May 03, 2008

i did something today i haven't done for almost eight years. i swam. i mean, i really swam. the kind that requires a cap and goggles kinda swam.

after breaking my foot last week, i've had to become creative with my exercise. i've been barred from my floor class for at least a couple more weeks, so that's out. i can do spinning, but, well, i get bored with too much of that. lifting? been doing it, but try as i might, it's still not aerobic. walking? yeah, well, sure. but not exercise/power walking. running? ha! i don't really run anyway. yoga? downward dogs are good, but going into lunges and some of the other endurance poses using my toes? give me a couple more weeks before that. dance? moving on. stairs or the stair climber? i think not.

so, all in all, swimming seemed pretty viable. enough so that last week i walked right down to that m-porium mac store and bought myself a speedo (well, not a speedo, actually, but a dolphin--another brand smart enough to make polyester swim wear). i also bought a new pair of goggles (speedo, naturally--but "women's vanquisher" is not a name i would have chosen for a goggle) and a new red latex cap. wow. ready to go. (it's only been about 8 years since i bought anything at the mac and i totally forgot what a total bargain it is with an employee discount! i bought all three for less than the price of the suit!)

the mac has three pools. one is the 50 meter pool in which i taught swimming lessons and swam masters/triathlon training. it is still really damn cold, and still makes me claustrophobic, and still holds rather negative feelings for me. i did not choose that pool. another is the later day "social pool" now known as the less social-inspiring "sun deck pool". it's 22 or so yards long and really too warm for laps. it's also really crowded with some serious (and not so serious, but often cranky) water exercisers. no thank you. leaving me with the glorious third pool called... wait, does it have a name? ah yes, the "west pool". it's a 25 yard by 25 meter, movable bottom beauty, with a flush deck and multiple backwash system, making this one of the cleanest-feeling pools you'll ever swim in. choice.

here are some observations about my swimming experience.

a) i can swim. that is, i was aware i could swim. technically. it's kinda like riding a bicycle, but just like with all things one hasn't done for awhile, there's that fear you won't remember how to do it. and even if you remember, your body might not remember the feeling. or the grove, if you will.

i got in the water and started my crawl. it was like i never left the pool. i cut with my hands, i glided with my body. i was a fish in the water. i thought, "good god, why did i ever stop this?" it was wonderful. i even thought, "hmmm, maybe this is why i broke my foot--to get me back in the water." i swam and it was beautiful. i was breathing easily, flip-turned like an expert, my goggles didn't leak... it was almost heaven.

it's kinda odd to be out of the water 8 years and be the fastest one in the pool. perhaps everyone else had been dry longer?

b) feelings of invincibility are fleeting. after 200 meters i switched to paddles and a pull buoy (which gives anyone the illusion of speed), did a few hundred yards of that, then switched to backstroke and did a couple hundred yards before i realized my shoulder was unhappy. ah yes, part of the reason i stopped swimming.

ok, let's be clear. i am under no illusion where my shoulder problems really came from. i can blame loose joints, years of crawl and butterfly, injury from too many pull-ups and weight lifting all i want but i think it's pretty clear my shoulder issues rest mostly on two little heads (one blonde, one brunette). were it not for their stinking cuteness and utter cuddleability, i would NEVER have spent several hundred nights with my arms trapped under their little heads and around their warm, tiny bodies.

and, to be honest, the last time i really swam, (8 years ago) i was pregnant with berkeley and i felt twinges mostly in my elbows, not my shoulders. but, once again, blame the child. or the elastic joints due to baby-on-board.

either way, backstroke kinda hurt my shoulder. so i switched to kicking. i suppose any moron could have predicted the outcome of that. broken foot, only kicking? was that bound to feel at all good? so, back to the trusty crawl and whoa! wobbly. tittering. floppy. where went the breathing pattern? did i just miss the wall for the second time? ack! further, i was reminded why i stopped swimming in the very first place: i start to get all competitiony with myself. oh, like i somehow needed to go faster? like i somehow think the 60 year-old next to me is challenging me because i happen to be even with his feet (even though i lapped him several times already). like somehow i didn't just return to the water after 8 years? competition, especially silly personal competition, can be so destructive.

(which reminds me of a story. a couple weeks ago i subbed a spinning class. a gentleman new to me came up afterward and asked about me and what i do to keep in shape. he asked if i did triathlons. i said, "oh, god no." he said, "is it the swimming? lots of people don't do swimming." i said, "no. swimming i can do. it's the wackiness of it. i spent years disordered, and more years trying to get out of it, i see no reason to train toward it.")

anyway, in kicked the welcome-back-to-swimming reality. it was bound to happen. i thought it would be my second plunge into the pool (for you swimmers out there, i think you know what i mean--the second day is always worse), but alas, it came early. i went with it. back to the paddles for me.... come on illusion of speed!

add insult to injury, mac semi-legend brady childs got into the lane next to me with his three-foot arms and kablooie. doom. bubble popped.

c) zen and the art of waterworks maintenance. i'm 8 years wiser now, and i've got some yoga under my belt, so what i can see is, if you can't beat the pool, you join it. i did some easy timed 50s. (i was flabbergasted at being so darn slow until i realized i was swimming the 50 meter length! (whew!) not too bad after all. ) i did a little eggbeater. i did some cross-country skiing in place (so i could keep my foot at the same angle, thus avoiding further foot pain). i played (found out i still sink and can walk along the bottom without working to keep myself down). i promised myself i'd give this whole swimming thing a fighting chance. i swam a little bit more, mostly just moving with the waves. getting in the groove.

d) age does something to the body. keeping in mind i grew up in a speedo, i think i had certain expectations. that was a mistake.

here's the thing with real swimming suits: they're tight. which can be an asset. after all, it sucks things in. the real problem with tight, though, comes in the elastic edges. kinda cuts into things like, you know, cellulite. which i clearly have more of now. those leisure suits (no pun intended) are a problem. it's like the difference between sweats and jeans. one is stretchy and comfy and forgiving, the other, is made to, let's face it, show some ass (save for mom jeans which are an abomination and count as sweats for this conversation). after spending your days in sweats, putting those jeans on can be a reality check. a panty-line kinda reality check.

however, to be fair, the speedo-type swim suit is functional and serves a purpose. not included, is cellulite flattery. i get past this because 1) i can arrange mirrors to only be at my front, 2) these suits do, in fact, flatter the hourglass, and i have one of those, and 3) considering my latest hypochondriac fears involve terminal illness, i can pretty much just be damn happy with what i've got! (look at me, getting all mature and shit.)

e) goggles are not comfortable. the vanquishers should be vanquished. well, they're not that bad. they didn't leak, and for that i'm thankful because they were all i had. but my nose still feels bruised. call me the dork on deck, but the foam-lined ones work best for me. do they even make those any more? i need to find some.

f) latex smells icky. when i was in high school i had one of those silicone caps. by high school, i really (really, really, really) hated being on swim team. the cap was kind of a light purple. my swim team mates called me "the grape ape". i really (really, really, really) hate silicone caps. which is why i didn't buy one, even though people are allergic to latex and latex smells icky. (in my defense, silicone caps smell icky, too. and people call you names when you wear them.)

here's what i forgot: latex caps are packaged with that foul powder to keep them from sticking together. smart me, i wet my hair then put the new cap on without rinsing it off first. i've washed my hair three times today and i still smell like a balloon. granted, i'm right next to it and have a bit of an OCD sniffer, but it's really (really, really, really) horrid.

berkeley (aka, my little smart ass) said, "well, do you think next time you'll rinse the cap off first?" all sneary and maky-fun-off. so i said, "well, now it's all rinsed off so it shouldn't be a problem," all sneary right back at her. then she said, "i mean when you buy a new one." and i said, ".... um, probably."

(oh god, it's not even latex-mixed-with-flower smell. it's just pure laytex. gack.)

g) swimming is me when i was younger. my newly longer hair and the suit take me back many a year. tucking my hair into the cap, hooking my goggles on my suit strap, floating around. i have to say, it was like a little gift. i think i'll keep getting in the pool. at least until my foot gets better. i'd already considered doing more swimming next fall when quintana is in school and i have more time, so i may as well start now.

who knows, maybe this foot thing was supposed to get me back in the water. back into a world in which i grew up. a world i enjoyed before personal competition and self judgment set it's claws in tight. maybe this reentry to the aquatic is meant to calm me, keep me in a groove of movement, slow in stride and carefree. not of competition, but of enjoyment. not of teaching to others, but of giving to myself. maybe it's a way to get me into me so i can better learn to set myself free.

or maybe it's something else entirely.


Valerie 11:49 AM | Comments (0)

April 17, 2008

We went for a walk this evening, just me and my two beautiful daughters in the crisp spring air. I was mostly focussed on keeping our blind dog from stumbling into houses, rocks, or storm grates, and apparently, while I was so engrossed, the girls had launched into some involved game featuring a princess, her royal handmaiden, and the riding master. As I have a hard time pulling off either princess or handmaiden without a good deal of accessorizing, I was nominated to be the riding master.

A couple blocks into our walk, Berkeley informed me that it was my duty to deliver my first riding lesson to Princess Quintana. "Yeah, I'm sorry," I answered, "I wasn't really paying attention to the game. So I'm a riding master?"

"Of course," responded Her Highness Quintana. "Doesn't every proper princess need lessons from her riding master?"

"I guess. So, shall today's lesson be --"

"Daddy, teach her about aids," says Berkeley, ever the director.

"What? Aids?"

"Yeah, you know what aids are, right?"

I thought hard about that for a minute, because it seemed very likely that I was about to answer a seemingly simple question and then get broadsided by my own naivete. But Dads can't not answer.

"Sure, I know what aids are. Aids are assistants. And I sure could use some help around the stables - what say you, princess?" I looked up hopefully, thinking that there was an outside chance that my helping direct the game would go over well with my two little directors.

Quintana rolled her eyes a full three hundred and sixty degrees and strolled off to pick flowers.

I was spared Berkeley's eye rolls, but not her scorn.

"Daaaaad! I mean like seat aids."

"Eh? What the hell are seat aids?"

"Dad," she patiently explained, "seat aids are, like, when you shift your weight as an aid to the horse. A hand aid would be lightly flicking the reins. You see?"

"Right. I see."

"Maybe you should explain to the princess about why horses run when you use the spurs," Berkeley suggested.

"That one I can do. You see, princess, the horse doesn't know you're wearing spurs. He just knows that he feels some pain behind him, so he runs away from it. It isn't very nice, but it gets a horse to run fast." I smiled with the pride that I may actually have answered that one correctly. But of course I was locked in a battle of wits with a 7-year old, and my chances are never as good as I think they are.

"A little simple don't you think, Dad?" Berkeley asked with her head cocked to one side.

No. No, I did not find my answer simple. I found my "lesson" insightful and true in a way that any real princess would have been thankful to hear. But I stood alone.

Heaving a great sigh of infinite patience wearing thin, Berkeley turned to Quintana. "Horses' ancient ancestor, eohippus, was often hunted by clawed creatures that would slash it from behind. Surprise was often the deciding factor in who lived and who died, so eohippus developed an instinct to run whenever it felt anything unusual from behind. Modern horses have that same instinct - it's part of their genetic code. Spurs aren't actually necessary at all, as you can get the same effect by using the toe of your boot. And spurs can break the skin, leading to infection. Even death."

And with that she turned back to me and raised an eyebrow.

Then the two girls gathered the flowers they had picked, turned their backs to me, and strolled off, planning their evening tea party together.

So here is what I learned today: You know how TV dads are always clueless? How they are always stumbling around without a glimmer of understanding and always just shy of the focus necessary to be anything other than comic relief? They're not dumb - they are evolved.

You see, Fathers' ancient ancestor, proto-Dad, was often hunted by shorter, brainier creatures who fed mainly on his humiliation. Failure to rise to the bait was often the deciding factor in who felt like a dumb-ass, so proto-Dad developed an instinct to keep his trap shut. Modern fathers have that same instinct as part of their genetic code. So the next time you see a Dad being a Dad, just remember that he isn't clueless; he is a highly evolved member of the species who has just narrowly avoided being trounced on by a seven-year old.


scottie 08:53 PM | Comments (1)

July 23, 2007

MESSY THINKING

In my house there is a room,
That's never really seen a broom.

A few have passed outside the door,
But none of them have hit the floor.

I've tried to go inside to see,
Why this mess has come to be.

But every time I cross inside,
There are rules I must abide.

Like leaving papers in a heap,
Causing me to have to leap!

And leaving crayons all about,
Add some water, hope they'll sprout!

Mash up food all in the carpet,
Chips, mustard, gooey chocolate.

It's hard to smell and breath fresh air.
It's easier to stop and stare.

Pencils, papers, underthings,
Books and balls, miles of strings...

Headlamps, pizza, moldy cheese,
Paint, wallpaper... what are these?

The mess is quite an instant shock,
The door outside should have a lock!

I think someone could disappear...
WAIT! I think I see an ear?!

Holy moly! What a mess.
It's the room I must suppress!

The floor, the walls, the ceiling... Oy!
They're closing in, I must deploy!

Cleaners, sponges, bring the bleach!
Mops and dustpans... Will this reach?

This room will not take over me.
I'll take over IT! You'll see!

Clean the cobwebs, sweep the floor,
Hundreds of trash bags, out the door!

Books and tables in their place,
Making room for more head space.

I'm calming down, I must admit,
Now that I have a place to sit.

WHEW! Let's take a little rest,
Look around, I'm much less stressed!

But as I peer down... it just CAN'T!
Is that a.... Red crayon plant?!



Valerie 09:22 AM | Comments (0)

July 16, 2007

Otis came into our lives quietly.
He appeared on our steps. Drooling, happy, lost.
A great big black face. A lolling tongue full of pants and gasps.
He needed a home.
He needed some love.
Maybe, he just needed us.
So we took him in, gave him some water. Gave him a name.
We took him in, put a leash around his neck and tried to find what more he might be looking for.
Besides us.
Besides our own sweet thing, old and blind. Female.
Nobody knew him.
Nobody recognized his joyful eyes or his wagging tail or missing collar.
You're good to take him, we were told.
It looks like you found yourself a friend, they said.
But Otis found us.
And in return we posted some signs. We called the shelter.
We gave him water he gulped happily and food he wouldn't touch.
A good boy. But a Pit.
A possible danger to my girls, and my own good girl.
So in return for finding us,
For panting at us with his tail wagging,
We took him to the shelter.
Where they found no chip to go with no collar.
Where they keep those with no identification just three days.
Where they took him so fast--sneaky--while I was signing some papers,
I only saw his wagging tail going around the corner.
My last sign of Otis.
And there was no goodbye.


Valerie 04:51 PM | Comments (2)

July 08, 2007

This was the weirdest thing....

Last night, Scottie and I were eating sushi in a restaurant that shall remain nameless. (Let's suffice it to say, they have really yummy nigiri and tempura shrimp.)

Anyway, we were eating our sushi and I noticed this couple seated across from us. Now, I don't know about you, but one of my favorite things in the whole world is to people watch. Restaurants are good places because people are eating, and when people are eating you can tell a lot about the relationship between the people who are eating together. As a matter of fact, Quintana has gotten into my game. "Mommy," she said one day at Elephant's deli, "that boy and that girl over there are married."

"Why do you say that," I asked.

"Because they are holding hands," she said.

Yes, they were holding hands, but I disagreed with her assessment of marriage, however. She was sitting with her head at a certain angle, and her body at another certain angle that indicated to me newness and reserve. He, on the other hand, had his hand on her thigh, and his eyes on her chest, which indicated to me a newfound quest, in the infatuated sort of way. Not married. Perhaps not even sleeping together yet.

How people eat together tells much about their comfort level with one another. Body language, eye contact, hand contact (or lack thereof). It's kind of a game of mine to try to decide how long people have known one another, or what a couple's relationship with one another is based on how they interact over food. Frankly, the best people watching is with pizza. Get a couple who are eating pizza on their first date... now that's humor.

Right, so there was this couple at the sushi restaurant. They seemed perfectly happy there, for awhile. I was guessing it was a couple who had been together for some time. They were holding hands contentedly, but had she had no ring (neither did he). I would have said, at least a year, maybe more. She was more a roll girl, he was into the nigiri (eel, from what I could see). There was some blushing. There was some coyness in the eye diversion. Definite flirting in the should-we-go-to-my-place-or-yours-after-this kinda way. Very cute. I enjoyed watching them.

But suddenly, and I mean suddenly, the girl rips her hand from the guy's. No more blushing, no more coyness. Certainly no flirting. He looks totally shocked. I think he must have just realized they were in a restaurant because he kinda looked around a bit (naturally I averted my eyes). I took this opportunity to say to Scottie, "Duuude. Trouble." Of course he had no idea what I was talking about--he's not into this people watching thing like I am. I think he must have been thinking about some work problem, or my legs... normal stuff. "What?" he says.

"Dude, did you not see that?"

"See what," he asked.

"See that couple. Over there. Didn't you see that?" I try to explain. "They were just going along, then suddenly, she rips her hand out of his in a really huffy way."

"Why are you watching them?" he asked.

"What?" Duh. "What do you mean, why am I watching them? Why not?"

"Who are you even talking about?" he asks while looking around the restaurant.

Seriously. I swear.... "Don't look at them," I say.

Then, without warning, the guy, yes the guy, gets up so fast his chair falls over. Now it's not just me looking, but the entire restaurant and the guy doesn't seem to even care if people are looking. He says, quite loudly, really, "I can NEVER forgive you for what you've done."

And he walks out. Just like that. Out-of-a-movie kind of just like that. The kind of just like that where I--literally--I actually looked around for a movie camera. I seriously expected to hear some orchestra start playing. I was stunned. I was totally stunned.

I mean, really. Not only is it the guy doing it (wasn't he just looking around because of what she did?) but it was so sudden.

And I missed what happened!

I totally missed what happened.

I have no idea what she said to him. Or what he said to her. Or what body language was used. Or what eye diversions led to this outburst. I was.... let's face it: my attention was momentarily diverted by explaining to Scottie what was going on with this couple, and I missed what actually was going on with this couple. That's some kind of funky irony.

I looked back to the girl (like everyone else, including Scottie). I fully expected to see her with her eyes covered, or at least see some tears. But, no. I look back at her and she is (and I'm not kidding), eating his eel. With a smile on her face.

She ate all of his sushi, then she put some cash on the table, got up, and walked out.

I mean... That was the weirdest thing.



Valerie 07:39 PM | Comments (0)