Vjd9-uSH-Z_tZFnCskg6swEDUpT_PkorfT-F2THSNZxWIUkBHc-yOrnxn2DEKkLR9A4eFBMb2wywIoC3u8BjOEKI0jb_Ov6yaGYl2guAfY3jwHeJ39loi4mg4GVwEBoKOpKLZR3H1wA/s275/images.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilj9hBpXl-xv9WJcNpOFD78iVam_fZ7q8_mhqeGg66Vjd9-uSH-Z_tZFnCskg6swEDUpT_PkorfT-F2THSNZxWIUkBHc-yOrnxn2DEKkLR9A4eFBMb2wywIoC3u8BjOEKI0jb_Ov6yaGYl2guAfY3jwHeJ39loi4mg4GVwEBoKOpKLZR3H1wA/s1600/images.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I understand,”
he nods, pausing for a moment, gazing out at the street that runs by the pool.
Two Canada geese honk overhead.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I played
myself a little ice hockey, too.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “You were a
real athlete!” I marvel.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> He nods, “Back
in the day, maybe. Now, though, it’s good for my job.” He nods over at the high
school but doesn’t elaborate on what his job is. I wonder if he’s the principal.
He seems like a principal to me because of his weight, authority, and friendliness. But it would make sense that he's a coach, right? All that sport experience and knowledge of swimming.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> He heaves
himself into the car, “You have a nice rest of your day, Dear.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes, thanks,
you too.” I open my car door and climb into the warmth of the front seat. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> He starts
his engine and backs out quickly, speeding off to who knows where. Lunch? A
tryst with his lover? Home to his wife? A drive down to the marina?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT0N6hAy1xHK6k0v-kHoTBa3JrXY4lyyDXwNZhYlR_IKVtqVAHbeO97ow2ycXuDOpPrMQclD3_2GTaPTs3MU89c94jLJ3qdyf-0ezv9QTgX2ingOzy7Icc2fD0heCEsKXUenZyP62XWdA4VdZNOTjdydE4lMupcsiEAG0o0-aoC62DejNUK9w/s225/download%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT0N6hAy1xHK6k0v-kHoTBa3JrXY4lyyDXwNZhYlR_IKVtqVAHbeO97ow2ycXuDOpPrMQclD3_2GTaPTs3MU89c94jLJ3qdyf-0ezv9QTgX2ingOzy7Icc2fD0heCEsKXUenZyP62XWdA4VdZNOTjdydE4lMupcsiEAG0o0-aoC62DejNUK9w/s1600/download%20(1).jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> As I start
my engine, I wonder why he talked to me. Guess it was that swimmer common
ground situation. And proximity. And I just invite conversation?<o:p></o:p></p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">I turn on Beethoven. Back out of the parking space and
head out of the lot. More Canada geese fly overhead as Alfred Brendel’s
hands dance over the keyboard. I turn up the radio. And grin and grin and grin!</span><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yq1zCZPQLUA">Alfred Brendel plays Beethoven's Sonata no 1</a><br /></span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-70988506077361562632023-01-16T15:25:00.000-08:002023-01-16T15:25:23.135-08:00Martin Luther King Day<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigt2OO52PqzOYcAeJPi5IxyG5s4HIEedtrwhAjnAldjSsHzYGIBZEpma4fNuOvVoUnQL3kg8wMKoNE3F6tulqIP_lDz4PuZTYJZGvhlWd9-mkiO9gP-qwqZUSpAK_khJAqp_xyPqu6eLi9FbVz3XzXNf9Wk8y6UlRXYw-vGGBa_9KYuBBYN0/s3000/Martin_Luther_King_Jr_NYWTS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3000" data-original-width="2473" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigt2OO52PqzOYcAeJPi5IxyG5s4HIEedtrwhAjnAldjSsHzYGIBZEpma4fNuOvVoUnQL3kg8wMKoNE3F6tulqIP_lDz4PuZTYJZGvhlWd9-mkiO9gP-qwqZUSpAK_khJAqp_xyPqu6eLi9FbVz3XzXNf9Wk8y6UlRXYw-vGGBa_9KYuBBYN0/s320/Martin_Luther_King_Jr_NYWTS.jpg" width="264" /></a></div><p></p><p>“Do you have tomorrow off, Carol?” Tomorrow is Martin Luther
King Day---a holiday we should all celebrate. Or at least think about!</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">We’re in the showers, post chaotic
swim at Kennedy High pool. I always think it’s strange to have conversations in
the showers, but when else do we have time to chat? Certainly not in the pool.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Well…kinda,”
I respond, before dunking my soapy head back under the water.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “What do you
mean?” Susan asks as she vigorously scrubs her torso.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I have
tomorrow off from teaching live on Zoom, but not from teaching online.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “What level
do you teach?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “College.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh, wow!” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes, well,
it sounds more impressive than it is.”<br />
“At least you’re Gainfully Employed!”
Alice calls out from the shower opposite us, her eyes closed with big bubbles
of shampoo spilling over her face.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Ha!” I
laugh. “Barely!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Maybe
lowercase?” she jokes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes!” I
chuckle. “gainfully employed…. or no case…. ainfully or aimlessly or….”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We all laugh;
Alice’s cackle is particularly appreciative.
And, yet, I think, it’s no laughing matter. To have worked at a profession
in higher ed for over 30 years with a Master’s degree and too much experience
and still barely be able to pay my bills let alone retire is beyond the scope
of shower humor.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5urueqSyNkLfRS5EetwAfsjXw6hCiBqf6I9eHVF_1XAweCgIEg82cEt128JYZyNVsdt6MGLBAVvXn71a2KrB2poHvWBtQY58bArUoRDrbIwFcpHLFWZoGhaGj-z93sG5Fg-fgnQ05OdYPh4egres9tH4a3fRsT5eOS_CJwJsyTYsnIAxqI4k/s640/Costa-Rica-culture.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="640" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5urueqSyNkLfRS5EetwAfsjXw6hCiBqf6I9eHVF_1XAweCgIEg82cEt128JYZyNVsdt6MGLBAVvXn71a2KrB2poHvWBtQY58bArUoRDrbIwFcpHLFWZoGhaGj-z93sG5Fg-fgnQ05OdYPh4egres9tH4a3fRsT5eOS_CJwJsyTYsnIAxqI4k/s320/Costa-Rica-culture.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Chatting with my Spanish tutor from
Costa Rica the other night, she’d asked me how old I was in order to practice saying
numbers. When I told her I’d be 65 next month, she asked if I was going to
retire. I told her, “No; that I’d never have enough money to retire. She
expressed disbelief. “In Costa Rica, they force you to retire at 65.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes, well,
not here in the US. There is no way I can live off the government’s social security
that I’ve been contributing to for over 40 years. Maybe I should come live in
Costa Rica!” I joke. “It’s cheaper there.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Si,” she
agrees. “There are many expatriados who live here in Costa Rica.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I think
this isn’t such a bad idea. I’m tired of working and not being ‘Gainfully’
employed. I want to celebrate holidays like Martin Luther King Day with a mindful
walk in nature up at Wildcat Canyon, contemplating Dr. King’s life and legacy
and how much of what he envisioned for People of Color in his future still hasn’t
happened. Racism is still rampant in the United States of America. And, it often seems to only be getting worse.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBnKKS29PazRfdQxqp8G2PmQLIQvcnkxhTHreTC-CSiOhIrjXngm7d2t39t5zdTHmkHEepRTYFZ1heFhJpFW6o3KRXDqgKlIK_Bs4OwNzGko5Uaw_XZxgz52zVo1JGK5DBd8oCn8vEG5aXduFPqlo--0giYb723_4Q9UHRW-Y84Bby2tItJxI/s640/IMG_2693.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="640" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBnKKS29PazRfdQxqp8G2PmQLIQvcnkxhTHreTC-CSiOhIrjXngm7d2t39t5zdTHmkHEepRTYFZ1heFhJpFW6o3KRXDqgKlIK_Bs4OwNzGko5Uaw_XZxgz52zVo1JGK5DBd8oCn8vEG5aXduFPqlo--0giYb723_4Q9UHRW-Y84Bby2tItJxI/s320/IMG_2693.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> What’s the
solution? It’s too big for me. And, who am I to say? As a white woman with so
much privilege, I can only know what racism is like through the stories my
students write down. I am always saddened and appalled by their stories. We
need leaders like Dr. King with the vision and charisma to forge a way out from
this oppression that People of Color live with every day. I am hopeful that new
leaders will rise up and show us the way out of the racism that permeates the
systems in this country: education, housing, government. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Today, as I’m
working, I will at least take a moment to think about Dr. King and his message
against oppression. Maybe if all of us take a moment to reflect this would be a
start. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Maybe being
aimlessly employed will lend itself to such reflection? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> The women
are quiet now after the showers. It’s late and everyone is trying to get out of
the locker room before the lifeguards start yelling at us to get out, letting
us know that our 15 minutes shower and dressing time is over. Alice and I are the last ones out. As we stumble
into the parking lot, a brisk wind whipping our wet hair, she tells me how she’s
going to Marin because a friend of hers just died of cancer. I express my
sympathy. She says she’s just part of the demographic. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I watch her
lumber towards her black sports car, an aging 280Z, before I hurry over to Mr.
Ian, who’s patiently waiting for me, car heater on and Lara bars for snacks. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “How was
your swim?” I ask him, tumbling into the car. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “It was
okay,” he says, starting the engine. “I had to swim next to the wall with the
splashy woman.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I sigh and
smile and bite into the Lara bar as he pulls out of the parking lot and we head
out to Safeway, Scott Joplin on the radio in honor of Dr. King.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZQA05Z7rZQMJmeGPlOr01kL2hy9WJjWR08oR7SByVONRg2eYwMjnQedh5iaNFMQRt4rms4mYvHr_IeCsfsZUoko9LbKsRkBBJNC0N0gPTQeAnLyS-XMUVyQhk8tnC_H1zmxFJKCMEOKp3egVx1auGMUy7mdYVQnXEqbdWplvMPeVAudNd0w/s260/Scott_Joplin_1907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="260" data-original-width="200" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwZQA05Z7rZQMJmeGPlOr01kL2hy9WJjWR08oR7SByVONRg2eYwMjnQedh5iaNFMQRt4rms4mYvHr_IeCsfsZUoko9LbKsRkBBJNC0N0gPTQeAnLyS-XMUVyQhk8tnC_H1zmxFJKCMEOKp3egVx1auGMUy7mdYVQnXEqbdWplvMPeVAudNd0w/s1600/Scott_Joplin_1907.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMkqncqdPrI">Chrysanthemum Rag, Joplin, Lara Downs</a><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-1237597026360067882022-10-11T15:16:00.059-07:002022-10-11T15:34:01.680-07:00 The 3 Carols<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoNab3IEOCFW1a_zvy1HjIBPy5xu54BMeGknIfFg7FQUH6ZDskOpXGGmaJNQb2nDPoIKprjj8yu3a36OwvpJ5Hg4hmTjSWKSo2Xp1HIw-g3r3wB-zkdYa-ojArjMIDfkSdqv6PggOfawLvC8OtwhuVKvBB8_YwWwNWi7cRyPeFsOLE8e4VZQk/s822/DEC21_WEINMAN_POST011.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="462" data-original-width="822" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoNab3IEOCFW1a_zvy1HjIBPy5xu54BMeGknIfFg7FQUH6ZDskOpXGGmaJNQb2nDPoIKprjj8yu3a36OwvpJ5Hg4hmTjSWKSo2Xp1HIw-g3r3wB-zkdYa-ojArjMIDfkSdqv6PggOfawLvC8OtwhuVKvBB8_YwWwNWi7cRyPeFsOLE8e4VZQk/s320/DEC21_WEINMAN_POST011.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>“…r…t…a…” Patiently, the woman in the huge red swim parka
spells out her name. Ramona, the woman behind the glass today at Kennedy High
Pool, turns to the computer and starts to type in the letters.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I stand
behind Spell-Out Woman, flicking my cardboard ticket back and forth loudly between my fingers in annoyance. There
is always some issue with swimmers checking in. I’m not sure what it is. An
archaic computer system? Flustered staff that can’t process requests? Mercury is
perpetually in retrograde at Kennedy High Pool?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Spell Out Woman turns to glance at me. Well, I am being obnoxious flicking my ticket back
and forth. I stop.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Can’t they
find you in the system?” I ask.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEL1u1ewWbch4vtF6besNu75JDZSXcr39lL6L_f1XxKHIHSIuop0Qr6Z0pJb6bcK7GZfQ-mDg3AUGBQ5nt44yQmo_M_Id35_0hpvZLOadmy-DwpWvCaHnV9alPEE3XoK5Bjvu9IVJnWz-wIQTXEfXc4QRzVHGL8eQqEF9bSdTsLeos7PehMSM/s254/download.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="199" data-original-width="254" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEL1u1ewWbch4vtF6besNu75JDZSXcr39lL6L_f1XxKHIHSIuop0Qr6Z0pJb6bcK7GZfQ-mDg3AUGBQ5nt44yQmo_M_Id35_0hpvZLOadmy-DwpWvCaHnV9alPEE3XoK5Bjvu9IVJnWz-wIQTXEfXc4QRzVHGL8eQqEF9bSdTsLeos7PehMSM/s1600/download.jpg" width="254" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “You’d
think they’d know my name,” she answers, miffed in a low-key way. “I’ve been
coming here for 40 years.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I nod. Did
she really say 40 years? Has this building and pool even been here that long? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Finally, Ramona
finds her in the computer and checks her in. Spell out woman pushes a 5$ dollar
bill across the counter, and then heads into the locker room. Hell, she wasn’t even buying a ticket book? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Hi, Ramona,”
I greet, shoving my ticket across the counter at her and glancing at the
plastic sheet showing the lane assignments. Only a few lanes were filled in. “Looks
like it’s not too crowded today,” I observe. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes….” She
punches my ticket. “I throw away for you, okay?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh, yeah,
thanks. Finished, huh?” Damn, now I have to be found in the system. Well, I’ll
do it next time. Now I have to get into the pool before it gets too crowded.
The unexpected lack of a crowd is almost exhilarating considering how full the
pool has been since the 4 person per lane has been instituted. Not that I’ve
had to swim with 3 other people. This would be a nightmare. But there was a moment
last Sunday where I thought I was going to have to circle swim with 2 other
swimmers. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> That’s a
whole other story though.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Today, I
take lane 2, which according to Ramona at this moment was empty, and head into
the locker room.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Spell Out Woman
had shed her parka and was hanging up her clothes in the green pool bag. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Did you
say you’d been coming here for 40 years?” I ask, thinking how I must have misheard
her.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes. I went to the Plunge and then when they opened
the pool here, I started coming here. And they still don’t know my name!” she exclaimed.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN9SUaEXhFfLsUN_gRXjGcq9J9JgzmXSkbFzONu2s6viZ_gMqoKvUvHoG4J6sI0G56CBqIioawKfoJqS7Tkf1QvnDL6WwdlE5GS4QnY8k1ugKO6dk3pju74DlbGaWemrBIRm6r3JxVT5_-r68kjDVtYycHkGQQpf3bBXw2RekxoQlgyhddUYE/s700/richmond-plunge-interior-700x466.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="466" data-original-width="700" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN9SUaEXhFfLsUN_gRXjGcq9J9JgzmXSkbFzONu2s6viZ_gMqoKvUvHoG4J6sI0G56CBqIioawKfoJqS7Tkf1QvnDL6WwdlE5GS4QnY8k1ugKO6dk3pju74DlbGaWemrBIRm6r3JxVT5_-r68kjDVtYycHkGQQpf3bBXw2RekxoQlgyhddUYE/s320/richmond-plunge-interior-700x466.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I smile
behind my mask. “What is your name?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Carol.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Carol?
Really, me too!” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Me too!” Another woman, who’d been quietly getting
dressed, chimed in. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Are you
kidding?” I say. “We’re all named Carol?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> The women
laugh and nod. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “3 Carols
in one locker room? Wow! We should start singing!” I suggest. “Deck the halls
with boughs of holly fa la la la laaa….”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> They both
smile, but don’t join in. I guess the joke about Christmas maybe didn’t
translate so early in the day.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Carol #3
asks me, “Were you born in the 1940s?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Oh shit, I
think. I know I didn’t get any sleep last night what with EBMUD digging up my
street at 7 am., but do I really look like I’m in my 70s?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhON1Y1KTRAVoUk9W2tdedPaTnWpirPtUkDMTi4kvaiVmkzmzEHtrVWJJrhciKqErFOri19NTmATwdNd6JEsN6rWzRFFPQAOI50nUruNTROOVinkfMJ5OMPUQTv3jxbhpBma0ftnJSmczc6tCGkjDeZkm5XilRAqDdyLp4dOJOf13VWZmu3iVQ/s802/construction.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="802" height="120" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhON1Y1KTRAVoUk9W2tdedPaTnWpirPtUkDMTi4kvaiVmkzmzEHtrVWJJrhciKqErFOri19NTmATwdNd6JEsN6rWzRFFPQAOI50nUruNTROOVinkfMJ5OMPUQTv3jxbhpBma0ftnJSmczc6tCGkjDeZkm5XilRAqDdyLp4dOJOf13VWZmu3iVQ/s320/construction.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Uh, no,” I
say, “late 1950s. I guess Carol was a popular name back then.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes,”
Carol #3 says. “You’re probably the last of the Carols.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I laugh. “Yes,
probably.” And I think about telling the story of my name and how my mom was
pregnant at Christmas with me and so Carols were in the air. Hence the name
Carol. But we all just want to get in the pool or get out of the locker room. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span> Carol #2 is on her way out of
the locker room and into the pool. “Have a
good swim, Carol!” I wave to her.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Thanks,
you too, Carol,” she quips.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Carol # 3
toddles over to the mirror and starts to yank a comb through her wet hair. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span>“It’s good to put a name to the bag,” she says, pointing to
my Cat and Books swim bag. All the illustrations are of classic books with cat puns. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh, yeah,”
I say, holding the bag up to admire Anna Purrinina and F. Scott Catsgerald. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Nothing better than cats and books!” I proclaim.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpZjXNdFTtrkF-d4HvE4tkX3D9fotP9UEWz4-9lyBaiYGCY93u83zUFtllMyLhKKWesFm9TcLnEzNjRKmKjt94uyU2uilI776iMGFyUdZn3bDS4xRHadTqlf6ZFEvwowjJBp5tCb3h3YipDwE8A763DgNWO8oF0bwl14dTmBtbpT3dHn5ZfDw/s2099/cover.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2099" data-original-width="1400" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpZjXNdFTtrkF-d4HvE4tkX3D9fotP9UEWz4-9lyBaiYGCY93u83zUFtllMyLhKKWesFm9TcLnEzNjRKmKjt94uyU2uilI776iMGFyUdZn3bDS4xRHadTqlf6ZFEvwowjJBp5tCb3h3YipDwE8A763DgNWO8oF0bwl14dTmBtbpT3dHn5ZfDw/s320/cover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Indeed!”
she agrees, tugging a final snarl out of her scraggly locks.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I head out
to the pool, humming <i>Deck the Halls</i>, the late morning light creating a shimmering aqua water square on lane 8, and thinking to myself, what are the odds that 3 Carols would
be in the locker room at Kennedy High Pool?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> A million
to 1? A gazillion to 1? Infinity to 1? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I
grin, grabbing a kickboard and pull bouy from the trash can filled with them, and stride out onto the deck. The aqua light waves to me, small ripples bounce lightly on the surface of the water. I nod to the lifeguard who gives me a hearty, "How ya doin' today." </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span> I sit on the edge of the deck. Take a deep breath. Dive in. Begin to stroke down the lane. Fa la la la laaa la la la laaaa!</span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><span> </span><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-46672771159135823562022-09-22T14:33:00.007-07:002022-09-22T14:39:53.619-07:00The Crash<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkH6BEwM3u-dn91oRgE33rknG5buwF9my-ZEjAZh3fxeOT-IkMePITXiDOosSyQbZdNvi_TGelLJp5SS-yc4qj63Pq_74q3bMnyHwWem6s6Q-qGs_CrFT4vu_BOaxvHy-6UI48ddkGwo9F3xyc4UWz1M4FV5FrP1AUtDIE15nNwwtCi5OrGrk/s900/male-lifeguard-blowing-his-whistle-pointing-looking-distance-isolated-white-30751002.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkH6BEwM3u-dn91oRgE33rknG5buwF9my-ZEjAZh3fxeOT-IkMePITXiDOosSyQbZdNvi_TGelLJp5SS-yc4qj63Pq_74q3bMnyHwWem6s6Q-qGs_CrFT4vu_BOaxvHy-6UI48ddkGwo9F3xyc4UWz1M4FV5FrP1AUtDIE15nNwwtCi5OrGrk/s320/male-lifeguard-blowing-his-whistle-pointing-looking-distance-isolated-white-30751002.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><br /> I hear the shrill whistle echoing through the natatorium. Immediately
I think, “What now? Do we all have to get out of the pool for some stupid
reason?” But just as I finish this thought, the big barrel of a man who is sharing
the lane with me crashes into me. What the hell?<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We both
stop. I understand, now, that the whistle was for us. But why did he crash into
me? I was on my side of the lane, swimming backstroke so I never saw him
coming. He’d been swimming a fast, splashy freestyle just fine on his side. I
hadn’t been happy about his entry into “MY” lane; he was large and
lumberjack-like. I knew he was going to be a challenge to swim with, generating
waves, taking up a lot of space. Little did I know he’d crash into me!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh… oh, so
sorry!” he says now as we both float mid-lane. “I thought you were other woman….”<br />
Ah, okay, I get it now. Sue,
whom I’d been talking to earlier (a fellow displaced swimmer from the Y—she was
trouble there too—but that’s another blog), had gotten out at the ladder a few
moments before. And Crash Man had thought that she was me. One old white lady
looks just like another, right?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDzPWLUv7WoITmMC-Jmr4BHM2Tkmp8arqztkijYPtcgzf16SWx2K40gajD2Z7mna_iZoopJCAahcHYRLGO-BTiGhCf-IwxnAKndCtAgGgJ9pfhZVVgqf9Bq41xsj84eSGiXoyAag52NQpJlGuNfJOHejSCk86sRMwoMcF2dIIQPOcahI6qpO8/s1300/62743445-sportive-female-swimmer-in-the-swimming-pool-woman-wears-a-black-lime-swimsuit-a-white-swim-cap-and-.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="866" data-original-width="1300" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDzPWLUv7WoITmMC-Jmr4BHM2Tkmp8arqztkijYPtcgzf16SWx2K40gajD2Z7mna_iZoopJCAahcHYRLGO-BTiGhCf-IwxnAKndCtAgGgJ9pfhZVVgqf9Bq41xsj84eSGiXoyAag52NQpJlGuNfJOHejSCk86sRMwoMcF2dIIQPOcahI6qpO8/s320/62743445-sportive-female-swimmer-in-the-swimming-pool-woman-wears-a-black-lime-swimsuit-a-white-swim-cap-and-.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> An honest mistake.
However, he should have made sure that she was me before he took over the lane!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I let him
apologize briefly; told him I’m okay. The lifeguard doesn’t come over to check
on me. It’s the Big Unfriendly Supervisor Guy. I guess since he stopped us with
his whistle; he’d done his job.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0.5in;">So, now Crash Man and I both turn
around and swim on. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Yet, I’m
shaken up. Discombobulated. He moves into the lane next to me soon after. Knows
he’s not welcome? Or just sheepish?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I continue
to swim, happy he’s moved, when another Barrel Man stands on deck, motioning to
get into my lane.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Shit. No
way am I going to let a crash happen again. Not that this man would crash into
me. Crashes are rare. But still, I’m shaken.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I ask the
Lifeguard if I can move over to the walking lane with Alice. He nods, ‘yes’.
Still, he hasn’t checked on me. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> My thumb
hurts from the crash. I hope I can still play the piano!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn4w5_otF5d_hD4sHKRxbluAAa0vqnUa5FQliOI-_Qc8bghSjt7wDHWMlJgnNFyrNJzWmPHkF3vGG812kKGq3Jn7KkePpG_wyp0sjd-Hk0VOP1Zr1BEppRzQ7CmIPYzW0bwtn4WeDPIgkrOALpPssskXRp3kXLJffMPZq8RYAoA_5uGWhr3uA/s800/beautiful-woman-musician-piano-music-playing-young-attractive-cocktail-dress-68650442.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn4w5_otF5d_hD4sHKRxbluAAa0vqnUa5FQliOI-_Qc8bghSjt7wDHWMlJgnNFyrNJzWmPHkF3vGG812kKGq3Jn7KkePpG_wyp0sjd-Hk0VOP1Zr1BEppRzQ7CmIPYzW0bwtn4WeDPIgkrOALpPssskXRp3kXLJffMPZq8RYAoA_5uGWhr3uA/s320/beautiful-woman-musician-piano-music-playing-young-attractive-cocktail-dress-68650442.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh, Carol,
you’re fine”, I tell myself as I move over to share the lane with Alice. She
welcomes me with her usual cheery grin, her blue turban bobbing up and down in
the square of sunlight from the open roof as she water jogs.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I finish my
swim with her. But I still feel discombobulated. Later, I talk with Super
Swimmer Woman outside the Natatorium. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “You heard
the whistle?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh, yes!”
she exclaims softly.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “That was
me. Some Big Guy crashed into me!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh, no!
That’s terrible.” She oozes sympathy. I’m encouraged to continue my vent.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yeah, I
was on my side of the lane, swimming backstroke and bam! He just crashed into
me.”<br />
“That is just awful!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yeah, evidently,
he thought I was another swimmer that had gotten out, so he started swimming in
the entire lane. But he should have checked first. I’m small! He was probably
twice my size. I don’t take up a lot of space and still he crashed into me!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “We are
entitled to Our Space!” she proclaims, small herself. “Especially, when it’s crowded
like this.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Exactly!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She nods. I
see the sympathy flood from her soft brown eyes that peer over her mask. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Keep drinking
your water!” she advises, nodding toward my water bottle I’m clutching.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh, yes,”
I say, wondering why this would help with anything.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdLchwNTXLFSf_En_OfvbGN59D1wwMRusHzQLTr3KJupWL2bIUCUFPB5jmgQJZ4eN4ZaMUTh49rWEIdMBkvyvo9USA-JW6vwweusqSs-0AXPuiPCLqVqHwJ1QZQ4K1e3v9NN87F9rsQ2m93CfXDsITjdKsA8N_qbxJPnJGcD2ReQnH32Gx0DM/s480/gorgeous-woman-bottle-water-swimming-photo-021306812_iconl_nowm.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="480" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdLchwNTXLFSf_En_OfvbGN59D1wwMRusHzQLTr3KJupWL2bIUCUFPB5jmgQJZ4eN4ZaMUTh49rWEIdMBkvyvo9USA-JW6vwweusqSs-0AXPuiPCLqVqHwJ1QZQ4K1e3v9NN87F9rsQ2m93CfXDsITjdKsA8N_qbxJPnJGcD2ReQnH32Gx0DM/s320/gorgeous-woman-bottle-water-swimming-photo-021306812_iconl_nowm.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I thank her
for chatting with me. Wish her a good day. Take myself, my water bottle, and my
tender thumb over to one of the outside tables to eat my granola bar and rest a
moment.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Getting
crashed into takes a lot out of a person! Thank goodness for water and for
sympathetic fellow swimmers to take the edge off the discombobulation!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-90677645907352033072022-09-14T14:47:00.000-07:002022-09-14T14:47:41.198-07:00The Chore Gauntlet<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_HZYdAxdZ4ow4kF_BOb0Sg4K7jpjBVx3A3McOMpcJOAjQ55tQ5tSt09ceGVppaiQGGtI1Oblu_cWNfLEx3iW07zNVSEHIiHDKu1LNEwU4mFWJa3vvnNcg2XzdZfR-Xepz5YYfVc9CmL_sZZwyn5qe2OGLuRaurVGKfNHY8aI7mIW6U_dXdc/s365/87247e0883deb2f75dde32c7fb63b274.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="365" data-original-width="236" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6_HZYdAxdZ4ow4kF_BOb0Sg4K7jpjBVx3A3McOMpcJOAjQ55tQ5tSt09ceGVppaiQGGtI1Oblu_cWNfLEx3iW07zNVSEHIiHDKu1LNEwU4mFWJa3vvnNcg2XzdZfR-Xepz5YYfVc9CmL_sZZwyn5qe2OGLuRaurVGKfNHY8aI7mIW6U_dXdc/s320/87247e0883deb2f75dde32c7fb63b274.jpg" width="207" /></a></div><br />“Time for the Chore Gauntlet!” Bald Headed Woman announces
to the locker room at The Plunge, maybe to someone in particular, maybe not. One
woman does respond, “Oh, yeah, I know what you mean.”<p></p><p class="MsoNormal">
They both laugh. Camaraderie in
Chores. I’m not sure what she means. Does she mean that she has a list of
chores and she has to run around them? Does that mean, then, that she is avoiding
doing chores? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Let’s see, I have to go to the store,
do the wash, clean the bathroom, change the sheets, clean up the ants. It is
quite a gauntlet! Maybe I run from one to the other? First, I head to the
store, which is a gauntlet in and of itself. Weaving around all of the unmasked
people who are clueless about spreading their germs is enough to send me over
the gauntlet edge! And for the wash, you’d think this would be easy since I do
have a washer and dryer in my house, but for whatever reason, I often just forget
to do this chore. The bathroom. That is a gauntlet that I avoid though I don’t
know why. It only takes 5 minutes. I don’t do a very good job! Changing the
sheets? This is hard! The comforter is heavy. The sheets don’t cooperate. I can never tell
which corner of the bed the folded ones goes over! And then the ants! I am
going to have a nervous breakdown over them! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> That’s a gauntlet
I want to avoid!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPTy4LnVuDAuv3GxuLJ1uNvqKFg72dg4JBOLVWEBRZjb_4_E35gVUif6fhsfU6e2fru9weysTQz39FkjqnkmonVfxG_xumsNWkIjEbFbwCqbPBjvcpWJw_qdWqQi6BR07U-ImVmt2_uDRvA8fsUh_t5e3OiGn2OFuD1YNlSGDV8sYXJRM5qbs/s612/ant%20attack.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPTy4LnVuDAuv3GxuLJ1uNvqKFg72dg4JBOLVWEBRZjb_4_E35gVUif6fhsfU6e2fru9weysTQz39FkjqnkmonVfxG_xumsNWkIjEbFbwCqbPBjvcpWJw_qdWqQi6BR07U-ImVmt2_uDRvA8fsUh_t5e3OiGn2OFuD1YNlSGDV8sYXJRM5qbs/s320/ant%20attack.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Yet, Bald Headed
Woman seems cheerful about it. And I wonder, since she’s bald, I assume (and I
could be wrong) that she is in some kind of cancer treatment. Maybe being able
to even do the chores is a joy for her? I can’t imagine going through cancer
treatment. I only have soap operas to gauge its horrors. And of course, they’re
not real. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Or are
they?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> When Sharon
had breast cancer, she underwent chemo and she was nauseous and tired and very
emotional, crying at odd times and then laughing at herself. But Sharon is a
brave woman. We know that from all of her marriages. After all, being married
to Victor Newman for 10 minutes would be a gauntlet in and of itself!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnix8G9dFGMhFKKWJW6rKLfweg8FeCSzDKEGVBVQ0vkRRqHp92djMA0c0pq_CYX-aofS4_Lf_9slxarP_si7kQs-JeKyfbYQP2VFXB1d5SbXxCzYLZBi26SaraOWYlySfUMkCXhAv38cisIfj1fDHO6SplP64BqtsaKMTbdKW1ikZ8E3xQaoA/s500/Sharon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="351" data-original-width="500" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnix8G9dFGMhFKKWJW6rKLfweg8FeCSzDKEGVBVQ0vkRRqHp92djMA0c0pq_CYX-aofS4_Lf_9slxarP_si7kQs-JeKyfbYQP2VFXB1d5SbXxCzYLZBi26SaraOWYlySfUMkCXhAv38cisIfj1fDHO6SplP64BqtsaKMTbdKW1ikZ8E3xQaoA/s320/Sharon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> I decide to
participate in the locker room dialogue today. Cuz, I like the idea of a Chore Gauntlet.
“You’ve got a swim in,” I offer, “so now you’re ready for your day of chores!”<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She nods, chuckles.
“You got that right.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Swimming
is the most important thing!” I proclaim.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYJTbBrKouLbqttdX3YPH9eaUhN5l6IR1bUrMUv8ol8fct5u-Xkymac7kaYKnLvAYSS7mcOLx28xImy89HtKEg7cpyO6g-PCx8UKP5xHJ-_WNsco6CZJM3R8Gwt4TEm6Hqji-nGESFRyTvg0Pftb4eF6acglExNyWBV0nnmpx0nOXpGiXz7kU/s239/149px-Running_the_gauntlet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="239" data-original-width="149" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYJTbBrKouLbqttdX3YPH9eaUhN5l6IR1bUrMUv8ol8fct5u-Xkymac7kaYKnLvAYSS7mcOLx28xImy89HtKEg7cpyO6g-PCx8UKP5xHJ-_WNsco6CZJM3R8Gwt4TEm6Hqji-nGESFRyTvg0Pftb4eF6acglExNyWBV0nnmpx0nOXpGiXz7kU/s1600/149px-Running_the_gauntlet.jpg" width="149" /></a></div> “That and
breathing!” she jokes. Or is it a joke? Maybe as a cancer patient, breathing is
something that is not to be taken for granted!<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Swimming
and breathing!” I laugh. “They’re both equally important! In fact, I put them
at the top of my to do list!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We all laugh.
Bald Headed Woman is finished packing up her suitcase on wheels and is heading
for the door.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Have a
good day,” she calls out.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I will!” I
say, “after I get my swim in!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I’m out of there, out to the pool, ready to breathe and
swim and breathe and swim and breathe and swim! The Chore Gauntlet looms, but
at least for an hour, I can avoid its nagging presence. <br /><o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-9726648846558402482022-08-30T15:28:00.013-07:002022-08-30T15:40:27.918-07:00Dead People<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqW8W0T9SuOupZfuSZgqJ-3UVzfig8hduqmuh5uohR6vFEFYwviXLrS7qErHjj5zQdJJ9qi9IHykwb7H4Q0XBk3SFGtpRztksbpFl5siAT9qsVttem_DJDnnzpusbdOcCF2uDROQ2ouY8WBXbuhpMNlUdOXpu3mdTjfWrgXdOiNcinYTa6_E/s800/teenage-girls-having-fun-pool-party-summer-teen-girls-pool-139262175.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzqW8W0T9SuOupZfuSZgqJ-3UVzfig8hduqmuh5uohR6vFEFYwviXLrS7qErHjj5zQdJJ9qi9IHykwb7H4Q0XBk3SFGtpRztksbpFl5siAT9qsVttem_DJDnnzpusbdOcCF2uDROQ2ouY8WBXbuhpMNlUdOXpu3mdTjfWrgXdOiNcinYTa6_E/s320/teenage-girls-having-fun-pool-party-summer-teen-girls-pool-139262175.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>“Hey!” I hold the shampoo and conditioner bottles aloft,
waving them in the air to get their attention. “Did you guys leave your stuff
in the shower?”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> They’re on
their way out. Three teenage girls, long dark hair dripping down lacy tank
tops, tight cutoffs that proclaim, “I’m available”. They barely glance at me, an
old lady ready to take a shower, faded flower suit, tangled hair dripping,
navy City of Richmond face mask muffling her holler. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “No,” one
of them answers. They turn, prancing and giggling out of the locker room. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I shrug,
think how I could just take these pricy toiletries. All milky and floral. But,
I’m so honest, right? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I set the
bottles down outside the shower area, head into the concrete square, where 6
shower heads all point toward the concrete floor. Picking my favorite one
next to the far wall, I turn on the shower, sighing at the water’s soothing
heat. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Rubbing
shampoo into my wet hair, I work up a lather to expel the chlorine. Then,
rinse, grabbing my conditioner. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> One of the
lifeguards has entered the shower arena, dressed in her red shorts and black Lifeguard
T, her long pale legs blinding me with their beauty. She’s standing at the
entry to the shower, peering around, checking out the corners of the shower. I wonder
what she’s looking for. Maybe the left shampoo and conditioner I had found
earlier?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “What are
you looking for?” I ask her. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She pauses
in her search, then without making eye contact, but still peeking around the
blank corners of the shower, she says softly, “To be honest…Dead People.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3gMlU1ZI23tTG5eHUz_fU7xDnqGr7uD12vRCX8EICmmryOdVqbLLATyVbApewcXIERBLBP_WOCzcnjlAWMTT6tXSbcAJu0RCzxGy8eS9DnlgG_Y4cQwidpYxN4wLs-YwEaVj1cN-1MRd6F3SvAlCWKtABMxt6Ly_6AyjEFu2p3vqwm3UiEYA/s1920/dead%20(1).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1920" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3gMlU1ZI23tTG5eHUz_fU7xDnqGr7uD12vRCX8EICmmryOdVqbLLATyVbApewcXIERBLBP_WOCzcnjlAWMTT6tXSbcAJu0RCzxGy8eS9DnlgG_Y4cQwidpYxN4wLs-YwEaVj1cN-1MRd6F3SvAlCWKtABMxt6Ly_6AyjEFu2p3vqwm3UiEYA/s320/dead%20(1).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “What???” I
exclaim. Her soft voice is muffled behind
the ubiquitous masks that everyone still has to wear. Did I hear her right? Did she say Dead People? Maybe she said Red
People? Or Lead People? Or Dread People? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> None of
these possibilities make sense. But neither does Dead People. How could Dead
People be lying about in the corners of the shower? I mean, I wouldn’t have
gotten in the shower if there’d been a dead person in the corner!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I shake my
head, trying to go along with what I think she said. “Well, I’d hope that if
there were a Dead Person in the locker room, that someone would report it.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “If they
knew about it,” she says, still scanning the floor of the shower. How could
they not know about it? I wonder. And
what kind of dead person would be in the easily seen corners of the shower?
They would have to be the size of an ant for her to be scanning this closely.
Miniature Dead People? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Sometimes,
there might be a Dead Person in the bathroom stall and no one would know,” she
continues.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Really?” I
can’t keep my incredulity out of my tone. I mean, c’mon, a dead person in the
bathroom stall? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Has this
ever happened?” I have to ask.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Well, no…”
she admits. “But it’s something we have to check for at closing.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Part of the
lifeguard’s job is to check for Dead People in the locker room at the end of
their shifts? I mean, I suppose this is a possibility. There are a lot of old
ladies at the pool, doing their water walking and noodle floating. I suppose
one of them could come into the locker room, go the bathroom and then drop dead
from all that aqua activity!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG13EEYFpq2v3AhAsw9b6wxIJCbXLImzNOQZgUgVJgtAB7BvRucLIXlbakmwcbrxF8CAVwZepRBBv33uZa1q6DXN3iTzKpUq1S1O-GwSvhBoZqiMkUAk7r13GLE_qyPRSjipCa6majU4FzGTINRyjHdCWVAqCnhzvReetN9xd_tUhuicIJda8/s450/65115766-group-of-active-senior-women-doing-aqua-gym-in-outdoor-swimming-pool-.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="450" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG13EEYFpq2v3AhAsw9b6wxIJCbXLImzNOQZgUgVJgtAB7BvRucLIXlbakmwcbrxF8CAVwZepRBBv33uZa1q6DXN3iTzKpUq1S1O-GwSvhBoZqiMkUAk7r13GLE_qyPRSjipCa6majU4FzGTINRyjHdCWVAqCnhzvReetN9xd_tUhuicIJda8/s320/65115766-group-of-active-senior-women-doing-aqua-gym-in-outdoor-swimming-pool-.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Well, I’m glad
you’ve never found anyone dead,” I offer, wondering how she would cope if she
did find a body. She’s like 12 (aka 17). If she found a Dead Person, wouldn’t
that damage her young mind for life? The trauma of finding a body at the Richmond
Swim Center would be something she’d never recover from, right?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Though I
suppose Lifeguards have the training to deal with bodies. After all, they might be
called upon to pull a body out of the pool in the line of duty.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> But discovering
a Dead Person in the shower?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I dunno. It
seems above her paygrade, frankly. Though when you’re 17, you don’t think about
such things. They tell you this is your job and then you do it. Or at least most
people do. I mean, I wouldn’t. If I were a lifeguard and they told me I had to
go check the locker room for Dead People at the end of my shift, I’d say, “Hell
NO!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She
finishes her scan, satisfied that no Dead People are in the shower with me.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Turning,
she heads over to the bathroom stalls. I hear her opening and closing each stall
door. Is she looking in the toilet for dead People? Tiny Floating ladies who’ve
fallen to their demise in the most unseemly of ways?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “We close
in 5 minutes,” she announces on her way out.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yeah, I know.”
I shove my suit in the spinner thingee and press down. The loud whirring fills
the concrete room.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She floats
out, leaving me alone in the locker room. An unusual circumstance. Usually, the
place is teeming with women and girls and babies, chatting, screaming, and hopping
around the room. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I dress
hurriedly, trying not to think about Dead People. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> But before
I leave, I can’t help myself. I bend down to take a look under the bathroom stalls.
Is that the shadow of someone in the far stall? No….it couldn’t be….<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I back up,
grab my stuff, and hurry out into the bright Saturday light. It’s not my job to
find Dead People, I think, as I shiver in the breeze. I hear an invisible bird tweeting in one of the Fuzz Trees, see a lone gull circle over the top of the Swim Center Roof. I plop into the car, slamming the door shut, and watch as a family loads all their gear into the minivan, the laughter of one of the kids floating up through the air. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH2ZE0RUplqcnphmnFRh-eWQu928TbVFz63yYQuxH09eUEnRcG3eWhVyR4qPpqfP8vEzAjv5KJHb3Y_P_nYHNfw3coFH8W1KSjHpzz4l73K8RbplfH-th7t-si8w1E6HAo9rsRXnlXB4BA_MJrs2R2OQqBZfN8ZQCfC1nFrIwX7BwU7USE5l4/s736/fe45aea6ee739e22ba4ae8bce2281399--free-image-cloud.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="490" data-original-width="736" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH2ZE0RUplqcnphmnFRh-eWQu928TbVFz63yYQuxH09eUEnRcG3eWhVyR4qPpqfP8vEzAjv5KJHb3Y_P_nYHNfw3coFH8W1KSjHpzz4l73K8RbplfH-th7t-si8w1E6HAo9rsRXnlXB4BA_MJrs2R2OQqBZfN8ZQCfC1nFrIwX7BwU7USE5l4/s320/fe45aea6ee739e22ba4ae8bce2281399--free-image-cloud.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> <o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-41188038046451270662022-07-04T15:17:00.000-07:002022-07-04T15:17:20.675-07:00The Collective Unconscious for Swimmers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0kV1HGsrjwSKXuNTY2v7Uxonn0dTGBZOaui_m5b00AQpKODbzmk_9Q230eleKEPHA7B2864Vjn-6uNxM1_rN3_vGP8l6hrbMfCQqwt7u0TE8xRbnNnA4xWJgUblBAlhTiF0-n5V_mb3-WJJ2E8aTqSeI5WJBSoNZYiS6BjPb9kKs8gHwAu8Y/s800/women-s-hands-touching-together-circle-over-ancient-spiritual-mandala-womens-hands-mandala-160030338.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="532" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0kV1HGsrjwSKXuNTY2v7Uxonn0dTGBZOaui_m5b00AQpKODbzmk_9Q230eleKEPHA7B2864Vjn-6uNxM1_rN3_vGP8l6hrbMfCQqwt7u0TE8xRbnNnA4xWJgUblBAlhTiF0-n5V_mb3-WJJ2E8aTqSeI5WJBSoNZYiS6BjPb9kKs8gHwAu8Y/s320/women-s-hands-touching-together-circle-over-ancient-spiritual-mandala-womens-hands-mandala-160030338.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“How was your swim?” We’re the only
two left in the locker room, so it seems a bit strange to just get dressed
without acknowledging each other. Granted, talking to strangers while dressing could
be a bit intrusive, but I was pretty sure I had spoken to this woman before.
So, according to me, she wasn’t a total stranger. And her response, as you’ll
see, supports my assessment.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Great!”
she proclaims.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I know,
right?” I agree, slipping on my velour pants, their warmth cozy and familiar. “There
was no one swimming laps today,” I continue. “I got my own lane. Did you?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh yes!”
She’s beaming now. “You know, I was on a business trip and I didn’t have time
to swim. There were meetings and appointments and so…. I just felt like
something was wrong, you know?”<br />
“I do! If I don’t swim at
least 3 times a week, I feel awful.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes, it is
the psychology, right?” She pauses. “I even had this dream where I am trying to
swim but there is barely any water in the pool…” She bends down and makes a
line across her shin. “The water is only about this deep!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh my god!”
I exclaim. “I have the SAME dream!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She doesn’t
seem to register my astonishment but continues on her dream narration as
people will do when recounting their dreams. “And when I try to swim, the
water, it is too shallow and then it gets more and more shallow and pretty soon
there is no water at all!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Me too!”
This time she smiles at me, nodding. “I have this dream all the time. I am
swimming and then the water gets shallower and shallower and pretty soon I am
trying to swim on dry grass. It is very frustrating!” I start to laugh.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She joins
in, now smearing thick white cream all over her face. I’m distracted by this,
but try not to stare. “It must be some sort of anxiety,” she offers.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes, that
makes sense. You know, our psyches are all connected, the collective unconscious
and Jung…”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnHu6AhyaNe5NtYUxBUU4MtH885v_Xrh9CaAOE2E4Lc25azayGp497IOZUk0E5Ca9xw-aHD5B1lUMy8sNd8PXx-0E3ydvhf6urKKakcflMrSjCi2wZQMyZmiNW6Wk9ZqR9BXatQRxyuUbJcIcZ3mY4OkgrFF5SiW8Y5b9kc-qt9pJkb1g4Ick/s1480/lossy-page1-1200px-ETH-BIB-Jung,_Carl_Gustav_(1875-1961)-Portrait-Portr_14163_(cropped).tif.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1480" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnHu6AhyaNe5NtYUxBUU4MtH885v_Xrh9CaAOE2E4Lc25azayGp497IOZUk0E5Ca9xw-aHD5B1lUMy8sNd8PXx-0E3ydvhf6urKKakcflMrSjCi2wZQMyZmiNW6Wk9ZqR9BXatQRxyuUbJcIcZ3mY4OkgrFF5SiW8Y5b9kc-qt9pJkb1g4Ick/s320/lossy-page1-1200px-ETH-BIB-Jung,_Carl_Gustav_(1875-1961)-Portrait-Portr_14163_(cropped).tif.jpg" width="259" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She nods,
but I can see that she’s already thinking of the next thing she wants to say, “And
I have this other dream, where the toilets are all overflowing and so so dirty!”
She wrinkles her creamy face in disgust. I don’t tell her I have this same
dream too. It’s getting too weird. I mean, I have always pooh poohed this
collective unconscious. It just seems to woo woo to me. But today, when I had always
believed that I was the only one who had this disappearing water swimming
dream, the similarity was too much to deny. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> It makes
sense that swimmers would share this anxiety of not being able to swim in their
dreams. But for it to manifest in the same way?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> It’s a bit
eerie.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Jung writes
about the collective unconscious with the example of the shared symbolism of
the sea: “The sea is a symbol of the collective unconscious, because unfathomed
depths lie concealed beneath its reflecting surface” (p. 122, Jung, <i>Dreams</i>,
1961)</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivQ7UbYOsISjP2sTNOKi_KDp28_BFXFQqL28fm760AFTZqUi-OQ8tqVEHefqpLRNJNhtxvsB2kedHFxe2QlGesMPj3ZdZ_xm4oGgiOQ6OJXnrGl0liy7ztTy7TZfOX7fMkgWRPPUzbbdD8P3MyzGm5fSMQvitFLUzpoYBj99X5hSoRuznFaC4/s615/vagues-et-ocean-1457216768S53.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="410" data-original-width="615" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivQ7UbYOsISjP2sTNOKi_KDp28_BFXFQqL28fm760AFTZqUi-OQ8tqVEHefqpLRNJNhtxvsB2kedHFxe2QlGesMPj3ZdZ_xm4oGgiOQ6OJXnrGl0liy7ztTy7TZfOX7fMkgWRPPUzbbdD8P3MyzGm5fSMQvitFLUzpoYBj99X5hSoRuznFaC4/s320/vagues-et-ocean-1457216768S53.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Could the
disappearing water be a symbol of swimmers’ collective anxiety about not being
able to swim? The water is too shallow. The swimmer still tries to swim. But as
she swims, the water disappears until she is trying to swim on dry land. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> And the
dirty overflowing toilets? Oh, hell, I don’t want to go there. The collective unconscious
of bathrooms? Symbolizing what? Ugh!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Is the
Plunge open?” she asks now, abruptly changing the subject.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Uh, yeah…”
I’m mystified, wondering why she’s asking about this. Is it because the Plunge’s
shallow pool feels close to this dream? I remember the first time I swam in
this pool, I thought my arms were going to scrape the bottom, but of course,
they didn’t. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “They were
closed because of vandalism,” she continues. “Someone took all of the chairs
and equipment on the deck and threw it all into the pool and then they took a
fire extinguisher and sprayed it into the pool!”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvWxHttyNXBelpxw6RDWJ_4S4WnHLDTIRs4G7n97Q_JcSamN6iascI4Qah4NoAzDZ6ucs9a8dGkcrEGZb5SGrHfPQMRaSP4FeJKZ5t0KXda5hkGO5HhP9NttuXjsHfCZKOHywn8YaAnHGFrAG5IEmEYvpeVZaWdn1Xp4rVvPC-036L-PtpXcg/s706/new-717-706x369.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="369" data-original-width="706" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvWxHttyNXBelpxw6RDWJ_4S4WnHLDTIRs4G7n97Q_JcSamN6iascI4Qah4NoAzDZ6ucs9a8dGkcrEGZb5SGrHfPQMRaSP4FeJKZ5t0KXda5hkGO5HhP9NttuXjsHfCZKOHywn8YaAnHGFrAG5IEmEYvpeVZaWdn1Xp4rVvPC-036L-PtpXcg/w640-h334/new-717-706x369.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Wow! That’s
terrible. I had no idea. It was open this last Wednesday.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “And no
weird smell?” she asked.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Nope, none
that I noticed.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She nods,
smearing the cream for its final layer. Then starts to pack up her stuff. I
want to talk to her more about dreams, but the time is up. The lifeguards have
already started barking at us: “You Ladies almost finished in there???”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “YES!” I holler
back. “We have 3 minutes.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Dream woman
smiles warmly at me as she heads out, “Bye bye!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes, bye,
hope you don’t have any more no water swimming dreams!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We both
laugh. I work to gather up all my stuff, but there’s still a mom and her kid getting
dressed. I have time.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Stumbling
out into the parking lot, the bright sun stunning me for a moment, I scan for
Ian. He’s in the car, talk radio on, the door open. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I call to
him. He heaves himself out, strides toward me, “I had the most interesting
Collective Unconscious Swimmer Experience,” I tell him.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> He grins, “Really?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Yes, there was this woman who….”</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-76208717578854510272022-06-06T14:37:00.002-07:002022-06-06T14:37:59.446-07:00 The Vitruvian Man<p> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XW5E3sGzJxTLh69DMSCUZNbamnDBvYDmiILLmN0_vl35GWMxaLPrBcc4RTvwvSVrq0lZC78MGUSA1w56vfzac_LjxM22oOhZhuE5zulawOmW570PG0DBawXi7yjVFOsMd7UbrNljNm8x5MA7ssOp4MAbHpSZFn7AUsVLMJ5ZmCgUL1qT-9o/s2030/0_The_Vitruvian_Man_-_by_Leonardo_da_Vinci%20Wikimedia%20Commons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2003" data-original-width="2030" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2XW5E3sGzJxTLh69DMSCUZNbamnDBvYDmiILLmN0_vl35GWMxaLPrBcc4RTvwvSVrq0lZC78MGUSA1w56vfzac_LjxM22oOhZhuE5zulawOmW570PG0DBawXi7yjVFOsMd7UbrNljNm8x5MA7ssOp4MAbHpSZFn7AUsVLMJ5ZmCgUL1qT-9o/s320/0_The_Vitruvian_Man_-_by_Leonardo_da_Vinci%20Wikimedia%20Commons.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr></tbody></table></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>The Vitruvian Man, Leonardo da Vinci</b></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">“You sure are super speedy!” I gush, paused at the wall
after my workout. Super Swimmer Man is stopped too. It’s 10:58. Only 2 minutes
left before the pool closes here at Kennedy High.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">He smiles. Handsomely. Humbly. “Well,
I have Big Legs! I used not to use my legs so much. When I swam in high school,
I just used my arms, you know?”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3Nuk-AgAVWidyu38b2pdUcZhCWVMh9ilU-VTVhOOarVxNZDKGCfIxgokZbwNiD0SpaAX23tmPnXcO0jajDMn6VXROQezO9_KVMN_jlN4LDoDcrXd5Uovf43_cw2vSjhdDAusdVstgCyh5bd4WPjBcMJ0SOXIeiwD9TFEcbjkOCSs4zTvcDw/s1500/212910643.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1121" data-original-width="1500" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd3Nuk-AgAVWidyu38b2pdUcZhCWVMh9ilU-VTVhOOarVxNZDKGCfIxgokZbwNiD0SpaAX23tmPnXcO0jajDMn6VXROQezO9_KVMN_jlN4LDoDcrXd5Uovf43_cw2vSjhdDAusdVstgCyh5bd4WPjBcMJ0SOXIeiwD9TFEcbjkOCSs4zTvcDw/s320/212910643.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">I nod, understanding. I have that
tendency to mostly use my arms too. I’d read somewhere that swimmers move through
the water using 80% arms and only 20% legs. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“….and so,” he continues, on a roll…
“I started using my big legs more and wow! What a difference! I really felt
like I was moving through the water at a much faster pace.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">“Well, you certainly did today,” I
take off my cap, dunk my head under the water, preparing to climb out. “You were
lapping me every few 100 and I was using my fins!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">He beams. “I do okay, I guess.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Is he being modest or fishing for more
compliments? He must know that he’s a super swimmer. After all, he does have
the Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man tattooed on his back, between his shoulder blades.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">As I was kicking on the kickboard,
he passed me (of course), and I saw this tattoo. At first, I couldn’t quite
make it out. It just looked like a big circle with a figure in the middle as he
zoomed past me. But then the next time he passed me, I looked more closely and
thought, Hey! Isn’t that the DaVinci Man? What does that mean?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">When I talked with my Artist Mom
later in the week and told her about it, she said that DaVinci was drawing a
man with the circle to show the perfect proportions for a man. That maybe this
was DaVinci himself. Or one of his lovers. (Did she say that? Or did I say
this?) Then I looked up the image on ye ol’ google images and found out it was
called the Vitruvian Man. I asked my mom what this meant, but she didn’t know.
I looked up the word Vitruvian and it had something to do with scrolls and architecture
according to the often-confusing Wikipedia. (A good place to start, but like I
tell my students, not a credible source) Needless to say, the definition seemed
to have little relevancy to my mom’s description of DaVinci’s purpose behind
the image.<o:p></o:p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyzv1B6C2c5nbgZ1ZxIO2-99yLJ5Ey3IfRPlLuhJV8Qi-fBXxn1Rcwria15MdgUNDk5EnanONOnbtjrc1hw0hHx-61CSO5KkQVku8nlo5F-5-HL-8WD4YiTwg4QYhvJqkpRb_lCjBnpPUSafBtr6QnFjp3JutMmWpK2_xbtjByt57WUNAjliU/s1200/Vitruvius%20Architecture%20World%20history%20Encyclopedia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="627" data-original-width="1200" height="167" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyzv1B6C2c5nbgZ1ZxIO2-99yLJ5Ey3IfRPlLuhJV8Qi-fBXxn1Rcwria15MdgUNDk5EnanONOnbtjrc1hw0hHx-61CSO5KkQVku8nlo5F-5-HL-8WD4YiTwg4QYhvJqkpRb_lCjBnpPUSafBtr6QnFjp3JutMmWpK2_xbtjByt57WUNAjliU/w288-h167/Vitruvius%20Architecture%20World%20history%20Encyclopedia.jpg" width="288" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Vitruvius Architecture, World History Enc</b>y</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><span style="text-indent: 0.5in;">I wonder why Super Swimmer Man had The
Vitruvian Man tattooed on his back? Was this his inspiration to work on his own
proportions? That is, if he has ‘big legs’ is he working on having Big Arms
too? And a Big Torso? And a Big Head?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Hah! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Maybe he’s got this last proportion
covered. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">Back in the pool that day, he gave
me a winning smile, “1 minute left. I’m gonna do another lap before they kick
us out! See you next time.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">And he was off, churning up the
water like a big-legged motorboat. The Vitruvian
Man covered in a frothy wave of white-water splash.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQPzwcpeiOusQiI4hWJO3ZvFi2kd8oI-L1puoUbtOE88igZve9EmyoAikC2bRFGP4OquWtA6hOfLDeFl5zGwlUsYXYCkpGl1Rg4pniNMttmv_y_s94zvxmQXCbdAvj0sOE6mMnK-xVTd2g_k00EpCgJH2vaKiSJKjLeu5oU5mHfkYoL6WItvo/s480/santo_condorelli_web-480x320.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="320" data-original-width="480" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQPzwcpeiOusQiI4hWJO3ZvFi2kd8oI-L1puoUbtOE88igZve9EmyoAikC2bRFGP4OquWtA6hOfLDeFl5zGwlUsYXYCkpGl1Rg4pniNMttmv_y_s94zvxmQXCbdAvj0sOE6mMnK-xVTd2g_k00EpCgJH2vaKiSJKjLeu5oU5mHfkYoL6WItvo/s320/santo_condorelli_web-480x320.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <br />
<o:p></o:p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-58768417856595575262022-05-20T14:40:00.006-07:002022-05-20T14:42:53.216-07:00Commitment<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjihlwocq22o3nZqUZKTXNIbtiV8bgcKbeyRPEywXDLY5GKuULPtDoN6foGyKPegnYliE2eaYMZ1glMH5HYEVweTPhU4qGZUdwBSwoQp5Dqbc0VD3NPNnYTKhvO4LUX9XXZOKslaoLBZPmVxMgnFn7ys60Hazqm1sZr4kOdc1xNo3slcie7ibs/s500/21%20Swim%20Flyer%20Dec%2017%20update_Page_2_Image_0001.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="500" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjihlwocq22o3nZqUZKTXNIbtiV8bgcKbeyRPEywXDLY5GKuULPtDoN6foGyKPegnYliE2eaYMZ1glMH5HYEVweTPhU4qGZUdwBSwoQp5Dqbc0VD3NPNnYTKhvO4LUX9XXZOKslaoLBZPmVxMgnFn7ys60Hazqm1sZr4kOdc1xNo3slcie7ibs/s320/21%20Swim%20Flyer%20Dec%2017%20update_Page_2_Image_0001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>“You MUST commit to the Roly-Poly!” The child sputtered and
flipped about in the pool, his bright blue goggles foggy, his little brown legs
churning the water. Spitting up water, he clung to the side of the pool. I
smiled over at him, trying to ameliorate the beratement, but he wasn’t focused
on me.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> The Roly-Poly
was the focus now. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Orange and
Pink-haired swim instructor girl was trying. But the exasperation of teaching
toddlers the Roly Poly was beginning to test her patience. “Remember what I
told you?” she asked. “You can’t just do half of the Roly Poly, you have to
turn all the way around.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> The boy
stuck his face in the water again, his little arms flailing, his legs kicking
kicking kicking. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I turned
away from him, knowing that he didn’t need an audience, reaching for my water bottle
I took a long swig. Here at the Boys and Girls Club of San Dieguito, the pool’s
end lanes were reserved for swim lessons. I had been swimming laps in the lane
next to the lessons. Hence, I was in prime proximity for lesson tips.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mTOuWeDUEVv1GoW9k3UjVroSr2Fj4N7KA2C_wzJN5DOveWB-mcAnLsxZnaAwgJUi95zWS9DbQurMa8YuRqb_KF5xxlDAAkrX1UY3RugYfUKX2O5YDTkhj0eyF_YJG_BMwlwoV7Ik9TcTezdkDJcNpjj2p2oFsjoylZFznDGH6gtygeASBpM/s1280/boys-girls-club-girls-swimming-pool-homepage.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="1280" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mTOuWeDUEVv1GoW9k3UjVroSr2Fj4N7KA2C_wzJN5DOveWB-mcAnLsxZnaAwgJUi95zWS9DbQurMa8YuRqb_KF5xxlDAAkrX1UY3RugYfUKX2O5YDTkhj0eyF_YJG_BMwlwoV7Ik9TcTezdkDJcNpjj2p2oFsjoylZFznDGH6gtygeASBpM/w456-h149/boys-girls-club-girls-swimming-pool-homepage.jpg" width="456" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I’ve always
believed that commitment is key, esp. in the pool. If you hesitate, well, you
could run into trouble pretty quickly. I remember when I was out swimming at 17<sup>th</sup>
street, during a huge swell, red flag flying. I wasn’t supposed to be in the water.
But I was 17 and stupid. I thought that I knew better than the sea. After all,
I was a strong swimmer. Was on the swim team. What were a few giant waves to me?
I could just duck under. Yet, I hadn’t banked on the riptide current. When I
got out there, I was immediately in its clutches. It began to pull me toward
the breakwater with alarming force. For a moment, I panicked. Then it came to
me that I could swim around the breakwater and get out of the current that
way.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKw5LaR8Nm2GNitNs6wyLRvSTCNRfOu7rWfcPLFLhUmPFvMtZk6PFs_khG1WJHB4qwoCn3ilwJZcR1fcIUMEV5poK5iTmtMUvna6nzmSp05EFLhzwYc87H3KfSZ653qnlG4Hk7N3RZjWnBWVQxShzGL0el-zEMGuDefpBhaadQ749qN_aznSE/s2000/OCR-L-WEDGE-0820-01.mr_-2.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1139" data-original-width="2000" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKw5LaR8Nm2GNitNs6wyLRvSTCNRfOu7rWfcPLFLhUmPFvMtZk6PFs_khG1WJHB4qwoCn3ilwJZcR1fcIUMEV5poK5iTmtMUvna6nzmSp05EFLhzwYc87H3KfSZ653qnlG4Hk7N3RZjWnBWVQxShzGL0el-zEMGuDefpBhaadQ749qN_aznSE/s320/OCR-L-WEDGE-0820-01.mr_-2.webp" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> But I had
to commit to this. If I hesitated, I’d be smashed against the breakwater. Taking
a deep breath, I pushed down my fear. I could do this. I just had to do it. And
so, I swam out and out. And then around the breakwater. The swim wasn’t long,
but it was rough. Yet my determination and survival instinct, let’s be frank,
got me to the other side. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjROXKhr1WLiv54GPK28BPABKXUSzep5ioEa3RZkzm8qKAqYYKrf70Uz45a3JwG8Z7SYfeSd7iBDaHWjfif1u47DXAHABmgCzTwAcAH_ba_Hf0QwhU38K4bmTYnqxQ_DtqbmzbtS5UhFS4TuAOHzL0pqfi_94vxYLl6DYGrj4PcQ6-wT9laEFI/s1250/1000w_q95.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1250" data-original-width="1000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjROXKhr1WLiv54GPK28BPABKXUSzep5ioEa3RZkzm8qKAqYYKrf70Uz45a3JwG8Z7SYfeSd7iBDaHWjfif1u47DXAHABmgCzTwAcAH_ba_Hf0QwhU38K4bmTYnqxQ_DtqbmzbtS5UhFS4TuAOHzL0pqfi_94vxYLl6DYGrj4PcQ6-wT9laEFI/s320/1000w_q95.webp" width="256" /></a></div> Lord knows
the lifeguard was no help. When I dragged myself out of the water, I stopped at
the tower and glared at him.<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Thanks for
your help,” I had snarled.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> He had chuckled,
“You looked like you were doing okay.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> And
obviously, I did do okay. But I never would have made it around that breakwater
without committing to the plan.<br /> <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “That’s it!”
Pink Hair exclaimed. “That’s what I’m talking about! That Roly Poly was awesome!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> The boy
clung to her, his chubby arms around her slim neck, a big grin on his small
face. <br />
“Do you want to do it again?” she asked. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She didn’t
have to ask twice. Another Roly Poly commenced. And then another. He was going to
town now. Once success happens, there’s no turning back. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> So,
remember, if ever you’re feeling on the fence about something, just take a deep
breath, close your eyes, and commit to the Roly Poly. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUfUEbKmEJnzzf-BDrV4J0N7rW61ilTzKAomethVzxUtyji_bO5jKx7OuCRbb_arltocuCh0-lg_dGZ36sNW4vg8JDabmd3EPsnt8CBN_l5xkrQo5ReQaHWoXAUN-LGSoCpTQJL83iVJF7oCFIDOaMkywFbRp0vvw5O_tmXUGyABtm5LlMO4/s2192/roly-poly-pill-bugs-what-are-they-2192x1096.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1096" data-original-width="2192" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidUfUEbKmEJnzzf-BDrV4J0N7rW61ilTzKAomethVzxUtyji_bO5jKx7OuCRbb_arltocuCh0-lg_dGZ36sNW4vg8JDabmd3EPsnt8CBN_l5xkrQo5ReQaHWoXAUN-LGSoCpTQJL83iVJF7oCFIDOaMkywFbRp0vvw5O_tmXUGyABtm5LlMO4/s320/roly-poly-pill-bugs-what-are-they-2192x1096.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-45627788837383017272022-05-09T14:34:00.001-07:002022-05-09T14:34:47.743-07:00Having a Blast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1JhlwFj5XE4XkiJrbxgwNMRvIdbNtAQzyxFc5RVjIlc68ddcIWC9qGbt0nJlrTyHwiY64OgfbScqt4kYR5nHMQd1oLJw29pgdh2EAu3kUa79LssM8gO3UOxcgwR--ak4FXFXbZOFz-QM3ZMpyYFXHfimQR1TdrhHfxonoUbe7frI7qW0xmFY/s1280/XDJPL6IT6FFGLFYV5WHSSEEHOM.webp" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="1280" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1JhlwFj5XE4XkiJrbxgwNMRvIdbNtAQzyxFc5RVjIlc68ddcIWC9qGbt0nJlrTyHwiY64OgfbScqt4kYR5nHMQd1oLJw29pgdh2EAu3kUa79LssM8gO3UOxcgwR--ak4FXFXbZOFz-QM3ZMpyYFXHfimQR1TdrhHfxonoUbe7frI7qW0xmFY/s320/XDJPL6IT6FFGLFYV5WHSSEEHOM.webp" width="320" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p>“I bet you’re on a swim team!” She’s been lapping me every
200 yards or so. Her sleek young body hurling through the water. Butterfly.
Freestyle. Breaststroke. Kickboard. Backstroke. She does it all.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> And she
does it really well!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I marvel at
her youth and energy as I continue to plow through the water, my arms tired and
achy. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Oh, to be
14 again!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I remember
joining the swim team. I loved it! We’d practice every afternoon for hours, back
and forth, back and forth. Logging in 100s of laps a day. My best friends, JB
and LT, were also on the team. My favorite event was the 100-yard relay. I
loved to anchor it. My teammates would dive in, swim a lap, churning up the
water with their speedy little bodies, then I’d come in last, diving in,
swimming for victory!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> We did often
win.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> So, today,
when I spy Swim Team Girl and ask her about her favorite stroke, she warms a
little. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “100 free,”
she says, her mirrored goggles reflecting the aqua of the pool.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6v-jI5jeJP2vbIRWDT6dP9XRz3IH2t5EQGNPH1tFeRri9LL2zjofsC7T4EeZosfjSL1QQPvvtu4kUO8Q-TDP6tyHdwyxq1eJcochAxsCWywdFMt4A7x3wHF8vgRJnuOehkaHqmckAyHEgNZ6xvG-2JkejrzxfnNxEiDqtsjQvAWqQzsHm__0/s1440/prescription-goggles.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="816" data-original-width="1440" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6v-jI5jeJP2vbIRWDT6dP9XRz3IH2t5EQGNPH1tFeRri9LL2zjofsC7T4EeZosfjSL1QQPvvtu4kUO8Q-TDP6tyHdwyxq1eJcochAxsCWywdFMt4A7x3wHF8vgRJnuOehkaHqmckAyHEgNZ6xvG-2JkejrzxfnNxEiDqtsjQvAWqQzsHm__0/s320/prescription-goggles.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “What do
you swim it in?” I ask, remembering how in my youth, I did it in 1:04. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She says something,
but I can’t understand her. My earplugs. Her shyness, turning her head slightly
away from me. Who is this old lady asking me all these questions about the swim
team? I just want to swim.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> And off she
goes again. The water churning behind her in a white wake. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Her mom
gets in. She’s got the Bikini up your Ass Suit on, but she still can swim. She
can’t keep up with her daughter though. No way in hell.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQB33bHhxH4Yt7XG_KEjBdK-R4uvSLgiq0LNhO1sDem2dcgxCaZA2uDuEL6kBeQUd1EoyixALSF6sMgceO2MrPapR88iU2ZDSaByoSQHgLOxk8jDJLd1322gCF9YJNGPAk7kafdBW2j7XcXrBhbTjU5-A_o-aOZnHdp5umGnEt9iVrGeG51yk/s640/gettyimages-1200150128-640x640.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="640" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQB33bHhxH4Yt7XG_KEjBdK-R4uvSLgiq0LNhO1sDem2dcgxCaZA2uDuEL6kBeQUd1EoyixALSF6sMgceO2MrPapR88iU2ZDSaByoSQHgLOxk8jDJLd1322gCF9YJNGPAk7kafdBW2j7XcXrBhbTjU5-A_o-aOZnHdp5umGnEt9iVrGeG51yk/s320/gettyimages-1200150128-640x640.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Then the
dad gets in. He swims a few laps a bit faster than mom, but still, he’s no
match for Swimmer Daughter.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I pause at
the end of the pool, watching her swim. Ian stands on deck, grinning and
nodding. He’s impressed too.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Later he
tells me, while we’re crunching our Lara Bars in the warmth of the car, that
the Swimmer Girl wanted people to notice her. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Really?” I
say.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Oh, yeah.
And, so when you did, that was a cool thing to do.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “All I did
was ask her if she was on the swim team, but I could tell she was.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “See? That’s
what I mean.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “And I
asked her what her favorite event was. She said the 100 free.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “That too.
Only you would know to ask her that.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I nod,
chewing my peanut butter chocolate chip mouthful. “I guess you’re right. You wouldn’t
have known to ask her that.”</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA9oVDm0wZITb6mnnJr4eFwciZGVCpdN4Lr0GsYP3aEQ4ZONwLsJePQMdSpvcyhEiTLqnOKKTxOtLJkpEz8OIeudExX2J46nApMVbEU2EfWcdd11ulQjKV8d1YUupAsg4Zjf89nWsokxsSQR4NcC97WLS4659NBMwhPjy8Du5R1C5JDyoc14I/s770/productpg-770-header-allproducts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="770" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA9oVDm0wZITb6mnnJr4eFwciZGVCpdN4Lr0GsYP3aEQ4ZONwLsJePQMdSpvcyhEiTLqnOKKTxOtLJkpEz8OIeudExX2J46nApMVbEU2EfWcdd11ulQjKV8d1YUupAsg4Zjf89nWsokxsSQR4NcC97WLS4659NBMwhPjy8Du5R1C5JDyoc14I/s320/productpg-770-header-allproducts.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Nope.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I remember a comment my mom made to me once,
not too long ago, about my swim team days. How I was a leader. How when a
teammate flailed, I was there to buoy her up, encourage her. I told my mom how
I didn’t remember doing this. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> But I guess
it makes sense that I did. I kinda did it today when I noticed Swimmer Girl’s
speedy strokes. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I’m cold,”
I say now, pulling on my seatbelt.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Sure, we
can go.” Ian starts the engine, shifts into reverse. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I take
another bite of my Lara bar and close my eyes. I’m back in the pool, on the
swim team, the girls shouting and jumping up and down in a fever! I’m in the 100
free relay, swimming for my teammates, touching the wall for the win, and
having a blast.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgATdliVIj5TBGTUgfYKS-TJFmomGgN3px-iqWb1joMTvqXhoTbgLRgjjdMz53-CsXp0K1d-dKBALpU834z1tAsWtKkxyEE0Dhue79tq9MDy8ZLJkDp17C9iQmCTCovTC3ehY3CUUi9SKUZA5BMH0HLb880vVqjzCbx_HuK4F3_vXbxGHuMwaU/s640/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgATdliVIj5TBGTUgfYKS-TJFmomGgN3px-iqWb1joMTvqXhoTbgLRgjjdMz53-CsXp0K1d-dKBALpU834z1tAsWtKkxyEE0Dhue79tq9MDy8ZLJkDp17C9iQmCTCovTC3ehY3CUUi9SKUZA5BMH0HLb880vVqjzCbx_HuK4F3_vXbxGHuMwaU/s320/download.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-77004087753404725132022-05-05T14:22:00.020-07:002022-05-05T14:31:49.150-07:00 Lane Number 2<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXZQDwcj_-BOc8QKYKOU5c6O8Jif0PiRU819hcGZLX9Cy04r2QOGinuUu7N06V9b8hBNgf17GHU4h5OS2myq-ZuoUDIaQMD4rIXFNudD5s3dvfkZqGVJxCWkV7T901lBCDhlY1ZII1Hiwi6DdZSQpLzU5iIBhiy1Nvm_Inlw5-4QAdfSat3E4/s800/Physical-Activities-You-Can-Use-to-Supplement-Your-Chiropractic-Care.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="800" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXZQDwcj_-BOc8QKYKOU5c6O8Jif0PiRU819hcGZLX9Cy04r2QOGinuUu7N06V9b8hBNgf17GHU4h5OS2myq-ZuoUDIaQMD4rIXFNudD5s3dvfkZqGVJxCWkV7T901lBCDhlY1ZII1Hiwi6DdZSQpLzU5iIBhiy1Nvm_Inlw5-4QAdfSat3E4/s320/Physical-Activities-You-Can-Use-to-Supplement-Your-Chiropractic-Care.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p>Through my foggy leaking mask, I see her approach me. Noodle
Woman. She clutches it around her waist ready for entry. In her baggy pink tank
suit and messy ponytail of dark hair, she stands in front of my lane. Points at
it.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I am in
Lane 2.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Okay, I
admit it. I switched lanes earlier. I had to get out of Lane 4 in front of the
gale-force winds that swooped through the open doors. Not to mention that Cross
Butt Man had just gotten into lane 3 and was creating tidal wave action. So, I’d
asked the Nice Lifeguard, when I noticed the swimmer in lane 2 was leaving, if
I could move over there. Lane 2 is away from the door. And there was no tidal wave
action on that side of the pool. Nice Lifeguard had said, “Sure, no problem” when
I asked if I could move.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Yet, now
there was a problem. Even though the lane I had abandoned, Lane 4, was still
empty. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I told Noodle
Woman this. That she could just take the empty Lane 4. She stared down at me, her
face dark with anger and indignation. “I am assigned Lane 2!” she repeated.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yeah....”
I didn’t really want to get into a big explanation with her as to why I took
her lane with only 25 minutes left to swim before the pool closed. So, I didn’t.
I just offered to move back.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “I could
ask him,” she offered, pointing at Nice Lifeguard.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Good idea,”
I said, wanting to get back to my laps with the clock ticking. She wasn’t in
any hurry. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I imagine
Noodle Swimmers usually aren’t. Not that I have anything against Noodle
Swimmers. My mom was a Noodle Swimmer, or more of a Noodle Floater, after she
injured her back in Palm Springs when the dog knocked her over. I went with her
once to her community pool, where the water was warm and calm. She floated in
the lane, serenely paddling back and forth. It was one of the few times I’ve
seen her in a pool.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0TjR56uNXdarwfJ0c0D9YI1D4jQfeONogSEuTvLCUjZpWCRpyTC8lGboqNi5xugJX4aMM7yir385vm9WQH9s6zb0SCg9uLgAJMAar9HTDyge1gB71Oz9WdPr-mB2_rpkBU9NS2n985ye0Vr8_Pbbqk5cB_MJo3nEE65zH0nX819ulAWoE8Pc/s1600/Pool-ChrisMiller.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="888" data-original-width="1600" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0TjR56uNXdarwfJ0c0D9YI1D4jQfeONogSEuTvLCUjZpWCRpyTC8lGboqNi5xugJX4aMM7yir385vm9WQH9s6zb0SCg9uLgAJMAar9HTDyge1gB71Oz9WdPr-mB2_rpkBU9NS2n985ye0Vr8_Pbbqk5cB_MJo3nEE65zH0nX819ulAWoE8Pc/s320/Pool-ChrisMiller.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She was so
happy!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Today,
though, I don’t want to share my lane with Noodle Woman. She seems like
trouble. And, I have to admit, she was right. I had taken her lane. But why not
just go into the empty lane?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Maybe she
was new and didn’t know the anarchy that prevailed about Lane Assignments here
in the Richmond Pools. As Liv said to me once, “I just nod when the young woman
at the front desk assigns me a lane, and then when I get out here, I take any
lane that’s available.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Yes. That’s
what we all do.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Though I can
see how it’s confusing if you’re assigned a lane and then someone is already in
it. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I start in
on my backstroke lap, deciding I’m not gonna wait for Noodle Woman to give me
the Lane Verdict. I’m sure the lifeguard will just tell her it’s okay to swim
in the empty lane.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZO1HcwPPzCgyCN8oCS-_Q7LY-eAriXeuI1FyevzcfXSSkpZEgb3_N_sADR1YHHGL0pQnpIpTcf1zH4kuzjTbFG2EefXA3cTiSd3O8XNA3nq85YB5KvcCPvmnYEanafgLZR-8wDi4HXc4wc54n5tEBzuZ3dPBkr4EE4yUJn5cLOiqL5YrOJA8/s973/360_F_495590572_XzdGCmuB0eF6XPRLyDOAZRLb4A1iyrwD.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="973" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZO1HcwPPzCgyCN8oCS-_Q7LY-eAriXeuI1FyevzcfXSSkpZEgb3_N_sADR1YHHGL0pQnpIpTcf1zH4kuzjTbFG2EefXA3cTiSd3O8XNA3nq85YB5KvcCPvmnYEanafgLZR-8wDi4HXc4wc54n5tEBzuZ3dPBkr4EE4yUJn5cLOiqL5YrOJA8/s320/360_F_495590572_XzdGCmuB0eF6XPRLyDOAZRLb4A1iyrwD.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> And as I
move down the lane, I spot her signal of A-Okay. The one where you make a
circle with your thumb and index finger, the other three fingers standing up behind
like those turkey drawings we used to make at Thanksgiving.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwgrp1t52-uA9BxlsxWeNciS0yCWwdet0LyQPmXigzUZgDOdSTaorOu8u9TecApJt9wtwxLIV2rTBF9-gmyczmM64nd5VIG0muIzqu7hd4iGjSKjOhVxmwJ2lN2bsw-A2Jd3NrjzVFfdP0sfxg1yUlWhxXeAtuYukxajRCb2mOzrUe_CAaBEA/s248/Turkey%20hand%20drawing.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="203" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwgrp1t52-uA9BxlsxWeNciS0yCWwdet0LyQPmXigzUZgDOdSTaorOu8u9TecApJt9wtwxLIV2rTBF9-gmyczmM64nd5VIG0muIzqu7hd4iGjSKjOhVxmwJ2lN2bsw-A2Jd3NrjzVFfdP0sfxg1yUlWhxXeAtuYukxajRCb2mOzrUe_CAaBEA/s1600/Turkey%20hand%20drawing.jpg" width="203" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I sigh to
myself as I continue down the lane, relieved that I don’t have to move. Or share
a lane with Noodle Woman.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Later, she
and I are the only ones left in the locker room. I’m trying to hurry before the
lifeguards start yelling at us to get out. Noodle Woman doesn’t seem aware of
any time limit. She’s sitting on the bench, half-dressed, staring at the Pool
Schedule. I am sure, now, that she is new. And, I do consider apologizing for
taking her lane.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> But then I
don’t. Who cares? I’ll probably never see her again. Or if I do, and she becomes
a ‘regular’ she’ll learn that the lane assignments are just a formality. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I grab my bag bursting with wet gear, <o:p></o:p>my hair dripping and cold down my neck.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> <span lang="ES-CO">“Happy Cinco de Mayo!” </span>Jose calls
out after me.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0hsH1yib_ZO41ELtGz70SUvMjW91Ov9pABsH96W0lF6yE0brP5tEucFyeTaEx4Js9ACKeYhc3SU8CTGXEpVwGMq_GdY7pEiAgRmKUSs-jDDc2XGoZ_dpBaZr3UUbYdWpD8LlB7V1udXzKaVdjrOCl2o1iVz4qo-o5ExJILEuWLOl5W1NcT4U/s750/cinco-de-mayo-celebration-801213392.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="450" data-original-width="750" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0hsH1yib_ZO41ELtGz70SUvMjW91Ov9pABsH96W0lF6yE0brP5tEucFyeTaEx4Js9ACKeYhc3SU8CTGXEpVwGMq_GdY7pEiAgRmKUSs-jDDc2XGoZ_dpBaZr3UUbYdWpD8LlB7V1udXzKaVdjrOCl2o1iVz4qo-o5ExJILEuWLOl5W1NcT4U/s320/cinco-de-mayo-celebration-801213392.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<span lang="ES-CO" style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: ES-CO; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Yes! </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 200%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin;">Happy Cinco de Mayo,”
I holler back. Pushing open the front door, I head into the cold Richmond wind,
wishing I were back in Palm Springs. In that warm and serene pool with my mom, floating and floating and floating.....</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-81392489748765654872022-05-03T14:22:00.007-07:002022-05-03T14:27:19.958-07:00A Silver Lining<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIBHcIidkWnANJ96UbhVTd4nTPL2itC_GYsZObmS6NJEcxT87uzdbaY2Aj3mTI7XgYf80QxJKf7mTJORBauKduAGqW_VbYqpdH1F01YCjTJ_nnB_-_54Xgglc7FzvYdeoyYnFqCtSG8v6LVDc79lDkiu5Ml-feS8tKzRCpXbZ6cDun5TdrW58/s800/young-beautiful-blonde-woman-wearing-swimsuit-summer-hat-over-yellow-background-shaking-freezing-winter-cold-sad-219462018.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="800" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIBHcIidkWnANJ96UbhVTd4nTPL2itC_GYsZObmS6NJEcxT87uzdbaY2Aj3mTI7XgYf80QxJKf7mTJORBauKduAGqW_VbYqpdH1F01YCjTJ_nnB_-_54Xgglc7FzvYdeoyYnFqCtSG8v6LVDc79lDkiu5Ml-feS8tKzRCpXbZ6cDun5TdrW58/s320/young-beautiful-blonde-woman-wearing-swimsuit-summer-hat-over-yellow-background-shaking-freezing-winter-cold-sad-219462018.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">“BRRRRRrrrrrrrr!” Chilly Wet Woman scurries into the locker
room here at Kennedy just as I plonk down my stuff.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“It’s cold!” I commiserate.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes!” Are her teeth chattering? This doesn’t bode well, I think,
as I open Locker No 75 and begin cramming my clothes inside. “It’s the wind,
right?” I pursue the topic, hoping it’s not the water.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“Yes!” she nods, “that’s it!” Shivering in her wet suit, she
heads to the showers. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">As I walk out to the pool, the cold wind whips around the
hallway to the Natatorium. Damn. It is cold! And all the doors are open in the
pool area because of COVID. When can that action stop? Yet, COVID seems here to
stay. I had just read in the paper that the latest variant, some sub sub sub
variant of OMICRON was swelling in the Bay Area.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhEx8CajLe1wbFJ-33NitsChBfdp71DR0ZBVe6RMTI2Wwyegad1bxvGwG4W7C1Hq-vG8FnjXAf3QD7itO7lNC6xA_qvmwamGp2f-FaV7SsG3jgdNN_stLTHomMMmcUHPk_32cZQfeBercpSxqS6E0X3zeaapeYQBNVAfPETzkoxTFFVcopwg/s1200/ImageForNews_705615_4461992039802088480.webp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRhEx8CajLe1wbFJ-33NitsChBfdp71DR0ZBVe6RMTI2Wwyegad1bxvGwG4W7C1Hq-vG8FnjXAf3QD7itO7lNC6xA_qvmwamGp2f-FaV7SsG3jgdNN_stLTHomMMmcUHPk_32cZQfeBercpSxqS6E0X3zeaapeYQBNVAfPETzkoxTFFVcopwg/s320/ImageForNews_705615_4461992039802088480.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> So, the
doors will remain open for the foreseeable future. I guess the wind is better
than the virus, right?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> As I dip my
toe in the pool, the normally warm water feels chilly. Damn damn damn. I’m
already here too early, at 10:00 am. Usually, I’m just finishing up my coffee.
But the pool hours are so limited. I had thought, hell, I can make it to the
pool by 10 to get in a swim before 11. But it’s hard. Esp. if I’ve been up watching
<i>Mary Tyler Moore</i> at 2 in the morning.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> At least I
don’t live in Minneapolis like Mary!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXVmxdfTC5XAJq9jtsUdBsGmNMmdiKokRIks5ToOY3EB3Z-bQYiW0_ZMmCuoWAiOu0bLNxguSaZ0OqlNXHE3V5my9VpFkmo6429NN7UTTGx_O2M-H-lEQmS31e2vnFIBoqQieKQfJPh8Ge8fDNTsI2B-_jixoCpTKa3uQxPQ01We4ruL-Pj6U/s625/Mary-Tyler-Moore-Show-in-front-of-Victorian-house.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="469" data-original-width="625" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXVmxdfTC5XAJq9jtsUdBsGmNMmdiKokRIks5ToOY3EB3Z-bQYiW0_ZMmCuoWAiOu0bLNxguSaZ0OqlNXHE3V5my9VpFkmo6429NN7UTTGx_O2M-H-lEQmS31e2vnFIBoqQieKQfJPh8Ge8fDNTsI2B-_jixoCpTKa3uQxPQ01We4ruL-Pj6U/s320/Mary-Tyler-Moore-Show-in-front-of-Victorian-house.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> I ease into
the chilly water, sucking in my breath. Is it me? Or is the water colder today?
I mean, it could just be the wind, but no....I think the water is colder. <o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I swim as
hard as I can to try to get warm, but I’m tired. My arms feel like heavy little
logs. Lifting them is a challenge. Then pulling through the water is just hard!
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I swim
though. And, while I don’t get warm, I’m not so cold that I have to get out. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And the swim is good otherwise. I have my own lane. Mighty
Splash Man has gotten out so I’m not drowning in his tidal wave action anymore.
I’m in the water. I made it to the pool before 10 and now I’m swimming. That’s
really all that matters.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Except I am
cold. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Climbing
out of the pool is an ordeal. It’s even colder now with the wind whipping around
the deck from the wide-open doors. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I have to
complain to the Nice Lifeguard. “It’s cold today!” I shout through my mask,
pausing for a moment before heading into the locker room,<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yeah, it’s
the wind.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes, but I
think the pool was cooler today, too.” Do I ever get tired of complaining about
the pool temperature? I do. I like to give praise, too, though when it’s warm.
Last week, at The Plunge, I told Jose how warm the water was. “RIGHT ON!” he
grinned. That guy is always happy. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Wonder what
that’s like?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Nice
Lifeguard is sympathetic. He likes warm water, too. We’ve had conversations where
we both agree that warm water is better water. So today, he agrees with me. “Yeah,
I think the water is a little cooler today....maybe 83?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Or 82!” I laugh.
And, think how can I be cold in 82-degree water? Easy! If my body is 97
degrees, then I’m submerging it in a liquid that is almost 20 degrees colder.
No wonder I get cold!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> He grins at
me behind his black mask, shutting the doors now that the pool is closed.
Again, I long for non-COVID times. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> In the
shower, I get a little warmer, but not much. As I am drying off, I’m trying not to
shiver. One other woman is in the room. Harpist Woman. I don’t think she remembers
me but we had a chat about music one day. She and her friend told me they liked
Rachmaninoff when I told them I played classical piano.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXdbLSI0zIT4M_u--Ij_LqX1d58mfvHdRFlvldOBGWmDnc-IhlR9Kbb09OG6C5q9lHnZyXogTsHRjsm_Zs_1mB8rjYFVh9XADOF6IoS8zEW-dq6c0uYhO9ZNOpK8GpZfPuUasfwSxvUZl01bn3PHhuzwtcqcnlMn4TWagCH75NYE2zVj_Ylw/s1090/546-5466650_a-lady-playing-the-harp.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1090" data-original-width="820" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFXdbLSI0zIT4M_u--Ij_LqX1d58mfvHdRFlvldOBGWmDnc-IhlR9Kbb09OG6C5q9lHnZyXogTsHRjsm_Zs_1mB8rjYFVh9XADOF6IoS8zEW-dq6c0uYhO9ZNOpK8GpZfPuUasfwSxvUZl01bn3PHhuzwtcqcnlMn4TWagCH75NYE2zVj_Ylw/s320/546-5466650_a-lady-playing-the-harp.png" width="241" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “It’s cold
today!” I proclaim to her now.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> She’s
trying to get dry too, but turns around and smiles, “Yes, but I heard it’s good
for the organs.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Really?” I
had heard somewhere that cold water was bad for the heart. I think I did some
research on it when I was swimming in the really cold water at Keller the past
two summers during the height of COVID when all the pools were closed. There
were warnings in the literature about how staying in too cold water can cause
heart attacks. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Or did I
just believe this? Or did someone tell me this? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Hell, I don’t
know. All I know is that her assertion that cold is good for the organs surprises
me.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes,” she
continues, wrapping her waist-length hair up into a turquoise turban, “when we are
in hot and then cold and then hot and then cold. This back and forth is good
for our organs.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I’m dubious,
but want to keep the conversation going. “Well, I guess we’ve got that covered
today!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes.” She pauses,
thinking, then grins over at me as she grabs her bag, “So you see, there is
always a Silver Lining.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Oh, no! Not
one of those people! Always a Silver Lining? Really? Platitudes are so
annoying, esp. when they make simplistic positive proclamations. Oh, but yeah,
that’s the definition of a platitude, right?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I head to
the toilet and when I come out, she’s gone.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> How did she
get out of here so fast, I wonder. I guess she knew she’d closed the
conversation with that Silver Lining quip. <o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjG_iG587ckQp6fKHVS_RJK-81P8cYl6gJnj8zEPKZMU4b9esrzjtT7iwBLC8z55aJiefwt-m_Bn8IW5rvaC5WiuKx1BX_bY0kyXqCiDOxOfhm-e830bLf7BJwWMi8-PLLVwjNUpQBm4KVYXCSyQPvgVmZIoNGpajWs_N4JxOiTNMmmgT0HyM/s960/cloud-502434_960_720.webp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjG_iG587ckQp6fKHVS_RJK-81P8cYl6gJnj8zEPKZMU4b9esrzjtT7iwBLC8z55aJiefwt-m_Bn8IW5rvaC5WiuKx1BX_bY0kyXqCiDOxOfhm-e830bLf7BJwWMi8-PLLVwjNUpQBm4KVYXCSyQPvgVmZIoNGpajWs_N4JxOiTNMmmgT0HyM/s320/cloud-502434_960_720.webp" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Still chilly,
I start the getting dressed process, thinking about my organs and how healthy
they must be from all my swimming in the cold. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Any Ladies
still in there?” A lifeguard hollers at me. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Yes, I’ll be
out in a minute!” Why are they always yelling at us to get out of the locker
room when the 15-minute rule is clearly posted? It’s only 11:05. I still have
10 minutes until the 15 minute you have to get outta the locker room rule kicks
in.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I cram my
stuff in my bag, wishing I had a turquoise turban for my wet hair as I head out
of the locker room into the wind. A seagull circles overhead. A puffy cloud floats in the sky. I'm wet and cold, but my organs feel fine as I unlock the Fiat and climb into its warm embrace. <o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29964811.post-42865993798734438912022-05-02T14:03:00.000-07:002022-05-02T14:03:00.660-07:00As a Kid.....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj53aoolcupMp_s20sOJwmG9KunFi1-UpXYyvSTAZatcAgiQLkpihpBeARGrB9hACJa4hiRYQYpmG2_CRP_iQyFikcVZTIczkDeiskCFJkGu9bbR0k0l3CmfriM47SnKLr3aJ4V5FYvV11TVqm4aSfOnSQEThOIV6azve8UZdO83KHryIkAfDs/s615/children-in-the-pool.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="408" data-original-width="615" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj53aoolcupMp_s20sOJwmG9KunFi1-UpXYyvSTAZatcAgiQLkpihpBeARGrB9hACJa4hiRYQYpmG2_CRP_iQyFikcVZTIczkDeiskCFJkGu9bbR0k0l3CmfriM47SnKLr3aJ4V5FYvV11TVqm4aSfOnSQEThOIV6azve8UZdO83KHryIkAfDs/s320/children-in-the-pool.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p> “As a Parent (and yes, Parent is capitalized), I think that
my kid should be able to swim in the lap lanes if he can swim laps.”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">The kid is shifting back and forth,
his brown legs itching to dive in the pool. Ian and I are behind a mob of families
at the Richmond Swim Center. Everyone wants to swim! But there’s a limit. The
number of families allowed in the pool is what? I have no clue. For me, one
family can be too much. But I get how exciting it is, too, for the kids. I
remember being a kid and just living in the pool. Of course, when I was the age
of this boy, I’m guessing he’s around 7 or 8, I had the privilege of swimming
in my own backyard pool in Hacienda Heights. I’d go out every day and swim laps.
100.....200......250.....I never wanted to stop swimming.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpnmach49Ayo_yrYtXsVAsF0lcSeqyfJrOC8ozc9hzXiCyL3kc-IwWDwwep4YdbRkiTeEtdBVe5WMjQ2G9TjzHTGWbPL6j791InJjjRN4W0whK72fUFhsHkvgaaSUEh6LOL0GHN61K7GtWC_L-_Cj9Y2bBszjbRUgsr7JiK357rgp2gfCHsJI/s353/download.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="143" data-original-width="353" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpnmach49Ayo_yrYtXsVAsF0lcSeqyfJrOC8ozc9hzXiCyL3kc-IwWDwwep4YdbRkiTeEtdBVe5WMjQ2G9TjzHTGWbPL6j791InJjjRN4W0whK72fUFhsHkvgaaSUEh6LOL0GHN61K7GtWC_L-_Cj9Y2bBszjbRUgsr7JiK357rgp2gfCHsJI/s320/download.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> Yet, today,
I don’t want to share my ‘adult’ lap lane with a bunch of kids. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> And,
honestly, do they really swim laps?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Parent
Woman sighs loudly. “I mean, there are just so few pools open for family swim.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I nod, “Yeah,
I heard that El Cerrito is open but doesn’t have Family Swim.” <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Exactly!”
Parent Mom is so miffed. The nerve! Why aren’t the pools’ schedules built around
her needs? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> I turn to
the kid, “Do you know how to swim laps?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> He shrugs,
steps away from me, his blue and green palm tree trunks swaying in the waiting
room. Then he glances up at me, “Kinda.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Parent Mom
jumps on that! “He can.....I mean....he can swim laps for a while and then, you
know...well...he’s a kid.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Exactly! He’s
a kid! He can’t really swim laps! Nor should he have to unless he wants to. I was
an unusual kid, going out to the backyard and logging in hundreds of laps a
week when I was 10 years old. Most kids just want to jump in the water, do
handstands, play Marco Polo, and hold each other’s heads under the water till
someone cries “Uncle”! <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Not that I
and my sisters didn’t do all of the above. Marco Polo was always a favorite.
And when I still hear it today, I can’t believe that kids haven’t come up with
another game. Or at least another call and response. What could they use that
would be current? I don’t know. I think that it could be an educational or even
literary game. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Emily!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VZ0WQkDIi9cxbnC1obOgzR7vdVt3T7CLmRTc7o2rZmH41N-hSBOT8CKAVFvcQena3a8tlmNXJQhh-qGA_NNFZeimaakr_yPpgcaT9vwDn8GurPHpwUW4q_yt-YIlPBQmnhyBdG_pVMv7uuOmVjVzR6d0SoTtfy3EhKLYvPjpEVbYhnyAF70/s2185/GettyImages-50698093-6c62051c17784a7abc5d15837bf30f1e.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1639" data-original-width="2185" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0VZ0WQkDIi9cxbnC1obOgzR7vdVt3T7CLmRTc7o2rZmH41N-hSBOT8CKAVFvcQena3a8tlmNXJQhh-qGA_NNFZeimaakr_yPpgcaT9vwDn8GurPHpwUW4q_yt-YIlPBQmnhyBdG_pVMv7uuOmVjVzR6d0SoTtfy3EhKLYvPjpEVbYhnyAF70/s320/GettyImages-50698093-6c62051c17784a7abc5d15837bf30f1e.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Bronte!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Or<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Leo!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Tolstoy!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Or<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Ernest!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Hemingway!<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Yet, I doubt this would catch on. How could a writer compete
with a famous explorer who rampaged through Mongolia on horseback, beheading his
enemies with viscous swipes of his mighty sword?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Is that
even what Marco Polo did? <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Pool games
don’t really teach you anything, history, literature or fair play. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> Ian and I
are at the front of the line now; Parent Mom and Kind of Lap Swim Kid have gone
in ahead of us.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Is there
room for us to swim laps?” I ask the harried attendant kid at the window.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> He turns
the blue and green pool chart toward me, “I can put you in lanes 1 and 2.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> “Great!”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"> He punches
my card, Ian hands me my bag, and I head into the locker room. The sounds of “MARCOOOO
POLOOOO” ring out from the pool as I step around the huge puddles of water in
the locker room and begin to unpack my stuff. <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEc7VZkjAIwOfmBjRHK_OMJ40LqbIVIvICv9-XL6EpwWBe65Vj07AhSSX7EHDSGxg8hTMTUdm_ezS2P1sCKN_uJc9eCITXDxpoTvEe-O2WELYZ2sBwfU95VaB_fyCu-nVTkEhciHhjOe9T09o1o7DrYjTDCFZQAVysffDS1jZjZeR3MruGoM8/s1200/Marco-Polo-Book-of-Wonders-facsimile-edition-06Facsimile-Finder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="1200" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEc7VZkjAIwOfmBjRHK_OMJ40LqbIVIvICv9-XL6EpwWBe65Vj07AhSSX7EHDSGxg8hTMTUdm_ezS2P1sCKN_uJc9eCITXDxpoTvEe-O2WELYZ2sBwfU95VaB_fyCu-nVTkEhciHhjOe9T09o1o7DrYjTDCFZQAVysffDS1jZjZeR3MruGoM8/s320/Marco-Polo-Book-of-Wonders-facsimile-edition-06Facsimile-Finder.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: #171717; color: #9aa0a6; font-family: Roboto, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 0.3px; text-align: start; white-space: nowrap;">Giovanni Scorcioni </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><o:p></o:p></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1