So today was a sad day. There was some very bad family news I don’t want to really get into, only to mention the sadness was actually warranted (as opposed to slipping into my comfortable great big ball of 7th Grade Oh Morrissey Speak to Me! The world is so bad! and unfair! Self indulgent kind of sadness.)
At any rate, my mom’s coming into town for an emergency stay, and it is my turn to put her up in the studio apartment which means: there has been swiffing.
Yeah, I know, I won’t get into all the usual wacky Oh Mom’s Coming to Visit! antics kind of entry. But I only mention it because tragedy leads to comedy when you are all wrapped up in yourself and your sadness while you swiff; too wrapped up to notice you haven’t turned on your radio to listen to the news or a CD or at least Extra! on the teevee and when you do notice all of the quiet, the first thing that pops into your head is your Lifetime: Television for Women made for teevee title:
She Swiffed in Silence
Yeah, I know. Cue single tear streaming down left cheek caught up in the light of the setting sun beaming through the windows. Time to knock it off and just deal with it.
I haven’t. But I feel better. Because I had myself a swim after the swiffing.
Can I talk about the swimming some more, please? Because seriously, the swimming is just funny.
The lifeguards? Are allowed to listen to music of their own choosing while on duty. Fine. You have to sit in that chair watching kids frolic on the water noodles (or whatever they are called) my fat ass, and the elderly in Speedos, I can understand you need something to help pass the time.
One of my favorite lifeguards, she usually works Mondays. She listens to the White Stripes, Weezer, Modest Mouse etc. I like Mondays.
I tolerate the Tuesdays and Thursdays Classic Rock Guard.
The Nu Metal Wednesday Guard? Also tolerable as long as I spend most of my time with my swim cap tight over my ears, head buried in the water splashing a lot.
But tonight? The new Tuesday Nights with Richard Marx on Repeat Girl? Listen, you are much too young and much too of the “experimental age” to waste time on that feathered-haired hack.
I am hoping Tuesdays don’t become her usual gig or hopefully she is new and soon becomes fast friends with the Monday Night Guard and they go out and get wasted on PBR and go Doc Marten shopping and get matching skull tattoos or something soon because if not, I am almost certain next week’ll be a Kenny Loggins/Steve Winwood double shot evening and I just don’t have the lung capacity to stay under water that long to escape that kind of madness.
Then again, as far as lifeguards go and everything that particular title expresses, you could say Richard Marx girl at least keeps her eyes on the pool as opposed to you know, reading the paper like the older Saturdays in Speedos and Total Silence guard does.
Actually, I am also pretty sure he was eating a sandwich on duty the other day, too. But I honestly could not tell. I was in the far lane, my goggles were fogged and some things are better left a mystery. I don’t want to know if there are mayonnaise-y bacon bits crumbling into the pool, thankyouverymuch.
So yeah, other than the wacky YMCA antics (I smell Sitcom!) the swimming is going well and I am really loving it. And getting stronger every day (god, thanks to Light Rock Fridays Guard, I got that song stuck in my head for an entire weekend) to the point where I can swim a very long time (with liberal breaks) and many many laps without feeling beat-up. So that is good.
Only, I am not the most confident swimmer when it comes to switching up the strokes. Which means I spend most of my time doing a crawl stroke. Which is okay, I mean, my biceps and triceps gaining on the definition race (hello gentlemen! * Nice to see you, it’s been so long!) to the point where I could probably crack open say, a dozen pickle jars in under 20 seconds. (Because one day that could become a necessary skill should I lose my job and become a Sandwich Artist or something.)
So, crawlin’ is okay but what I’d really like to do well is the breaststroke. Because you know, it just looks pretty bad ass to me. At least the way this one lady does it. I see her every once in awhile and she is smooth. So smooth! When I try the breaststroke, I just kind of bob up and down like … well, a fucking bobber on a fishing lure not really going anywhere. But this lady. Man, this lady glides and it just fills me with envy. She looks so cool, in fact, I like to duck under the water when I see her coming just so I can see just what the hell is going on under there to make her look so bad ass so maybe I could try it.
But then I realize she’s probably wondering just what the fuck I am doing watching her underwater and everything - which makes me feel kind of perv-y, so I guess I’ll just stick with what I know for now.
But really, the point is, I need to switch it up because although my arms say Go! Go! Go! To the point where they’d like to keeping schlepping along without a breath ‘til every fourth stroke or so, my badly damaged lungs say two strokes – breath! Or die! And really, it all just makes me pissed for every goddamn cigarette I’ve ever smoked in my life.
But apparently not that pissed because I’ve already had three cigarettes while typing all of this out.
And two beers.
Fucking baby steps.
p.s. you can blame less time for writing here at ann-frank.diaryland.com on one Ms. Fussbudget. Clicking on one of her entries awhile ago brought me here and let me tell you, you don’t want to go there unless you’ve got TIME. Because it will suck it away worse than … worse than … just trust me. It takes time.
* material totally stolen from madamepierce because she is one funny lady who should not be writing publicly because of hacks like me who like to “borrow”.