No, not a Hollywood remake (although evidence that cinema rules this town ranges from entire editions of the L.A. Times called "The Envelope" to middle aged men with backpacks and fistfulls of flyers chasing us down to beg us to attend free premiers), but rather how I feel at 5:30 a.m. at the Rose Bowl Aquatics Center.
Maybe The Mists of Avalon? Or Cold River?
I digress. The issue is that, in Matt's words, "It's frickin' cold!" So much steam rises off the surface of the water, and my head, I might add, that I can't see the other end of the pool. Since I'm already pretty much terrified of swimming, all of this steam is in no way mysterious or sexy. It's just creepy.
My physical therapist banished me to the deep end. No more frog-walking in the shallow water with the old ladies from the retirement home. Instead, she directed me to wear a flotation belt (or, in my case, perform a death grip on a kickboard) and scissor kick, "ski," or "bike" while I keep my head, spine, butt, and feet in a straight line in ten feet or more of water.
I didn't bother arguing with her. My usual protests of "but pools are so wet" would not have impressed Raquel, who takes my serious desire to heal rather seriously. Damn her.
I miss the old ladies from the retirement home. The dive well is at the far end of the recreation pool. It's only me down there. With a kickboard. And teeth clacking so hard (whether from fear or cold, I'm not sure), I could be a sound effect in ... well, yes, a Hollywood film.
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