Return to the Source

 

Eighteen months have passed since my last dip in the pool. The timing is right- legs are shaved. I’m ansy. Issam, my husband, thinks it’s not a good day to swim- but he’s not a reference. Any day with a “y” in it is no good. I gather my things, drape my duffle bag over my shoulder and shuffle down avenue Marechal Juin. The wind picks up and I regret leaving my jacket at home. “I am warm,” I say to myself. Mind over matter. I second guess my decision to bring my heavy beach towel.

Trudging towards the pool’s entrance, I notice wet-haired teens exiting the building. Inside, I ask if the hair dryers are broken. They aren’t, so I pay and go in. Five euros for a resident. Expensive. Before Covid it was 3€50.

In the changing room, I don a swimsuit. I have no illusions about doing many laps, and the suit reflects that. It has a padded décolleté that creates drag.

I have forgotten about one of life’s golden rules: timing is everything. In the largest, deeper lap pool, children just let out of school monopolize half the lanes. I turn to the smaller family pool. As I wade in, the water does its magic; it surrounds me, it supports me, it reassures me. Everything is ok now and will be. I dolphin dive to the jacuzzi area. Imagine dolphins diving in an s shape in the ocean. I do the same except I push off the bottom of the pool for support. I sit in front of an underwater nozzle and let the bubbles soothe my arthritic back. Across from me, a small boy jumps with glee- is it his first experience with bubbles?

OK, get to work, I tell myself. I make my way to the shallower lap pool and get in two laps before children invade that lane. Moving to another lane, I comment to a fellow swimmer that “les gosses ont envahi.” The children have invaded. Or the testicles, if you are quebécois.  I have a dirty mind, I think. I give up my lap swimming and go to the outside part of the family pool. It has a strong circular current. I let the current take me in a circle around the pool and notice there is no lifeguard on duty outside. The French are reckless that way, I think. A former lifeguard, I know how quickly and quietly someone can go under. Yes, there are only three people in the pool and there is a mirror reflecting toward the inside, but still… Reckless.

It's cool outside so I go back in and stand at the edge of the family pool, looking at the lap pool. The swim team is working out. They have broad shoulders and narrow waists. I remember my former workouts with a bit of sadness. Oh, how I’d love to get my health back and swim masters. Think of the bright side, I tell myself. There was a time when you couldn’t even walk to the pool, never mind swim.

I leave the pool area, shower, and notice girls with shark flip flops. The toe part has a mouth of a shark on it, and as they walk, it looks as if the shark is biting. “I love your flip-flops, where did you get them?” I ask one girl.

She looks at me as if I’m from Mars and deigns to reply, “Amazon.”

I want to say to her, “Tu es un brat. B-R-A-T. Cherche le dans un dictionnaire. » Look up « brat » in the dictionary. That’s what you are. I say nothing. Of course, she is snotty; she is with her friends.

I dry and dress. As I leave the pool, I calculate my time. Half an hour in the water; less than that out. “You didn’t get your money’s worth,” my mother would say.

As a teenager, once I got a haircut with only a half an inch trimmed. My mother said I hadn’t gotten my money’s worth.

Mom’s not here, I tell myself.

I think too much, I conclude, as I make my way home.

At home, Isam comments that I look much better. The pool did me good.

Even on a day spelled with a “y” .

Commentaires

Enregistrer un commentaire

Posts les plus consultés de ce blog

What did you Say?

  Aging is for the courageous, my Mom says. And I’ve only just begun. I’m 59. Over the course of the last 15 years, I’ve adapted to a few changes without getting too upset. To begin, there was the arthritis in my upper back. “No more yoga!” ordered my neurologist. “It is triggering migraines.” At least the shoulder stands were. No more. Grey hair came in my early 50’s. Every six weeks, I dye them over. I could be all grey underneath for all I know. The sagging skin. Certain body parts headed south. A little roll of fat on top of the belly. My 5k menopause weight gain. Speaking of “the change,” the retreat of the period was joyful. In the late 70’s, when I learned I’d be bleeding monthly for 30+ years, I cried. When it stopped, I smiled. There was the old sneezing and leaking problem. A little squeezing took care of that. But now, I’ve developed something I don’t like. Really don’t like. A hearing problem. Yes, wax builds up quickly. Yes, I’ve started to put sub-titles...
Lire la suite

White Privilege?!!

  Not again! I try to bring up the subject of white privilege with an American female, millennial. I need to find a better introduction (how exactly did I start?) since I always get a knee-jerk, white anxious* response. “I can’t have white privilege, because I’m Jewish,” she responded. Apples and oranges, I wish I had said.   A person can benefit from one privilege and suffer from another discrimination. What is white privilege ? We’re not talking about the Ku Klux Klan or Musk’s Nazi salute. Those are extremes-- important subjects to write about elsewhere. White privilege, as I see it, is an absence of barriers. Imagine a track-and-field hurdle competition. Each person has a set of barriers, higher or lower, according to their race, gender, dis/ability, religion, class, etc. White privilege is the ABSENCE of race related barriers. It doesn’t mean others weren’t added. I, for example, have the barriers of gender, health, and a turbulent childhood. On the other hand, I d...
Lire la suite

RIPPLES

  “I am broken. I am down for the count.” Lord knows that there are days I could be tempted to say that- especially migraine days and any day that I have to listen to the Rump or the Muskrat. I cannot stay there. I will not stay there. Putin and Rump expect Americans to stay there, to act like Russians. Or at least the stereotypical Russian. Submit. Endure. After hundreds of years of totalitarian rule, it’s a coping mechanism. I’m not Russian. I don’t judge them. What would I do in their situation? The American situation is new in comparison. It doesn’t go back to Catherine the Great.   I am American, and Americans resist. Americans don’t look around and ask “What are other people doing?” but instead “What am I doing?” What about that well known slogan “Just do it!”? Perhaps I inherited this belief from my mother, who marched for the Equal Rights Amendment in the late 1960’s. (That was one of my earliest memories of her.)   I thought the proposal dated from that ...
Lire la suite