Spring has arrived. I am sneezing like crazy as the flowers emerge and bloom. Washington is gearing up for the big Cherry blossom festival, so traffic is more awful than usual. Going and coming to the pool, I get caught in the morning rush as commuters return from their midwinter vacations, and tourists begin to flock.
This past week, when I saw my podiatrist (the most miserable man in the area), he asked if we were taking a holiday this summer, which surprised me as winter is barely gone. Actually he said, “are you getting away.” I told him we are retired, so we’re always away. (With the fairies, most likely, I thought of David.)
Friday the pool had been over chlorinated, and the life guard had drained half the water away, and refilled with cold water. The first person to arrive in the arthritis water aerobics class, I suggested to him he might want to add hot water to the pool. He said, ‘Oh yeah’, and dragged a hose out of a closet and connected it to the hot water faucet!
After class we all jumped out of the still too cold pool and into the hot tub, filled with its own chemicals…bromine perhaps? As a result of jumping from one chemical bath into another, one of my nice new suits is a partially faded two-toned sickly blue. Now I will look like all the other girls who wear suits so worn and faded they reveal flabby cheeks and butt cracks. We are mostly widows, or live with very old husbands with fading eyesight, and I wonder, after a certain age, does anyone care about anything other than bodily comfort?
The discussion in the locker room, where frightful looking naked bodies converge to reveal the decades of scars collected from joint replacements, appendix removals and C-sections, is how to remove the underwires from swim tops to make them more comfortable. No girdles and underwire bras for us thank you very much. Meanwhile, those sleek younger bodies glide across the locker room floor oblivious of what lies ahead.
The good news for me is the coverall I could not shut a year ago, now reaches around my still too chubby girth, and I can zip it closed. This matters because to reach the locker room, one must pass through the main area, past the non-pool users, like fat guys stumbling off the tennis courts who wouldn’t be caught dead in a pair of swim trunks, but imagine they have bodies like Charles Atlas.
I’ve got everything I had 20 years ago, its just six inches lower. ~Gypsy Rose Lee