Today was a most beautiful day. I walked and walked along the lake in the clear air and sun and leaves all colors I felt like walking far away to Tacoma or Oregon or Marin County to see my daughter or farther to LA to see my other daughter. I could walk forever. Until my feet fell off. Or the blisters came. And the streets would be lined with people cheering me on and feeding me cheesecake and root beer. Like Peace Pilgrim or the guy who runs all night with a cell phone and money. He calls ahead and orders pizza and eats it while he's running. When the sun comes up, he calls his wife to come get him (wherever he is). He runs a hundred miles.
Then I made brussel sprouts with garlic, coarse salt and olive oil. I fed them to my honey who hates brussel sprouts except for mine. Mine she'll eat. Leetle mouthfuls of health. Wee cabbages.
I swam yesterday. I swim a lot. I know this because after a while, my bathing suits fade and stretch and bag down my ass. Then I get new ones from the cheap on-line swim store. The suit I have now has a tiny problem. My breasts aren't exactly contained. They sneak out the sides while I swim and I think the vision is that they float alongside me as I freestyle along. Anyway, I have to haul them back into my suit when I climb up the ladder and the suit is mysteriously shrunken. Maybe my breasts absorb water while I swim and they expand. That could be it.
A woman comes to the pool with her disabled son. They get into the deep end and she pushes him to do laps. He does an interesting version of the breast stroke, bobbing up and down. And he says, 'uh-oh' about every 2 minutes, non-stop. He sounds like a bird call. And then his father gets into the water too. His father is a handsome East Indian man with muscles and a grey beard and a long grey braid. He stands in the shallow end and watches. The mother smiles and kisses her son. And he sings, 'uh-oh, uh-oh' over and over.
Another swimmer wheels over to the lift in his wheelchair. The lift lowers him into the water where he puts on flippers. He stays by the wall and unbends his body. He wears a careful expression and stays in the water for a long time. He's always in the water after I get out.
The baby I'm waiting for is sure taking his time. Much to the dismay of his parents. It's something that can't be helped.