Morning Swim

PARKER, CO

In the hour between the end of swim team practice and the beginning of the water aerobics class for seniors, the pool is blissfully quiet. I take the last of the empty lanes and slink into the water. The water is like bathwater, lacking the shock of a cold pool, but nauseating after a few laps. It is somewhat of a stretch to call the other lane occupants swimmers, for while they wear traditional bathing costumes and obviously are in a swimming pool, the movements they engage in are hardly considered any conventional swimming stroke. To my right, a woman holds onto a pool noodle walking slowly from one end of the pool to the other. To my left, a woman holds a kickboard but does nothing of the sort- her legs drag loosely behind her, and I can't discern exactly how she is being propelled through the water at all. I push off the wall, stretch my arms out in front of me, and complete my first lap, and when I stand to adjust my goggles, notice that the women in the adjacent lanes appear to be in exactly the same spot that I left them. I lick the insides of my goggles before replacing them, a somewhat bizarre habit I developed after reading that saliva can be an effective defogger. My usual slow and sloppy strokes seem remarkably efficient compared to the other swimmers in the pool today, and I smirk underwater at the absurdity of me being the fastest one in the pool. After  a few laps, I notice that another woman has joined the lane next to me. I don't see her at first, but rather taste her perfumed lotion in the water. I pull a little harder to put some distance between us, but unfortunately the heavily floral taste lingers in my mouth. Not long after, I notice the increase of water shoes in the shallow end, signaling the approaching start of the water aerobics class. Just before the music blares, I pull myself out of the pool, the sanctity of my morning workout now spoiled by 80's pop music.

Ramblings and Renovations

PARKER, CO

A cool wind blows through the trees, rustling the last of the dead leaves that cling hopelessly to the branches. I was drawn outside by the pink sky, being chased by a tidal wave of slate blue clouds mimicking a distant ocean. Overhead, a flock of geese, flying in three cacophonous V's flies south for the night. If tomorrow is like every other day, they will fly north in the morning. Sixty degrees today, twenty degrees tomorrow- you can't really blame the geese for being a little confused by the concept of a seasonal migration. The geese and barren trees are silhouetted against the sherbet sky, which holds on just a little while longer before disappearing with the last of the sunlight. Left behind is the moody sky of twilight, ushering in the night.

The darkness means a drop in temperature, and the end of painting trim, now done in the still-lightless but warmer-than-the-garage addition on the house. A few hours ago, it almost looked like someone might live here- the kitchen was momentarily devoid of power tools, and the living room contained exactly the normal components of a living room: couch. tv. ottoman. rug. dying christmas tree. But now things have returned to my version of normal- there's a kitchen table blocking the front door, an air compressor in the living room, putty knives and spackle on the kitchen counter. There's a dishwasher in what I hope one day will be a mudroom, a shop-vac under the dining room table, and a spare couch in the space that will one day only be the dining room. 

It is month six of life in a construction zone. Massive improvements have been made- there is no longer a dog door in the wall of the master bedroom, or a shower in the third bedroom (no, no. not ensuite. just IN the room). The raw sewage smell is gone, along with the animal odors. The three upstairs rooms are so close to being done I can taste it. But it is the tiny finishing details that I perhaps hate the most, and so baseboards remain uncaulked, curtain rods unhung, doors untrimmed. Ah, yes, the improvements are great. And I am thankful for the friends who saw this house in its initial tears-inducing state, for each time they arrive they call to attention the things that have changed. As I look around however, all I can see is the to-do list. The pantry with neither baseboards nor a door (nevermind that the pantry didn't exist at all when we moved in). There's still a secret unusable door behind the refrigerator, and a gaping hole where the antiquated microwave used to be. The steps still bear the scars of the awful emerald green carpet that previously blanketed the house. A giant 4'x8' mirror mocks me from the great room wall, too big for me to remove without reinforcements. 

Someday, I hope that the laundry room walls will be one texture, and one color. Someday I hope that the railings on the stairs won't threaten to give way with every touch. Someday, I hope that all power tools will live in the garage. All the time. Someday, I hope that there won't be a cool breeze blowing through the front door when its closed. Some day I hope that there will be art hanging on the walls instead of patches of spackle in need of sanding. And while I doubt this particular house will ever feel like home to me, I hope that someday it will feel less like a project, and more like a house that people could actually live in. And walk around barefoot without the fear of stepping on nails and staples. A girl can dream. *Sigh*