Rosemary

Speaking of the Rose Bowl Aquatics Center, I've met some awfully nice ladies in the locker room. Yes, it's super strange to chat about jobs, kids, and hair care products stark naked, but maybe chlorine acts as a desensitizer.

(Male readers, before you get all excited, I will tell you that the early crew of female swimmers at RBAC sharply resemble bells, most of whom look far more like Liberty than Tinker.)

My favorite acquaintance is Rosemary. She lives on Oak Knoll in an assisted living facility. Rosemary has been swimming every day since she was about 15. She's pretty ticked off that she can only manage a third of a mile three days a week now and that her kids want her to stop driving. The change in the dinner hour from 4:45 to 5:00 p.m. also has her quite irritated, plus she hates that her agenda for the day is reduced to finishing a needlework pillow cover and taking a nap. (I nearly swooned with envy. About the nap.)

Rosemary isn't shy to tell me I'm not swimming long enough. Or that she's probably not going to remember my name tomorrow (she says if she can conjure up a thought by midnight, that counts as instant recall).  She chats about the rash under her breasts as easily as her husband's death from Alzheimer's disease. I can picture her in the career she left over a quarter a century ago, teaching Lamaze classes to hundreds and hundreds of couples. I bet she told them she wasn't going to remember their names, either.

Matt is eager to meet Rosemary (but with both of them dressed). He wants to take her to tea. I think they'd fall in love.

And I'd have to start a whole new blog.