The Lost Swimsuit

Technorati Tags: Fiction,Adolescence,Teenagers,Love,Romance,Life,Summer,Swimming,Humor,Young Love,Embarrassment,Youth,Friends,Relationships,Eastern Oregon

I’ve never been much for those little bikini things…and I’m probably the only one who thinks a guy wearing a Speedo is completely normal. You see, I grew up spending my childhood in lycra swimsuits and unheated very chlorinated pools. In Eastern Oregon there were only two things to do in the summer: swim or get in trouble. Since I didn’t become a trouble maker until after I left home, I chose to spend my summers swimming. I spent so much time in the pool in Ontario, Oregon that it wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned that my hair is actually reddish brown and not greenish blonde. I grew up in one piece painted on lycra swimsuits that were meant to stay on and did. They were also incredibly comfortable. No wedgies, no chafing and no matter what you did in the water or off a diving board, those suits stayed in place. A 2-piece swim suit didn’t enter my wardrobe until I was sixteen and had my first job.

I purchased my first new hot pink bikini with money I’d earned working as a sales clerk at a Jay Vee store; one of the juniors clothing stores in the mall. As I look back on it now, it was a hideous suit. It tied around the neck like a halter and it tied in front on the top. It also tied on both sides on the bottom. Not unlike many of the styles you might see in stores today. Ugly as I think it is now, it was the ultimate to me then. It signified a sort of coming of age and a growing independence from my very strict and modest parents.

It was summer and Eastern Oregon swelters most of the time during the summer months. That’s why it is such fertile farmland. The dry dusty heat of the high desert pervades everything. Though I hated the landscape and the area most of the time I grew up, I came to love the hot, dry, sweltering heat of summer, especially if I could be around water. Deathly hot weather was perfect weather for swimming in unheated pools because after a few weeks the temperature in the pool actually warmed to something past frigid.

This particular summer was one of the last I remember spending in Ontario. My girlfriends and I were bored and wanted to do something for the afternoon. We weren’t able to get clearance from parental units for a Boise, Idaho excursion to the water slides so we had to think of other alternatives for entertainment. I think one of my friends had a thing going for one of the lifeguards at the new aquatic center in a nearby town called Payette. In fact, I think most of us had a thing for him. His name was Dave and he possessed the most massive chest, shoulders and biceps of any person I’d ever seen. His body was the perfect triangle, broad massive shoulders, muscular arms and chest winding down to a perfect six-pack of abs and small hips adorned by, you guessed it, the red Speedo suit of the Payette swim team. He was a champion swimmer and boasted medals from state and regional competitions since he was swimming in the 8 and under category. His body looked every bit the part. It was no wonder half the Snake River Valley had their eyes on him. He was truly something to behold. We knew he was a lifeguard at the Payette pool (we always called it the pool even after it became an aquatic center). There was little resistance from my group when the option to watch him in action came up. We headed six miles across the river to the little town of Payette. I was wearing the hot pink two-piece thing and feeling like I was all that. It really was a great color for my tan skin and I was ready for an afternoon of sunning myself on the deck and checking out the local sights.

The Aquatic center boasted two pools and they were both open. We wanted to catch some serious rays. We also wanted to watch the people going off the boards and Dave was lifeguarding outside, so we found warm cement about the middle of the deck, somewhere near the lifeguard stand. Usually, it is the guys or the little kids who spend most of their time going off the boards. There is a reason for this, but I was yet to learn it. The guys our age were obviously showing off and they were terrible. Oh sure, they had great cannonballs and swan dives, but anything beyond that usually ended up in belly flops or something equally disastrous. It wasn’t long before my arrogance (or was it swimmer’s confidence) got the best of me. I just had to go show off. I knew I could land a perfect pike dive off the shortboard with little or no splash. I also knew I could land a single and double front flip and back flip but that would a little too flambouyant and I needed to warm up. I got up and strolled over to the board. My girlfriends told me I was crazy. I should have listened but didn’t. I waited in line. Finally, it was my turn. I hopped confidently up on the board, paced out my dive to the end, tested the spring of the board once and returned to my starting point. I turned around and faced the water. One, two, three, and spring and I was airborne with some awesome height. Straight up, pike at the waist and dive through the pointed toes and let your legs follow through.

You can tell a good dive by the way it feels from the minute you leave the board and this one felt great. As my fingertips sliced into the water, I enjoyed the sensation of the water traveling up my arms, enveloping my head and sliding sensuously down (or up) my body to my waist and then, oh no, oh no!!! With horror, I realized a sensation I’d never felt before…that of water on bare skin where fabric should be. I had forgotten I wasn’t wearing my lycra competition suit. I could feel the bottom part of my swim suit traveling with the water past my knees, past my feet and off my body. The height of the dive and the angle of my entry had created such a force that the flimsy bottoms of my bikini literally washed right off me. I had been de-pantsed and I’d done it to myself. Fortunately, I was an excellent swimmer and swimming underwater with my eyes open is something I had great practice at. I was able to rescue my swimsuit before it got too far away from me, but I can only imagine how the entire spectacle appeared from the pool deck as I scrambled to dress myself before resurfacing. I was painfully aware, as I struggled underwater that chlorinated public pools are usually crystal clear and water tends to have a magnifying effect. Those viewing my escapade from the pool deck were not only seeing everything with perfect clarity, they were probably viewing it with magnification. When I did surface, I had the oddest sensation that every eye at the pool--every eye, from those of the dorky little kids who were never told that it is rude to point, to the eyes located slightly above the snickering lips of the teenage boys there--were on me. Then I realized that it wasn’t just me that had caught their attention…though I had most assuredly caught their attention judging from the looks on the faces. Just as captivating was Dave, hovering over me, tan biceps rippling in the summer sun, Speedo at my eye level, reaching out to offer me assistance out of the pool. Despite the refreshing temperature of the water, I could feel an unpleasant heat rise up my neck and into my cheeks and ears, as Dave leaned over, grasped my hand, pulled me out, and whispered in my ear, “ So, uh… you doing anything later?” I searched his face for mockery of some sort, but to my surprise, he was completely serious. “I have to work tonight,” I responded. “But I get off at nine.”

Pumpkin Leaves Go Missing

We have the most difficult time growing pumpkins at our house. This is the second year we’ve made the attempt. Claire is the one who loves the pumpkins. Well, that’s not true, I love them too. I usually start the little seeds out in a small pot indoors, then when the weather is warm enough I transplant the little plant out in the yard. Last year the pumpkin plant grew and flowered then someone decided to rip all the leaves off the poor plant. Needless to say, it died.

This year, I tried the same thing again. The poor little plant didn’t even get to the flowering stage. I went out this morning and the two leaves on the plant had been stripped off leaving only the stem. I’m thinking this is not a good thing for the plant. Maybe I just don’t have the gardening mojo going. Oh well, I still have some seeds left. I'll have to check if it is too late in teh season to make a go of a decent pumpkin or two for Halloween. Maybe I’ll try again. After all, last year it wasn’t until the end of July that we planted the pumpkin seed anyway and the plant grew hardily, until it was de-leafed. Maybe also if I plant more that one plant at a time, I will have better results. I am simply baffled as to why the leaves go missing on these plants.

Keeping Strange Hours

This is a season where all caution is being thrown to the wind. No, not all caution, all routine, schedules, or any semblance of an ordered and sane life. And, by season, I do not mean the time of year. I mean a passage of time, a leg of the journey of life. It is 2:06 a.m. early on a Saturday morning. I am not up blogging because I cannot sleep. In fact, I am quite certain that were I to head to bed right now and just stop moving and close my eyes, I would be out in seconds, maybe even nanoseconds. I am not up blogging because it is too hot in my house. The air conditioner performed rather effectively...once I turned it on...and there is a nice cool almost imperceptible breeze filtering through the back screen door. I did not just return from going out nor did I have such a great or lousy evening that I am compelled to record it just to get it out of my system. No, I am up late and keeping these bizarre hours by choice. There have been a number of changes in my life in the last several years. I take that back. The last seven years of my life, the only constant has been change. In fact, the strangest thing about this most recent year (from early June 2007 till now) is that the chaotic change of the last seven years has slowed and come finally to a screeching halt. The only changes I really deal with now are the seasonal changes inherent in the life of a teacher who works 9 months out of the year and the changes that accompany the normal cycles of a family with three teens and one school aged child. (As if that isn't enough!) My life now definitely seems more manageable and sane than it has for nearly a decade. So, why the late hours? What's up with that. It isn't like me.I don't know.I suspect some things, but I am not certain any of my suspicions are really valid...or they might all be.One possible reason is that my home is really, really quiet at night. It's not exactly raucous during the day (well, okay, it is on occasion, but not often). As I sit here and play with words and ideas and try to scrutinize the pale color of print I've chosen for this particular blog, the only sounds I hear are the occasional warming of the laptop, the steady, tick, tick, tick of the kitchen clock I recently repaired and the sporadic hum of the thermostat on the hot tub clicking on, then off,.....then on, then off....(I really have to get that fixed). The house is just more deeply silent than during the day, even if I were alone during the day. There is no sound from the neighbor's yard, no car driving by, no airplane overhead and no birds. I can concentrate in this kind of silent stillness.Another reason, I might be choosing to stay up is that I am really, really feeling the need to make a consistent habit of blogging. I need to write daily and get used to seeing my words on the screen and I need to begin putting myself out there for others to read and respond to. I am one of those people who works better by focusing for long uninterrupted periods of time rather than taking frequent breaks or changing tasks often. I can work with interruptions, after all, I am a parent and a teacher of young children. I have learned to adjust and remain flexible. But I prefer to work and focus deeply without interruptions. This time of night assures me that I will not be interrupted.I think the main reason I am keeping these crazy hours is because I can. It feels almost naughty to be staying up so late, knowing that I don't have to get up until I want to. And I don't have to the next day or the next day after that either for about ten more weeks. It feels good to break the routine, if only for a night or two here or there, throughout the summer. This could never be my norm. I will wake up without an alarm tomorrow at about 7 and I will be ready to face the day. I cannot do that for long before I'll simply collapse. I know this about myself. There have been so many demands, burdens, responsibilities, and obligations that have weighed me down over the last year and a half. The stresses of blending a family and failing miserably (trust me the kids were not the problem), the pain of divorce, the financial stresses in the aftermath of divorce and the daily duties of just caring for a family of five on my own all have left me with the feeling that I'm old and tired and burdened. This staying up late is in some small way, an opportunity for me to have a bit of a "do over". I get to for a short period of time behave like the young single professional teacher with no encumbrances. I can stay up late, sleep in late, read a book out on the back deck till one, cook eggs at one-thirty, set up my blogspot at two and type till I'm all typed out. I don't have to endure the hostility of a partner who is angry that I'm not keeping his hours, and the children are already sound asleep so they don't care. They are nicely trained, even the youngest, to get up quietly and fix their own breakfast if they're hungry or watch t.v. quietly until I'm up. And, I'm usually up before they are watering the lawn, feeding the dogs and going about the normal daily tasks that define my days. Keeping the crazy hours helps me feel less burdened, more youthful and in a strange sort of way more rejuvenated and revitalized than I would feel had I kept to the normal routine. I don't get it, but it feels great to keep these strange hours. Even as I write this I know it is time to conclude. My head is beginning to hurt just a little bit, my butt hurts even more from sitting on this hard kitchen stool now for nearly an hour and a half, and my words have begun to run out. Not that I said anything incredibly profound anyway, but I said it. And I experienced it. I stayed up because I wanted to and because I could with no serious negative consequences at all. It really feels almost like a guilty pleasure to do something weird like that, knowing it won't matter, and enjoying every minute of it. I mean, it just isn't really the most responsible thing to do. I am finally, for the first time in my entire adult life doing what I want to do instead of what I think someone else wants or thinks I should do. It is a gloriously freeing sensation. It isn't a selfish my way or the highway attitude I'm copping but instead it is an inner confidence based on my own increased self-awareness and self-respect. I know more what I'm about than ever before and I can choose wisely for myself. I like that! This hasn't always been true for me and life was bleak and dismal because I didn't listen to myself. I'm filled with more optimism each passing day in this new life of mine. I have more energy and even though there are still stressful times I am happier and more at peace. And if staying up stupidly late on occasion helps me stay in touch with that part of myself well then that, my dear friends, is the best reason yet for my keeping these strange hours.