Space Hogs!

“Cj! You know that Guy in the weight room who sings really loudly to himself with his headphones on and sweats a ton? I almost was gonna scream! He was singing and sweating on the machine next to me, flicking sweat and….” DL narrates a minor rant.
“That is so disgusting!” I cringe.
“I know, right? You know him?”
“No, I don’t think so. I think I’d remember.”

“Yeah, you would. Cuz he was so THERE! Doesn’t he know that other people don’t care about him? That he isn’t God’s Gift? That his singing and his muscles and his sweat is so repulsive to those around him?”

I chuckle. “No, he has no clue. People like that never do! They just take up So Much Space! The same thing happened to me swimming tonight. Not the singing sweating part, but the taking up space part. I’m in my lane, happily swimming along without sharing, which NEVER happens here, and this Guy gets in and doesn’t tell me ahead of time and I almost crash into him.”

“How is he supposed to tell you?”
“He’s supposed to wait on the deck and then when I turn at the wall, let me know. It’s not Rocket Science. Otherwise, I have no clue. I can’t see him from 30 yards away. I did see some form from the opposite end, but my mask is all foggy and I thought he was getting in the lane next to me. I can’t see!”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” DL nods.

I shake my head, remembering the Anorexic Woman who had taken great pains to wait on the deck and ask to share my lane but then I’d been a Rude Hogging the Lane swimmer and pointed out to her that she could swim in the empty lane two lanes over and she had eyed me sorrowfully in confusion, pointing to a signage on the deck that said, “MASTERS”. I had snagged the lifeguard, “Can’t she swim over there?” And he had nodded, taken the sign away and she had her own lane. Better for all. But the point is, a woman asked me. A guy? They just dive right in and barrel me over. Run me down. If I hadn’t seen him in time, OUCH! He woulda hurt me and he probably wouldn't have felt a thing, you know? Cuz guys are walls of testosterone, like that guy DL was talking about with all the singing and sweating and not giving a shit about anyone else around him.

I’m out of breath now just writing about it. The fury of Guys taking up too much space. There must be some psychology around it, right?

Yet, to be fair, I have had my share of too much space women. I'll never forget the time I tried to share a lane with this woman who told me that 'By the way, just to let you know, I swim crooked.' And she did. Again, too much space. But then, she did warn me, right? I guess it's just part of the human condition.

Space Hogs!

“Well, I’ll have to look for the Sweating Singing Guy next week,” I laugh.
“Oh, yeah. We’ll make Eye Contact and you’ll know,” DL grins, climbing into the Geo, pulling on the seat belt.
I turn the key, the Geo sputters on, and DL sighs, as I pull out onto Webster street to ferry her to her car.

Is She Listening?

“I had this dream!” DL exclaims. “I’m so glad I’m remembering to tell you.” I nod, excited; I love to hear her dreams. “In my dream, I look down at my hands and my hands they are newspapers….” Her eyes glisten, the thrill of headlines at her fingertips. I glance behind me, at the naked woman, methodically smoothing lotion into her chocolate brown skin. Is she listening? To the Dream narration? Here in the downtown Oakland YMCA locker room? “And I make this movement,” DL continues, a slow dance with her hands. They are ballet in the air. “I go to throw my newspaper hands at the door. And they make that loud thump against the closed door….Like, you know, when your paper is delivered?” I nod. I know this sound. It is delicious. It means that your newspaper is here. Your day can start. Make some coffee. Feed the cat. Read the paper. “But when I throw my newspaper hands at the door, they aren’t newspapers anymore. They are fins!” Her eyes glimmer, sparkle. It is a miracle! I glance back again at the Chocolate Lotion Woman behind us. She is dressed now. Gathering up her things. Checking her phone. Are her earplugs in? How can she listen to music when a dream is being narrated?

I shake my head, baffled.

“What does it mean?” DL asks. I grin, widely. “It means your hands are the news. Your day is full of swimming. And miracles abound!” She laughs, delighted, as Chocolate Lotion Woman floats past us, a tiny smile playing at her lips.
Was she listening?

Having a Problem

“It’s a good thing the pool is only 4 feet deep….. But come to think of it….. if you’re having a problem, you’re having a problem.”
Pudgy Peach Shaped woman clucks her tongue as she dries off her pudding limbs, pasty white and dimpled in the locker room glow.

We’d both just witnessed a distress situation with the lifeguard here at Hilltopia. One minute, she’s sitting in her big white chair, spaced out and staring. The next minute, there’s a call over the intercom “Attention. Attention! Blah blah blah and blah blah blah to the Pool Deck. To the Pool deck!”
I had heard the intercom’s blare, registering the Pool Deck location but nothing more. I was busy swimming my laps and had my earplugs, mask and cap on, deep into the rhythm of my workout when the call rang out.

But I wasn’t so engaged that I didn’t witness the three staff members appear on the deck, crowd around the lifeguard and then escort her into the little lifeguard staff room at the back of the pool area, closing the door solidly behind them all.

What had happened to her? Was she okay? She had seemed fine before when I’d asked her to please close the door—“It’s so cold” I’d complained. “Sure, no problem,” she’d answered, and then closed the door, blocking the cold January wind from whooshing over the surface of the pool.

This lifeguard was one of the ‘nice’ ones who would close the door for me. Some of them I wouldn’t broach the request anymore; they gave me such a hard time. But I digress.

Today, NiceGuard had seemed fine. And now, evidently, she wasn’t. Had my asking her to close the door had something to do with her collapse? But how could that be? I mean, is it always about me? Was I responsible for her distress?

I felt worried for her and stopped at the edge of the pool to ask her replacement about what had happened.
“Is she okay?”

He nodded, adjusting his knee pads. I guess he’d been playing soccer or some other sport that required such guards and had been called into to fill NiceGuard’s place while she was indisposed.
“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine,” he answered me as he climbed up onto the white chair, settling in with the large red rubber lifesaver on his lap.

Okay? I thought. Well, what could I do? If he said she was okay, then I guess she was, but if this were really the case, why was he here filling in for her?

I continued my swim, feeling sorta worried about her as she had disappeared into the little room with one of the staff members, Asian in Charge Woman. After about 20 minutes, Asian in Charge woman emerged and exited the pool area. But still no sign of NiceGaurd.

What was she doing in the little room? Was she passed out on a cot in there? Or worse, on the floor? What else could it be but some sort of health issue? Yet Sub Knee Pad Guard had said she was okay.

It was all very mysterious.

I glanced over at Ian who was still swimming—had he noticed anything? Hard to tell as we were both in the thick of our workouts. And Pudgy Peach Woman was just floating at the edge of the pool in the center lane, seemingly oblivious. It was only afterwards, in the showers, that she’d made the comment about having a problem.

Ian got out and left. Pudgy Peach Woman starting a slow float down the lane. I had a few more laps to go when NiceGuard emerged from the little room. She’d been in there about 45 minutes. Resting?
She took back up her position from Knee Pad Guard who exited the deck. I finished my last few laps and then started a few minor stretches before getting out.

But I was too curious. I had to ask.

“Are you okay?”
“Yes….yes….” She had moved off her chair now and was leaning out the door of the lifeguard room, half in half out. What was up? Was there someone in there that she was keeping watch over? Or was there some sort of fan or something that was blowing on her to keep her from passing out?
“Was there a problem because I asked you to close the door?”
“No…no….I’m okay,” she assured me.

Still, she didn’t offer any explanation. So I had no choice but to leave without my curiosity satisfied. Pudgy Peach Woman was curious too; hence the exchange about having a problem.
And it’s true. Even if the pool is 4 feet deep, if you’re having a problem, you want the lifeguard to be alert and aware. Ready to rescue.
And if she were having a problem, well, this could be a problem, right?

Later, on the ride home, I asked Ian if he’d noticed the NiceGuard situation and what he thought. He hadn’t noticed. So I explained briefly and asked him what he thought had happened to her.
“Maybe she had to report an incident about a crime or some other incident that was confidential.”
“But then why did the others have to be called down in the middle of her shift? There weren’t any other swimmers, just us and Pudgy Peach Woman,” I argued.

“Maybe it was something to do with a situation of abuse or….” Ian was a dog with a bone. The more he speculated, the more ludicrous the ideas. I had to laugh as none of his suggestions made any sense in the context of what I’d witnessed. But I joined in.
“Maybe she’s pregnant with her sister’s husband’s secret love child, had a bout of morning sickness, and had to go into the little room and lie down to recover.”

Ian laughs. “Yeah, that’s probably it. She’s pregnant.”
“I watch a lot of soap operas,” I joke.
But frankly, it wasn’t really a joking matter. Whatever the situation had been with her had been serious enough to take her off duty for almost an hour. How was it that she was fine enough again to watch the pool?
As Pudgy Peach Woman had said, “If you’re having a problem, it doesn’t matter how deep the pool is.”
And I have to agree. You don’t even have to be in the pool to have a problem.
We all know that one, right? Even if we’re not pregnant with our sister’s husband’s secret love child.
Though that certainly would add to it……wouldn’t it?

CRAMPS!

“Excuse me? Ma’am? Oh… Ma’am?”

I’m putting on my shoes, tired after a difficult swim. (I’d had to swim in the walking lane and then share a lane and then the water had been just a tad chilly and my mask had leaked and my shoulders and neck hurt slightly and I was tired and….)

Yet, now swim over, I’m warm and dressed, my back to the locker room where the Ma’am hailing voice is coming from. The voice is vaguely familiar, yet doesn’t know my name. Yet, of course, there are many women here at the Hilltop YMCA that I ‘know’ but not by name. And the 'Ma'am' address? I've given up caring about this anymore. It used to make me feel, 'old'. But now, since I am old, I don't care. Maybe age does have some advantages!

In any case, today I turn and behold AIDS Breast Milk Swimmer. I’d dubbed her this years ago when she told me in all seriousness that breast milk given to AIDS patients cures the disease.

Today, I doubt she remembers telling me this if I were to remind her. And besides, what difference does it make other than an internal moniker of my own?

She’s distressed. Wet and limping from the pool. Her pretty purple tie die Speedo wet and sticking to her dumpy belly. Her short grey curls dripping with tiny drops of chlorinated water. Her eyes wide and round, frantic around the edges.

“Am I in your way?” I ask, thinking that I was blocking her locker access here in the prime corner where everyone wants to be.

“No, no…” She shuffles over to me. “Excuse me for bothering you I just want to ask you do you know why I get a cramp in both my legs….”She eyes me earnestly.

What? Am I the Cramp Expert? As a matter of fact, I used to be. But not the kind of cramps she’s talking about. I used to suffer horribly every month from cramps; excruciating pain that kept me in bed and even out of the pool. That period (pun intended) is thankfully over now, but the memory of the pain still comes to me in dreams albeit rarely with the advent of The Change.

“Is it because I don’t drink enough water? Do you know?”

I shake my head, “Did you not drink much water today?” Hell, how should I know if water deprivation and leg cramps are related? I have no clue. The only time I’ve gotten cramps swimming is when I wear wrong shoes all day and then when I get in the water, sometimes my feet cramp up. It’s strange and painful with the toes actually curling inward toward the bottom of my foot till I stop at the side of the pool and massage it out.

However, I’ve never gotten cramps in both my legs. That would be some really wrong footwear!

“I drink only one bottle.” She holds up a large purple plastic container to show me. I admire her identical match with her suit but don’t comment upon this. Instead I tell her that that seems like quite a bit of water, but is it less than she usually drinks.

She nods, “Yes, and today, I had to get out after only 35 minutes. I wanted to swim for 40 minutes, but the pain was too much. I just wondered if you knew what caused the cramps.”

Again I deny any knowledge cramps causation. If I had my phone, I could google it like the rest of the world but today, I’d left the phone at home. Who needs it in the pool anyway?

“I don’t know what causes the cramps,” I tell her, sympathetic. “But they sure are painful. I know!”

She nods, sadness oozing out of her wet pores. I can tell that not only is she in pain but cutting her swim short has caused her much consternation. I get that one! If I don’t get my whole swim in, for whatever reason, I’m super cranky! It’s usually because of some Y related situation: pool closure because of fecal matter or a birthday party of 50 screaming 9 year olds suddenly jumping into the water with gleeful splashing pandemonium.

Cranky!

But I’ve never gotten out of the pool because of cramps and so this really sucks and I feel sorry for AIDS Breast Milk Woman.
“Maybe if you go into the sauna it’ll help?” I suggest. “And then when you feel better, you can finish your swim?”

She brightens a little. “Yes, that’s a good idea. I did do 35 minutes though.”

“35 minutes is great!” I proclaim. After all for whatever reason I’m the swim guru for the day. And why not? I’m here all the time. I swim a lot. Why wouldn’t I know the answer to the cramp question?
Yet, I didn’t and I still don’t. Of course, now that I’m at the computer, I could easily google it. But why bother now? It’s not like I can help her and even if I had known the cause earlier what good would that have done?

I suppose her idea that she hadn’t drunk enough water was part of why she asked me. If I’d said, Oh, my! You need to drink more water and then the cramps will disappear, she coulda done so and voila finished her swim.

But alas, I didn’t think of this. And she may be right. Water is the answer. It is for most things if you think about it.

“I will try the sauna,” she nods, turning to head toward its warm embrace. “Thank you.”
“Sure, I hope you feel better. Those cramps are painful!”
“Yes….yes, they are….”

I watch her purple self lumber down the aisle and open the sauna door. “Como estas?
“Como estas?!...”
And the sauna chat ala Español begins. Maybe she’ll find the answer to her cramp question in another language?

Or maybe she’ll just sink into her familiar Spanish community here at Hilltopia and forget, at least for a moment, how the wretched cramps cut short her planned 40 minute swim.

The Last Swim of the Year, Dec 31st 2015

She zooms past me. A sleek spray of her fuchsia suit amidst the aqua. I’m a poky plodder in this Encinitas YMCA. Everyone is young, fast and beautiful. If there were a Swimmer GQ, they’d all be in its pages.

Miss Fuchsia would be the centerfold.

I was in awe.

She lapped me every few minutes. I stopped keeping track of how many times, but knew she was there, in my peripheral watery vision, zipping up and down the lane.

Then….wham! She’s comatose. Motionless. Floating and then sinking quickly. Her legs and arms are deathly still. What had happened to stop her flying through the water so suddenly? Heart attack? But she was so young and beautiful. This didn’t seem possible. Drugs? But would such a specimen partake of foreign substances in her beautiful body?
It hardly seemed likely.

The lifeguards spring into action. Whistles blowing. 3-4 of them diving into the water with the stretcher. Pulling her lifeless body out of the water, her porcelain limbs eerily still after their furious strokes and kicks just moments before. I watch as they drag her out of the pool. Lay her flat on the deck. Begin resuscitation efforts.

Hanging onto the side of the pool, I’m not the only one who’s stopped swimming. There are a number of us watching the horror before us breathlessly.

Then I spot one of the lifeguards, a dark haired gangly beauty, who motions at me and others hanging on the wall. I can’t hear what she’s saying at first. Earplugs. But she shouts louder, waving us away, “It’s okay. She’s okay. It’s just a drill.”

Just a drill? Shit.

I thought I’d just witnessed a sudden mysterious drowning situation on the last day of the year. Wasn’t there a way to notify all of us swimmers that we weren’t really party to deadly pool event?

Apparently not. And I suppose this makes sense for them. If we’d all been told there was going to be a lifesaving drill today, then the lifeguards would know too and then couldn’t be tested on their ability to go from totally spaced out to totally saving lives in 10 seconds or less!

And of course, I was so relieved that she was okay! Damn! What if I’d actually seen a woman drown on this last swim of the year at the Encinitas YMCA? What would that have meant? I mean besides the obvious loss of life.
That 2015 was drowned and gone?

Later, after Fuchsia Drill Girl had jumped back into the pool, finished her swim and was hanging out at the edge, I had to say something (of course).

“That was really scary back there....." I begin.
She smiles, exposing perfect white teeth below her soulful hazel eyes.“I’m glad you’re okay," I finish.

“Yes, I work here. The lifeguards have these drills 4 times a month to keep in practice.”

I nod, taking it in. Do I mention how scared I’d been that I thought she’d almost died? Or that there must be some way for the YMCA to forewarn swimmers that a drill is taking place so we don’t all freak out?
Nah, what’s the point? I’m only visiting after all. It’s not like this happens at the Oakland Y or Hilltop. At least not that I’m aware of.
Though maybe it should.

Instead I grin, “You’re a really good actress.”
Beaming, she shakes her sun streaked locks, “Thanks.”

She lifts herself easily out of the pool, grabs her towel from its hook and saunters off to the locker room.

I stare after her for a moment, then shrug. "Happy New Year," I call out to her.
She turns back and winks at me.

.....Nope. I'm making that up. But wouldn't that have been grand? Especially after what she put me through! Leave it to the YMCA to make my last swim of the year one I'll never forget.

Chemical Imbalance

“Cj….” DL appears before me across the darkness of 23rd street, the Oakland Y looming squarely behind her.

I recognize her by her hair first and then her walk and then her voice.

“Hey Neesie! I made it!” I grin tiredly, heaving my fins up under my massively heavy gym bag.

“I’m glad I caught you,” she says, “you’re not going to believe this. The pool is closed….”
“Shit!” I try to keep my voice down. “Seriously? Why?”
“I have no idea. All I know is that there’s a sign up that says the pool is closed till further notice.”


“Okay,” I sigh, surprisingly calm in spite of this major setback. “Thanks for letting me know. I guess I can do other stuff with you tonight since I brought my workout clothes too. I mostly came to see you. And to swim….” I shake my head.

How can they just close the pool willy nilly out of the blue? It happens, I know, for unforeseen circumstances, usually involving a ‘Brown Alert’—I don’t need to explain that one right? But tonight, when we enter the too bright lobby bustling with YMCA members and their families, the Christmas tree with its sock collection and the good looking useless crew at the front desk, I make my way over to the pool lookout.

It’s empty. Closed, obviously. But why? It looks perfectly fine from this vantage point.

Heading over to hassle the good-looking team, I light upon a fine young man. The only one who doesn’t back away from me when I ask why the pool is closed.
“It’s closed because of a Chemical Imbalance,” he tells me, his round moon face serious.

“What’s that mean?” I ask.
He shrugs, “I’m not sure. That’s all they told us.”
I sigh loudly as DL lingers behind me, waiting. “When did it close?” I ask.
“It must have been before I got on shift tonight, round 4.”
“Why didn’t they email us?”
“They don’t have the system set up for that…..” He’s starting to get nervous now, I can tell. The grilling is taking a toll. I know it’s not his fault the pool is closed and the Y is so lame that they can’t email its members about such closures before they make the trip, but I can’t help myself. I keep needling him.
“They used to have an email system,” I assert. Did they? Or am I just imagining it?
“Yeah, well, I dunno….”

A sympathetic co-worker butts in, “It’s probably too late now, but you can use the Berkeley Y”
I try not to glare at her, but sure I’m unsuccessful in this attempt, “Yeah, it’s too late. I’ll just go to Hilltop tomorrow if it’s still closed.”
She nods, backs away. She tried.

Moon face man stares at me for a moment, “Yeah, you can go to Hilltop.” I bet he wishes I were there now! Well, so do I!
“Okay, well, guess there’s nothing I can do about this tonight, right?” I sigh loudly again.
He nods. “Have a good workout.”

I almost laugh, but just turn toward DL, who’s shaking her head. “Chemical Imbalance!” she huffs. “I’ll show you a Chemical Imbalance!”

We both crack up. And it’s true. I could have demonstrated a fine Chemical Imbalance but for whatever reason, I didn’t. Why is this? In the past when the pool's been closed for random reasons, I have let the chemicals get the best of me. Sat down on the front steps, crying. Walking down the street in a daze till someone asks me if I’m okay. Then I have to admit that I’m having a nervous breakdown because the pool is closed. They shake their heads at me sadly. Poor woman. She’s a pool insanity case.

And so….why didn’t this happen tonight? I think cause DL was there. If I’d been by myself, the Chemical Imbalance would’ve raised her ugly head. Yet with DL, her funny quip about the chemical imbalance just set the tone for the night. We went up to the torture machines and shook our heads over the roving band of teens screaming through the weight room. We walked on the treadmill, DL watching the Warriors cream Arizona, me watching the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders, Living the Dream.

Then to the hot tub and sauna where another swimmer bemoaned the lack of working facilities. “No hot showers. No pool. Why! Aren’t those the very things we come to the gym for?”
And everyone in Utopia had nodded and laughed.

It was a bit humorous at this point. I mean, what are you gonna do? It’s 9:45 pm on a Wednesday night and you’ve had a long hellish day at work and all you wanna do is go for a swim, take a hot shower and then collapse.

But nope, can’t do this at the Downtown Oakland YMCA.

Why is this? Chemical Imbalance.

I think this could be the reason for everything that’s not working.
The car won’t start?

Chemical Imbalance.
The student cries over her grade?

Chemical Imbalance.
The showers are cold?

Chemical Imbalance.
See? It can work for everything.

So, next time you’re wondering why something’s broken, just chalk it up to a Chemical Imbalance.
Honestly. It’s the reason.
Trust me. I know what I'm talking about as only an expert on Chemical Imbalance can!

The Russians Can Do IT

“The Russians can do it! We can do it!” Annaliese raises her arm in emphatic emphasis. Grins from ear to ear.
I nod, chuckling. She’d been telling me about how she swims at the Richmond Plunge at 8 a.m. on Sunday mornings.

Already, she’s more Russian than I am. 8 a.m. on Sundays? I’m snuggled in bed with the kitty and Ian, dreaming of spaces ships with calico cats and pools with gads of children.

“And I go to the Plunge,” she tells me, her French accent becoming thicker in her excitement of the narrative. “And it is so cold. It is so hard, you know?”

“Oh, yeah. I was going to try to come to the Y last Tuesday night, but it was cold. It was dark. I just stayed home under the electric blanket and watched Supergirl.”

She nods, “Yes, you see? It is hard in the winter. And I go to the Plunge. And when I get in the water, it is warm. It is all over your body…..” She makes a sensuous gesture that only a Frenchwoman can make –is this somehow Frenchist? But you know what I mean? The way she wraps both her arms around herself, and slowly undulates as if she’s climbing into the pool right there at the base of the stairs of the Hilltop YMCA, the hands creating a wave of the water that is wrapping her body in its warm embrace.

“…but then, as you swim, your body, it is in the water and the water, it is cold and your body is now used to the water and so you are cold too.” She shakes her head. It is so sad. The cold water.
But then she brightens, “The Russians can do it. We can do it!”
I laugh.
“You know how they swim in the cold water?”
“Sure,” I grin.
“We can too.”
“Okay, I’ll remember that.”

And we both laugh, but for myself I can’t imagine being Russian. Where do Russian swimmers swim? What cold water is there for their hearty Russian Constitutions? Is it the Black Sea? Is it the Baltic Sea? Is it some goddamn lake on Tolstoy’s estate?

I have no idea.

All I do know is that I’m no Russian. I like much of what is Russian. Rachmaninoff. Dostoevsky. Vodka.

But, the cold swimming stamina?
Nope, not for me.
Give me the warm tropical oceans of Hawaii any day.
Now there’s a people and a place that I can relate to. And the main reason?
The swimming. It is warm!
The Hawaiians can do it! We can do it too! Swim in the warm warm sea of Waikiki. See the bright yellow fishes.

Drink the Matais.

Do the hula.

Well, maybe not the hula. But frankly, for me, I’d have better luck tackling the hula than the frozen waters on Tolstoy’s estate any day!

Time Out?

“Time out! Time out!” The little round gnome of a man waddles toward me. Out of the pool now, he hollers and grins, his squashed Santa-like visage all crinkles and sprinkles.
What’s he talking about? I wonder as I perch on the edge of the deck, feet in the water, preparing my cap, mask and earplugs for my swim.

I glance over at Ian, who’s already in the pool. He’s giving me the Big Grin. It’s the Theater of the Pool. All the deck’s a stage!

“I saw you coming,” Time Out Santa huffs at me, getting closer and closer to my sacred prep spot on deck. Giggling, I nod, again wondering why he’s so excited. Why is he yelling ‘time out’ at me? Do I need a time out? Isn’t that what frustrated moms yell at their kids when they’ve been brats? “Matilda! Stop biting your brother! Time out!” And Matilda pouts. The brother beams. The mom shakes her head as she drags Matilda over to the corner of the room, away from her brother and all biting temptations.

Yet, doesn’t everyone need a time out?

I could actually use a time out. Maybe not in the bratty child meaning, but in general. It’d be nice to have some time out. To just you know, hang out. Do nothing. Stare at the wall. Or the sky. Lie on my back in the green green grass and stare at the clouds. Float in the sea in Waikiki. Watching the little fishies swimming under me.

Yes, a Time Out would be real nice right about now.

Yet, I don’t think that this is Time Out Man’s meaning. Though, frankly I can’t really figure it out. And don’t try now as I need to get in the pool before I freeze to death.

“I saw you coming,” he repeats, close to me now. I see his grizzled white whiskers and bright blue eyes close up. He’s very excited. Why?
Not knowing how to respond, I just nod, continue tucking my hair in my cap.

“The lane….” he grins. “It’s all yours!”
“Oh….thanks,” I smile, the giggles starting to bubble up. Why is he so funny? Is it the way he waddled over to me, flailing his arms about and yelling ‘Time out’? Why is this so funny? Maybe it’s the non sequitur aspect of the hailing? Maybe it’s his appearance? So round and crinkly and St. Nickly.

I dunno. But I can’t stop giggling and Ian, I can see outta the corner of my eye, is laughing too.
“It’s my favorite lane….” I offer, slipping on a big fin.
“Me too!” he confides, winking at me. “I have to pee a lot.”
“Oh…..”
The lane is the closest one to the locker rooms, yes, but….the pool is small. All the lanes are pretty close to the locker rooms. And…do I need this intimate bladder condition divulgement? I mean, I can relate. I have to pee a lot, too. But hell, I’m not gonna tell Time Out Man this. Is this what Time Out means? It’s time to get out cuz he hasta pee?

Gross.

Later in the Prius on our way to Safeway, Ian speculates that it was just this meaning, “It’s the bad English shorthand,” he ventures, beginning his usual circular analysis speculation. “He probably meant it was time for him to get out, and so he just says, “Time out’ meaning time for me to get out when you and I might say It’s time for me to get out and…..”
“Yeah,” I agree, kinda understanding, “you’re probably right.”

But with Time Out Man, there was a part of me that felt somehow blessed. That the ‘Time Out’ was some sort of special permission bestowed upon me. My favorite lane was vacated just for me. And Time Out Man had made it possible.

And isn’t this just a most wonderful bestowment? Your favorite lane just handed to you with no strings attached? All Time Out Man wanted was to give me a treat. My favorite lane. Free and clear.
Time Out, indeed!
I needed that!