I had one of those mornings. And no, the omitted adjective is not “terrific.”
At the beginning of the New Year, I rearranged my weekday routine so that I’d work 9:30ish to 6ish (instead of the punishing 7:30-4 schedule on which I started my new job). This new regime allows me to stay in bed later, to pop over to the gym in the mornings, to miss a bulk of the insane after-work traffic that plagues my commuting corridor, and to stay late at the office like a diligently good do bee.
I greatly looked forward to the prospect of staying in bed for an extra 50 minutes, but what I never realized (because I woke up at 5:50am) is that our next-door neighbor starts his Audi at 6:15am every morning on the dot. Since his driveway is right under our heads, the sound of the engine kicking alive functions very much like an alarm– the kind you want to throw across a room, or perhaps leave a threatening note on.
So, after waking up at 6:15am, I laid in bed to soak up a few more minutes of idle respite before staggering to an upright position and pulling on my swimsuit. I packed my breakfast and lunch, brushed my teeth, and bid good day to my husband, (who also wants to kill the Audi) and then go out to my own car. And what greets me when I turn on the car? “Give Me Back My Man” by the B-52s. Eff me!
When I get to the gym, I realize that I left my goggles and swim cap at home. So I had to tie my hair practically in a knot and swim backstroke. As I’m swimming, a woman asks if she can split my lane with me. “Sure, no problem, but I’m warning you that I’m only swimming backstroke,” I said. “So I might have a hard time staying on my half of the lane.” I admit I was trying to ward her off, but it didn’t work. She gives me a look as if she just caught me peeing in the pool and gets in anyway.
I swim leisurely backstroke for about 40 minutes, until my neck develops unbearable pain from holding my head rigid to keep from straying out of my half of the lane. My shoulders are feeling the backstroke, for sure. I abscond to the whirlpool in the women’s locker room, luxuriating in hot pulses of bubbled water. Surely this would be the highlight of my day.
And then, wouldn’t you know? Fire alarm. The women’s locker room is filled with a shrill clamor that barely resonates above the din of showers and hair dryers. A woman pokes her head out from the sauna, looks at the strobe lights emanating from the blaring alarm unit on the wall, looks at me neck-deep in the whirlpool, and goes back into the sauna.
Two things go through my mind. One, isn’t the whirlpool the safest place to be in the event of a fire? And two, does anyone expect all of the naked, semi-naked, and bathing-suit clad women to go outside in 20-degree weather unless an actual fire is bearing down on them?
I stay in the whirlpool, closing my eyes, closing my ears, and dreaming of dreams.
