The class people were nice to me. A woman named Jackie said, "You're new. I'm Jackie."
People, take it from me: Always say stuff like that. It makes a huge difference. I would have followed Jackie around the pool and clutched onto her hand if I coulda caught up with her.
The class did NOT look like the photo. It looked like that moment in Jaws when all the idiot swimmers suddenly realize, "Wow. There's a big shark in the water! Just like the sheriff said." Zillions of small, disorganized, splashy wavelets. And ladies just bobbing up and down like crazy. In the midst of all this, someone hollered, "Hey! Where's Bobbie?" I almost drowned myself chuckling. And bobbing.
But I made it. I went. I discovered that unlike my dreamy memory of going to work down MLK Jr. Boulevard in placid, Nature-y, early-morning bliss, there's something that's referred to in our culture as a "rush hour"? The going was kind of slow. There were lots of cars. Sort of stopped. I was five minutes late to class.
My water shoes worked excellently. I still love them.
I did enjoy getting out and being with people. Especially my new best friend Jackie.
And today? Today I feel like I've been crushed in a trash compactor. Really. It makes living ones life as a disembodied brain in a jar seem moderately attractive. [No. Wait. Universe: I did not mean that literally. Turn your Oprah Law of Attraction thingie off. Right now. That was a metaphor. Not a request. I want an agent for my books and a zillion dollar advance, that's all. Not the Jar. Truly. Not. Thanks so much. Bye.]
Anyway, today it hurts to be me. It especially hurts to be my knees.
But I say unto them, "Buck up, knees. You can be replaced."
Today, I'm dragging my train-wrecked bod to arthritis water workout (which should be cake after yesterday) and a session in the Dungeon of Torture-y Torment ... ah... the Work Out Room. I'm going to see if I can get someone to give me about two exercises to strengthen my knee support structure. Just a couple. Let's not break anything here.
Awhile back, I was wandering aimlessly around on the World Wide Web as I do all the time, and I ran onto an article about quitting drinking. The article was unsurprising in its enthusiasm for doing that, but it had this concept I found very appropriate to apply to other things. Booze Brain.
Booze Brain is that clever, creative little voice in the head of an addict that says, "Hey, you legitimately need this drink. It'll [insert clever, creative reason here.] Make you more fun. Get you to tomorrow without crying. Help you lose weight. Provide your body with its minimum daily requirement of Vitamin Drunk. Whatever." The bottom line was "Don't listen to BB. It's smart. It lies. It'll promise you anything to get what it wants."
I immediately extrapolated that my own brain is excellent for all sorts of action such as that. For exercise I have Reptilian Lazy Brain. It lies at the very base of my skull, murmuring stuff like. "You need to pace yourself. It will do you no good if you hurt yourself. Wow. We're so sore today. Let's go lie down and read something comforting." It can even simulate my mother's heartfelt encouragement: "Don't overdo it."
This is the voice that says, "Go ahead. Eat that apple, girl. We're starving. We need to keep the doctor away. God will completely understand."
So, here I go: Day 2. Just like I said I would.
Shut up, LRB. I'm outta here.
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