The 100 Mile Club in the 100 Degree Heat

“I noticed you were wearing a full body suit,” Too Tan Woman smiles, shy now after enthusing over vanilla scents and associations with pudding. I’d initially started talking to her because she smelled so good. The vanilla essence wafting through the locker room, even overpowering the chlorine. “Is that you that smells so good?”

“Oh, yes!”

I know I’m not in Berkeley anymore. Or anywhere in the Bay Area where scented products are to be avoided as they cause allergic reaction to some members.
“It’s interesting the different reactions I get to the scent,” she gushed, warming to the topic.

“Why I had these two women exclaim about how I smelled like burnt toast. And one of my students, I was a school nurse, asked me if I’d share my cupcakes with him!”
I’d grinned, liking the Cupcake Nurse image.

But after her Cupcake giggle, her tone turned serious about the full body suit. And my answer was measured. I don’t mind talking about it, but I do mind having to worry about it. So now, when she’d asked about the full body suit, I sigh inwardly.

“Yeah….I have to wear the full body suit,” I answered, thinking how it was way too sunny at the Shasta Family YMCA. The pool was outdoors. There was no shade. The temp was 106 and climbing. And it was high noon. But for one day, on vacation, I figured, what the hell. I can swim in this divine little pool. It’s just once and I’ll wear my sun gear.

Besides, this time I remembered my suit so I have the added layer of protection!
“Is it because of skin cancer?” she asks, toweling her wet hair off in the quiet little locker room.
“Yes.”
“If you don’t mind my asking, was it Melanoma?”

“Yeah, it was,” I shake my head. “But you know, I’m fine now. I don’t usually swim outdoors like this in the middle of the day in the 100 degree heat.” I try not to stare at her too tan leathery skin. She is so dark! It’s scary! Does she swim in the middle of the day like this every day here in Redding? Swimming here even once is so daunting to me.

She nods, “Yes, that’s good, I’m glad to hear it…..” She paused, contemplating for a moment, before plunging onward: “I did have some cancer removed from my upper lip. Can you see?” She points her chin toward me. I can’t really see anything and tell her so.

“Yeah, well, it was an ordeal.” She goes on in too much detail about the procedure. I start to feel funny. Why do people insist on telling you all the specifics of their medical procedures? Don’t they know that some of us can’t handle it? But she had been a school nurse. So, she was probably completely unaware of the impact of her medical details on a squeamish swimmer like myself. But then, because she was a trained medical professional, wouldn’t you think she’d be more careful about the sun, esp after her ‘procedure’? It didn’t make any sense to me. Why wasn't she swimming in the late afternoons? Why wasn’t she in a full body suit herself? Or hell, why wasn't she swimming in an indoor pool!

I make several sympathetic cooings to try to cover up my squeamishness and my unease around her sun denial behavior. I want her to stop talking about the medical details, but don’t know how to waylay her. Could I distract her with another subject?
“How long have you been swimming?” I interrupt.

“Oh, not long,” she giggles softly. “I’m not a real swimmer like you. I actually started swimming cause I wanted these sweats that said ‘100 mile club’ on the sides. I really wanted those sweats! They were so cute! But then I knew I could never swim 100 miles so I put it out of my mind. But I kept thinking about those sweats. And so one day, I just decided, goddammit, I’m going to do it. I’m going to swim 100 miles. So what if it takes me a year. Or 2. Or 5. I really want those sweats!”
“Fashion Motivation!” I exclaim.
“Precisely! And you know, I did swim that 100 miles. And I got those sweats!” She beams.
“That’s so great. And now you swim all the time?”
“Yes, well, like I said, I’m not a Real Swimmer like you….”
Her voice trails off, wistful. I didn’t take note of her in the pool very closely other than to notice that she did use a kick board and she did wear a white visor. So, yes, I’d agree she might not be a ‘Real Swimmer’.

However, she did swim that 100 miles for those sweats, so that counts for something, right? But I was still worried about her skin. Why? I don’t know. It wasn’t like I would ever see her again. But there was something about her story that made me uneasy.
Yet what could I do? If she wanted to swim out in the middle of the day in the 100 degree heat, then it was her choice, right?

But maybe, just maybe, she might think about it a bit more after chatting with me. She might get herself a full body suit. She might not swim in the middle of the day. She might spare herself any more bouts of skin cancer and avoid Melanoma.

“Well, nice chatting with you,” she paused for a moment, smiling at me.

“Yes, you too,” I answer, deciding not to chide her about the dangers of swimming outdoors. She knows it and for whatever reason, the swimming is worth it.
I get this. Swimming is everything.
Yet, I do hope she gets a full body suit. She could even paint 100 mile club on the leggings!
Now wouldn’t that be fun? I grin to myself as I pack up my gear and head back out into the 100 degree heat to meet Ian, the smell of cupcakes and burnt toast lingering in the hallway......

Dunsmuir Community Pool!

“Damn damn damn damn!!!” I try to keep my swearing at low volume here at the Dunsmuir community pool. But it’s hard.
All the years swimming, I’ve never done this one. Sure, I forget essential swim items at times: caps, goggles, fins, ear plugs.
But my suit?
Have I ever forgotten my suit?
Hell no!

And now, here at the beautiful Dunsmuir Community Pool with only an hour allotted for lap swimming, I am in the dismal little locker-room frantically searching through my gym bag for my suit.
Cap: check
Fins: check
Earplugs: check
Leggings: check (The pool is outdoors and hot hot hot. So I’m happy that I didn’t forget my anti sun leggings.)
Rash guard: check: for the same reason as above, I’ve packed my sun shirt.
But no suit? Really? Can this be?
I try not to cry. How could I have done this? I take all my stuff out of my gym bag, laying it out to double check. But no. no suit.

Okay, so….the minutes are ticking by. And the beautiful pool awaits. I don’t have time to go back to the Cabin and retrieve the suit, if that’s where it is.

I have to swim in that pool!
So…yes, this will work. I have the pants. I have the shirt. Why not just wear my elephant t-shirt under the shirt and the pants will work on their own since they’re black? No one will know I don’t have a suit on under this ensemble, right?

Oh! It’s Dunsmuir. The locals are all heaterized in their cut offs and tank tops, smoking cigarettes and flip flopping round town. They won’t care.
Plus, there’s hardly anyone here at the Dunsmuir community pool with the exception of the 5 water aerobics ladies on their noodles bobbing up and down.

So, what the hell.

I don my make-shift swim ensemble and venture out on the deck, still upset but the pool beckons. Ian’s waiting on deck.
“Everything okay?”
“You’re not gonna believe this, but I left my suit back at the cottage I guess. Or maybe it fell off in the car….or…”
“I’ll go look!” he offers, eager to ward off a pre swim nervous breakdown
“No, there’s not time. I’m just gonna wear my elephant t-shirt and sun pants. I’ll be in the water. No one will know.”
And they don’t.

I hop into the aqua beauty of this lovely pool and it’s so delicious. The water is ‘solar heated’, meaning that it’s not. But it’s okay since it’s been over a hundred degrees this day. I swim the first lap and feel the soothing coolness of the water. The clothes are hard to swim in, but I don’t care.

I’m in the Dunsmuir community pool with the scent of burgers wafting over the water and the sounds of I-5 in the background.

Two middle aged guys jump in next to me; they’ve had a few beers. I smile to myself. They’re not really swimmers, so my strange swim apparel won’t register, I’m sure.

Then one breaks into an impressive butterfly and I have to re-evaluate. Okay, maybe he was a swimmer before the Dunsmuir Daze took over his paradigm. His friend cracks up after trying to fly, and they splash each other like boys.

I like this pool. It’s so different from the Y. It’s casual and clear and cool.
But best of all, I have a view of Mt. Shasta, when I turn at the wall.
What could be better than that?

My swimsuit?
Sure, this would help. But in the meantime, I’m happy happy happy as I swim swim swim across the blue blue pool!

Castle Lake

“If we had Cell Phone Service….. DAD! We could call him!” She’s teenage. And petulant, obviously, lazily wading in the cooling waters of the delightful little lake.

“There are some things that are better than cell phone service.”

I can’t help myself, but let out a hearty guffaw at Dad’s quip. He grins at me. She glares.

I want to join in the conversation. Tell the bored teen that she’s lucky to be here with no cell service, but realize that she probably wouldn’t get it. Obviously communication to ‘him’ was more important than the natural beauty of this charming little lake. Its surface smooth and glassy. The shores lined with steep little hills of granite rising to the hot blue afternoon sky.

I’ve just finished my swim, and am now perched on a slippery hot rock as I await Ian’s return from our swim to the center of Castle Lake. After swimming through the smooth crisp water, we’d rested on a Big Granite rock, gazing at turquoise dragonflies flitting in and out of the clear clear water.

Usually, I am leery of lake swimming. What the hell is under there? In the murk? A giant tree, fallen and rotting, soft and creepy? Or a series of sharp rocks, jutting up unexpectedly to scratch my tender knees. Or a wily mountain monster, lurking behind that fallen tree, ready to reach out and snatch me with its lethal claws, then popping me into its giant toothy mouth, swallowing me whole before I’ve a chance to climb Mt. Shasta.

Not like that was gonna happen, but my imagination does run amok when lake swimming. So there is a bit of anxiety in the endeavor, but today, with the heat on the rise, and after our tromp through the brambles (“Ian! Can you hold up a minute? I don’t want to climb down there!" "But look, Honey, there’s shade down here! And we can be away from all the people and….”), I’m ready to jump in.

So, when Cell Phone Bereft Girl whines, I just laugh. If she only knew just how lucky she was. And how stupid cell phones are! Why, only a few short years ago, they were a rarity. And today, if you don’t have one, and you’re not talking or texting on it, or taking pictures with it, or checking your email on it or tweeting Kim Kardashian on it, well, you are so OUT OF IT!

I love being out of it!

And on this day, a perfect one for this little lake swim, I grin and grin and grin. The air is too hot, but it’s still and heavy. And the swim was pure magic: my arms slicing through the clean smooth surface of the water. Sure there were unknowns below the brown murk, but hell, it was worth the risk to glide out to that big rock, and climb up its slimy surface to rest from the cold wet waters.

“Dad! Like what is better?” she whines again.
“Oh, now, you’re just being difficult.” He sighs, smiling in a spacey heaterized way. She shrugs, ducks her head into the water, goggles on, searching for what?
A cell phone?
A monster?
Who knows?

All I know is that this day, on this lake, with the air and the water and the dragonflies, I’m happy. Blissfully so.
And I don’t use that term lightly. As anyone who knows me knows.

“You ready to leave?” Ian’s back, huffing and balancing as he climbs out of the cool waters.
“Nah, not yet. Maybe a snack?”
“Sure,” he nods, shaking himself like a happy wet dog. “We have some little sandwiches and some carrots and….”

“Cookies?” I grin.
He laughs, “Of course.”


And he heads up the sandy little beach toward our shady little spot to retrieve the Oreo Heads & Tails double Stuffs. I follow, weaving slightly, her echoes in the background…..

“Daaaad! I neeed…..”

Should I offer her a cookie, I wonder? Is that better than a cell phone? I think so, but then again, I know I’m in the minority. Best to let her whine till she runs out of breath….

Or till her whining calls up the Castle Lake Monster. He'll gobble her up, spit her out, and swim lazily away, leaving us all in peace to enjoy the magical splendor of this sweet little lake.

Dry Skin and Mac and Cheese

“Ooooh, that smells gooood!”
I softly laugh.
“What is it?”

“Just Safeway cheapo lotion. I only buy the stuff on sale cuz I go through so much of it. Between the chlorine in the pool and menopause, I use a ton of lotion. ”

“Oh…something for me to look forward to!" She laughs. "I wish I could buy that stuff. But with my skin….” She shakes her head, resigned? Mystified? “….. I gotta get Aveno, Lubriderm. My skin is sooooo dry! Always has been! Why my little brother used to take any old stick he found to scratch white marks into it.” She laughs at the memory. DL’s wide eyes get wider. I engage.

“Really?” I ask.
“Yeah, well, you know with darker skin, it’s easier to do that sorta thing.”
“Ah….” I glance down at my pale snow white legs. No chance that any lines are gonna get drawn on them even if I did have a little brother.

“I had this dry skin my whole life! From when I was 9 years old. That’s when my brother started drawing on me!”

“ATTENTION ALL MEMBERS AND GUESTS. THE TIME IS NOW 9:51.
THE YMCA WILL BE CLOSING IN 9 MINUTES.
PLEASE…BLAH BLAH GGLLLAHHHAGGG G….GGG…”

“What was that?” I grin.
“Time to leave!” Dry Skin Woman guffaws. “Time to get out!”

“Of course, they never say it that simply, do they?” I shake my head, trying to get the bottles of lotion to stand upright on the gross little cement shelf at the base of the full length mirror. DL giggles at my attempts.

Giving up, I slap some lotion on, stealing a glance over at Dry Skin Woman who’s nearly ready to depart. Damn. Some women are so fast getting out of the locker room. It’s astounding. It takes me forever. Even when I’m hurrying.

And then these same women, the fast dressers, lounge about in the sauna with great languishing abandon.

Dry Skin Woman had been in Utopia earlier, part of the dialogue around macaroni and cheese at some local Oakland hotspot that of course I’d never heard of. “You can gain 5 pounds eating a serving of that mac and cheese,” one Utopian had advised another. Despondently, the Other had sighed loudly, “Damn, I can’t believe that!”

“I can believe it!” I interrupt, actually having very little clue what they’re talking about except for the fact that mac and cheese was hugely fattening.

Utopian laughter fills the hot air. I love it when the women all laugh. Together. Inclusive. It's uniquely Utopia.

But frankly, the mac and cheese sure sounded good right about now.

After my mayhem swim with 6000 Asian Kids doing canon balls in the pool at 9:20 pm and then Chinese Bad Teeth Man climbing into my lane at 9:25 demanding circle swimming for my last 5 minutes with cute black swim trunks guy, who stopped at the wall, confused but sweet....I am so hungry!

Why was the pool such mayhem tonight? Was it summer already?
Mac and Cheese would hit the spot.Even if I did gain 5 pounds.

“You’all have a good evening," Dry Skin Woman slams her locker shut and strides out of our aisle.
DL can’t contain herself.
“You look like the Cheshire cat, D!” I exclaim.

“I do?” Her eyes get even wider.
“Yeah!” I laugh. “Ready to head on out for some Mac and Cheese?”
“You heard of that place?”
“Of course not,” I say. "I don’t know about any cool eateries. I never go anywhere. I eat vicariously.
Does that mean I gain 5 pounds vicariously too?"

Laughing we head out, up the stairs, into the tail-end balminess of what’s left of Hurricane Blanca.
“The air!” DL exclaims.

I nod, grinning as we teeter down the stairs and head out to the sidewalk on Broadway where the 6000 Asian Kids and their parents now mill about in a huge monstrous group.

“That’s the group that was in the pool,” I point to DL.
“You’re kidding,” she shakes her big Italian hair.
“Wish I were. Let’s go get some Mac and cheese…..”
“They’re closed now, CJ.”
“I know, I was kidding.”

She giggles. We climb into the Geo. I start the engine. And the night rains down….

A Certain Age

"When you reach a Certain Age, then the Time goes by even quicker." Sour Hot Tub Woman pronounces this into the air, positioning her large chocolate thigh to undulate next to one of the tub’s hardy jets. I just nod, not really responding. It’s such a cliché’ right? That as we get older, the time goes by faster.

How had DL and I even gotten on to this topic anyway? Was it my swimming?

Lately, I’ve just felt like I’m swimming in frozen molasses uphill. It’s a struggle to move through the water. I do remember when I used to glide effortlessly along the tops of the smooth green waters of pools.

What has happened?

Is it the aging process? Is it inevitable that we are all ‘slowing down’?

DL nodded when I asked her this upstairs at the torture machines. “My world just seems to be getting smaller and smaller and narrower and narrower. It’s all downhill from here I guess,” I’d whined, adjusting the weight poundage down 5 pounds from where I’d had it in the weeks before.
“I just try to poke holes in the boundaries of the narrowness,” DL had murmured.

And at the time, I’d just nodded, thinking, okay, that sounds like a plan. But then later I wondered, what the hell did she mean? If my world is a narrow little box, and I poke a few holes in its sides, then it gets a little bigger?

Would that work with swimming?

I can’t see how. The effort it takes to swim my usual yardage is so great. If I poked holes in it, I think it’d just leak.

Okay, that cracks me up. But still, do you see what I mean?

And so, after the hot tub time cliché and the Utopia without Sandy or BLN (both other blogs), I ask DL, why is it that time seems like it moves quicker as we age.

She had an answer of course. Having to do with the Brain. Her area of expertise. “It has to do with the fact that our brains actually change as we age so that we really do perceive time as going by quicker.”
“Oh….” I shake my head. “That’s a gyp! But at least now I know there’s a physiological reason for it.”
Can I poke holes through the physiology? I doubt it.

My brain, though, I think, at least metaphorically, I can poke holes through. As DL said upstairs earlier, “We need to reframe this,” when I’d complained about the ‘narrowing of my life’; the loss of strength and stamina so dramatic as I spin into my late 50’s.

Can this be so? Late 50’s?

Damn! I better reframe something. I think it has to be an Abstract Expressionist painting, like Rothko. One with luscious cobalts and limes and violets. I want the frame to show my love of color and swimming and to hell with the physiology of the Brain, or the loss of weight stamina or the hellish effort of swimming from one side of the pool to the other.

I will call my painting, “Reframe with Holes.” It will be my inspiration and my muse.

Now if I can only get time to slow down. Just for a day. So I can paint my Reframing and get it hung up in my Brain.

You have to reach a Certain Age to create such a vision, don't you agree? Hell, I'd never have thought of this 20 years ago. And this gives me hope. That a Certain Age can be full of creativity, imagination, fun, and yes, strength!

I'll let Sour Hot Tub Woman know about my idea next time I see her.
Or not....

Big Trouble Now!

The pool toys were flying! Little pink pigs. Little green frogs. Little blue sharks.

I can’t help but grin, even though the pandemonium that greets me is absurd. Why the hell aren’t all these kids home in their jammies? Why are they here, at the Downtown Oakland Y, hurling plastic toys at each other, creating mayhem in an entire third of the pool?

At least not too many lap swimmers, so I choose a lane with a large round floating creampuff woman. She’s one of a club. Those women who float blissfully backwards, barely moving their hands, a sweet smile perpetually on their round moon faces. I wonder how they move at all, backwards like that? But then, maybe their creampuff mass helps? They just float and float and float; there’s no need to stick their heads underwater or activate a formal swim stroke.

And so. I join Floating Creampuff Woman’s lane. Zip down the other side of her, in a rush since I got in the pool so late. What happened to the time? One minute I’m chatting with DL up at the treadmills about dreams at 8:25, but by the time I make it down to the pool deck, it’s 8:45. Time is wrong. That is all I can say.

But back to the pool toys and the family pandemonium. The toys sink. That’s right. You’d think they’d float about on the waves of family joy, but no, they sink to the bottom of the lanes. And in my lane, I spy two little toys: a pudding pink pig and a black and white panda head.

As I swim for the next 45 minutes, I consider stopping and picking them up off the bottom of the pool. Setting them up on the deck so the lifeguards can gather them when the pool closes. But I’m in such a rush to get my laps in that I don’t. I just let them hang out on the bottom of the lane. Monitoring my progress. There’s something comforting about having a little pink pig wink at you each time you turn at the wall.

Eventually, the families get out. The mothers wrapping shivering whiny kids in bright striped towels. The fathers hollering, “That’s enough, Said!!! It’s time to go!!! No, you can NOT swim one more minute. OUT! NOW!!!!”

Floating Creampuff Woman floats out and into the locker room.

I have the lane to myself. Well….it’s just me and my two little friends.

At 9:30, the whistle blows, obnoxiously unnecessary as always. I coast to the wall and then glance down at my friends. Maybe now I’ll try to retrieve them? But it’s hard. I try to scoop up Panda Head with my flipper but he keeps sliding off. Stubborn in his insistence to stay floating at the bottom of the lane.

The nice lifeguard motions for my equipment. He always takes them to the equipment storage situation for me. I ask him,“Do you want me to try to get the toys offa the bottom of the pool?”
Shy, he grins, “Nah, you can just leave ‘em.”
“Okay,” I smile. “Guess they’ll just hang out at the bottom of the pool all night!”
“They’re in Big Trouble now!” He chuckles, pleased at himself.

It takes me a moment to get the joke. Oh, yeah, everyone gets kicked out of the pool at 9:30. And if you don't get out, well…..you’d be in Big Trouble.

Yet, somehow, I think Little Panda Head and Little Pink Pig will escape Big Trouble. After all, what kind of trouble can a little pool toy get into during the long closed hours of a YMCA night?

“Hey, Panda! Wanna dump all of the kickboards into the pool?”
“Sure, Piggy, let’s toss the fins, paddles and pull buoys in too while we’re at it!”
“And, then we can……”

Okay, maybe I was wrong. Maybe little pool toys can get into trouble. Big Trouble.
But oh what fun they’ll have along the way! The kind of fun that only Big Trouble can bring that is....

HOSTILITY HOLLER

“HEY!!!! It’s 10 OO’CLOCK! Time to get out!”

Vaguely, I hear the command echo through the women's locker room, shouted at us from somewhere outside, but don’t really register it beyond the fact that ,someone, a guy?, is shouting at us to get out. Is the indecipherable intercom system down?

“That is Rather Hostile,” DL says, in that steely feminist way of hers which I love.

It is? Hostile? Puzzled and out of it, I glance over at her. She’s gathering up all her bag, heaving it up onto her shoulder. I’m trying to get it together. But there’s always so much stuff! I’m trying to get everything crammed in my gym bag: swimsuit, shoes, yoga pants and Deanza Kitty Shirt, swim mask, shampoo elephant bag, watch, bracelet, scarf…..

See what I mean? No wonder I didn’t register the hostility quotient initially. But then…..DL was right!
It was weird. Where was the Usual Efficient Girl gathering up all the towels and hollering at us to pack it up pronto?

“They’re gonna be in Trouble,” DL nods over at a couple of Asian Women, still naked, sitting on stools, chattering away.

Did they even hear the Hostile Get Out? And if they did, did they understand?

DL was right, they were in Trouble. Should we try to warn them? What might happen? Would the Hostile Hollering Guy come barging into the Women’s locker room and literally kick out the half dressed women?
Nah….they can’t do that, can they?

But we don’t say anything to the Asian Women. I don’t know why. DL is seething….well, maybe not seething, but she’s intense. And when I think about it through my chlorine induced haze, she’s right. Those guys shouldn’t be hollering at us to get out. Loitering around outside the women's locker room. It’s not OK.

We emerge from the locker room into the murky downstairs lobby. There’s 3 guys hanging out there. Young. Tall. Antsy. Threatening?

“You the last ones out?” the tallest one with a gross bandage over his nose asks. He shuffles back and forth on his big boat feet, attitude oozing out of his soles.

“No,” I answer. “There’s still a couple of women left in there.”
“A couple? Okay. Thanks. We just wanna go home, you know?”
“Yeah, I understand. It’s been a long day….” Why didn’t I say anything about their inappropriate Hostile Get Out Announcement? I’m confused. Tired. Confused. And well……I needed to eat.

DL and I stumble up the stairs, leaving the 3 loitering guys still hanging around downstairs waiting for the two Asian Women. They might have a long wait, I think to myself.

Dizzy and winded at the top of the stairs, I glance around. It’s strange. No women working at all. A couple guys work the front desk, closing up computers, shutting down systems. I feel mixed up. Like I’m looking for the perky young women that work at Hilltop, but of course they’re not here in Oakland.

But aren’t there usually a couple of women up here, behind the front desk, at this Oakland Y?
“Where are all the women workers?” I ask DL.
She shakes her head.
“It’s so strange,” I murmur as we head out the front doors into the wrong balmy night.

Hostility is intense. It’s one of those energy situations that can color the atmosphere so quickly that one is completely caught off guard. And you may have one reaction of being angry about it. Or you may have another reaction of being confused by it. Or like me, you may not even register it for whatever reason. It’s not on your sensitivity radar.

Why is that? Usually, I’d be all over guys yelling into the women’s locker room, but this night? I barely noticed. Am I that out of it at the Oakland Y after my swim by 10 pm?

Yup. I think so.

And that’s why it’s a really good thing for me that I have DL around to register the reality.
And walk me to my car.
After all, she’s got a Black Belt. (Maybe not in actuality, but in action-ality)
And she’s Italian.....And..... she's a Woman.

So beware Hollering Hostile Dudes! Next time you need to clear the women's locker room, figure some other way to clear the decks. Use the intercom system. Ask another woman to come in and let us know it's time to go. Or hell, why
not just chill out for once and let us leave at 10:10? Would that be such a crime?

A Tale of Two Topknots

“All I heard was ‘Allegra’ and ‘Topknot’”. Sandy stretches one leg up and over her belly, then lets it flop down again onto the wooden bench before stretching the other one in like fashion.
DL and I crack up; I note DL’s belly shaking with Topknot Mirth.

We’d been in the Aquatopia; DL had been sporting another fine Topknot to keep her gorgeous tresses out of the water. When we’d walked into the sauna, she’d announced into the air, or maybe to me: “I name my Topknots.”

It took me several minutes to register this for some reason. Maybe it was the journey into the Sauna from the hot tub that interrupted what would have otherwise been an immediate response. Or maybe I was just tired and heaterized from my swim and the hot tub soaking. Or maybe I’m just slow.

But after we’d gotten situated into Utopia—me on the top shelf opposite Sandy; DL on the bench below her; and a couple of other women draped about, it hit me. Did she say she named her topknots?

And so I asked this question, out of the blue, driving the other draping women out ( or so we surmised).

“You could name her Allegra,” I’d offered.
“Perfect,” DL had giggled.

Sandy had offered what she’d heard, (see first line, Dear Reader) and from there….well, my imagination spun a tale of Two Topknots: A story within a story if you will:

Allegra was the Queen of the Topknots. She ruled the others from atop DL’s gorgeous head. She surveyed all of the other more trivial topknots that were under her purview. They were smaller, yes, but also they were her Topknots-in-Waiting. They administered to her every need. If she needed a strand of hair tucked back under her topknot base, they scurried to do her bidding. If she became hungry or thirsty, they’d provide her with tip top topknot fare. If she grew weary from her duties as Queen, they provided her with the necessary rest and relaxation.

Until one day….
A Topknot Interloper sauntered into the Kingdom.
Desiree…..

She was sexy. She was sultry. She was trouble.
And she knew exactly what she wanted.
She needed to topple the Queen. Allegra would be Top Topknot no longer if Desiree had her way.
And she always got her way…..
~to be continued~

Beauty is the ONLY Distraction!

“Don’t you think that Beauty is a Distraction?” I ask DL as we float in the hot tub.
She pauses for only a moment, then a slow grin creeps up, “Beauty is The ONLY distraction!”

We both crack up. Of course she’d say this. What other answer could she give? She’s Italian. And she’s Beautiful.

“It’s so true,” I manage, after a few moments of giggles. “I knew when this young woman asked to share my lane tonight that she was beautiful. Even though my foggy mask, I was distracted, you know?”
DL nodded. “Oh, yeah….”

“And so my entire swim, I was so distracted. I just had to keep trying not to stare……”

Sinking into the steamy bubbles, I fall into Distraction Reverie.....

She’d asked to share my lane about half way through my swim, shy and professional. “Can I share your lane?” she’d asked simply enough. But already, I was thoroughly distracted. She was one of those young EthBeauties. You know, the dark hair, dark brown eyes, chocolate skin, swimmers compact frame. I was smitten, so of course, no problem, she could share my lane even though usually I send out the Hostile Don’t Even Ask To Share My Lane Vibes.

“Sure,” I’d answered.
“Do you want to just split the lane?” she’d asked.
“Okay,” I’d grinned. “You look super speedy.”
She’d demurred some appropriately humble response, then jumped in and yeah, sprinted down the lane.

Sigh.

I think I was that speedy once, but no more.


Later when I’d told Sandy about the sharing lane Beauty and how fast she’d been, she’d remarked, “Get used to it.”
We’d all laughed, but then Sandy had continued, “You probably didn’t mind sharing with her. I’m sure she could hold her lane.”
“Hold her lane….” I repeat. “I like that…..”

I didn’t mention that the real reason I didn’t mind sharing was her Beauty. “Yeah, she could. Unlike this one woman I encountered a few months back who right at the onset had announced to me “'I have to warn you. I can’t swim in a straight line.'”

“She probably had a license to drive too,” Sandy had quipped.
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure she did,” I laughed.

I close my eyes, letting the heat envelop me, and for a moment, thinking of nothing but this soothing warmth.
A creak of the door, and DL is gone. Another creak of the door, and someone slips in.
I open my eyes. Is it her? EthBeauty?

For a moment, I hold my breath, thinking of my good fortune. Here’s The Distraction come to sit next to me in the sauna!
But no, it’s not. Yet, it doesn’t matter. She’s beautiful and a distraction. Because when I’m in Utopia, everyone is beautiful.

And everyone, as you all know, is a Distraction.

YOU LOOK LIKE A SEA CREATURE

“You look like a Sea Creature,” The BLN proclaims as I toss my towel down on the side of aquatopia in frustration. I’d been trying, in vain, to wrap my hair up so that it wouldn’t hang into the hot tub and get wetter. It was a losing battle.

And now, I look like a Sea Creature, with my hair wet and dripping down in front of my face in long wild strips.

Perfect. Leave it to the BLN to come up with the perfect Utopian description.

Where has she been? DL and I have missed her. She’s got that way with words and image that only a writer has.

I want to watercolor my Sea Creature this weekend. She’ll be all greens and blues and grays and aquas. She’ll have long, stringy hair dripping down her back in scary sea creature abandon. She’ll flaunt her mermaid tail (for of course, she’ll be in the form of a mermaid!) in haughty Sea Creature gesture. Her name will be Esmeralda and she’ll rule over the oceans of the Pacific, the Atlantic, and the Indian. Everyone will fear her. Everyone will love her. She will be the Machiavelli of the sea. She will rule the water with.....

“I decided that I must go to Sicily for my birthday,” The BLN announces, grinning sideways at DL, whose eyes widen into big brown saucers.
“When is your birthday?” I ask.
“Not till May. I probably won’t go. I have other commitments, but it’s a nice idea.”
“Italy is always the best idea!” I gush. “I always think that if I were just in Italy, everything would be Okay.”
“It is,”DL agrees, “until you come back.”

We all laugh as The BLN rises and saunters into the steam room, then makes an abrupt turn and heads into the Sauna.

“She’s going into Utopia!” I cry, nudging DL. “Let’s follow her. She never goes in there.” DL doesn’t need to be convinced as we both stumble out of the hot tub and into the sauna.

Sandy’s holding court, as usual. The BLN takes the corner top bench, stretches out like a lovely Sicilian feline, and is silent. Oh no! I hope she doesn’t stop talking! I think to myself.

But until she does, I turn to Sandy to report the Hilltopia Sauna uproar situation: “Sandy, you won’t believe this, but they’ve installed these little wooden barriers every two feet or so in the new sauna at Hilltopia so that the women won’t lie down anymore."

Sandy sits up. Her face bursting rosy red in disbelief incredulity (and yes, I need the redundancy to describe her reaction) “Are you kidding me?”

“Nope. The women of Hilltop are in an uproar.”
“I would hope so!”
“You should see your face!” I cry in delight, knowing that she’d react this way. She’s the Queen of Sauna Lie Down. Always on the top bench, prone, with her squirt bottle at her side.

“I just don’t like it when anyone tries to control me!” she harrumphs.
“In New York,” The BLN speaks, “they don’t even have benches. Just little stools. We all try to push them together to create a surface to lie down. But if you have a big ass like mine it doesn’t work very well.”

We all giggle. “Well, I guess we shouldn’t complain about the barriers, then,” I say. “At least we can lie down sort of between the barriers in a contorted sort of way.”
“Yes, I appreciate the benches here immensely,” The BLN murmurs.

DL rises from her bench lie down, and weaves out. “I’m surprised The Canary has stayed this long,” Sandy says. “Since there’s no manager, this place has gotten has high as 200 degrees.”
“Seriously?” I ask.
“What happened to Aaron?!” The BLN asks, dismay dripping in her tone.
“I’m not sure,” Sandy says. “We weren’t in a situation where I could ask him why he was leaving when last I saw him.”
“That’s too bad,” The BLN pouts. “I liked looking at him in his little bow tie.”
“Yeah, bring on your beautiful self,” Sandy nods, gathering up her accoutrements and stepping down from the top bench.

I don’t tell them how Aaron was such a little smugster about the 9:25 closing time a couple of weeks back. I might have liked him too, I suppose, if I hadn’t had this exchange. Though maybe not. Maybe my Sea Creature self would have spat at him no matter what he said.

But now we’ll never know. He’s gone. And for me, good riddance.


I stretch out with one final luxurious yawn, the flat no barriers wood’s warmth enveloping me. And while I do enjoy the moniker of ‘Sea Creature’ there’s a big part of me that’s feline—give me warmth, and lounging and laziness. I’m right back in Roma, sunning myself on a battered piece of ancient civilization: my fur warm and delicious as I survey the scene that is Largo di Argentina.
Ahhhh…..it's a cat's life in Roma!

Though this warmth of Gato Roma wouldn’t be nearly as delicious if I hadn’t been a cold, menacing Sea Creature first!