There’s a sign at the Y informing swimmers that the presence of feces in the pool constitutes something called “code brown”. I made the mistake of thinking about this too hard while swimming and laughed underwater, sending a shot of chlorinated liquid up my nostrils. Swimming has gotten easier over the past few months, but it’s still the hardest of the three sports that make up the mini-triathlon, now just fourteen days away. I can swim 10 laps without stopping, up from three when I started training. There’s 44 laps to a mile at my local YMCA pool, and the swimming portion of the race is 1/3 of a mile, or just under 15 laps. I’m not sure how this is going to work on race day, unless I just go really, really slowly.
I’ve definitely gotten into better shape; I have noticeable triceps now and I can’t stop touching them and showing them to people, but being in good shape is all relative. The first time I ran around Horner Park without stopping, the music in my head shifted from the theme to Chariots of Fire to the Rocky theme song as I rounded the corner to finish the last fifty yards to my house. Some boys sitting on the porch across the street started laughing, and I wasn’t sure why until one of them yelled:
"Joo wanna take a breather?" I pretended not to hear them and ran up my front steps like Rocky at the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
Once during Adult Lap Swim Time at the Y I stopped to ask the lifeguard how many laps make a mile because I’d forgotten. He couldn’t have been more than twenty years old, his straight brown hair hung down into his eyes, and the Beach Boys’ "Surfing USA" blasted from a portable radio next to his chair.
"How many laps make a mile?" I asked from the shallow end of the pool. He looked at me from his perch.
"What?" he asked over the music, a rescue tube hanging over his shoulder like a large, reddish sausage.
"How many laps make a mile?" I repeated, louder this time.
"Do you need help?" he asked.
"No," I said, the skirt of my bathing suit floating up to my waist in the water, did I really look that bad?
I haven’t lost any weight but my clothes are loose; I can pull my jeans off without unzipping them, which is a fun party trick. I thought I was ready for a new bathing suit - one without a skirt, but I just don’t have the confidence to flash my pale, meaty thighs to the world, powerful and muscular though they may be. Sometimes I feel like Bruce Banner’s half-creature, the thing he becomes just before turning into the Hulk, minus the shredding clothes and the rage. Sometimes people notice that there’s been a change in my appearance, and I’m always disappointed when they don’t.
Today I’m going to attempt all three parts of the triathlon, with breaks between them. Wish me luck.
Showing posts with label inappropriate elimination. Show all posts
Showing posts with label inappropriate elimination. Show all posts
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Triathlon, Part II
Yesterday I decided it was time to hit the pool, but not before sustaining a minor injury at home while cleaning the kitchen. For months now I’ve been meaning to go through the cabinets and sort everything into piles: one for the trash, one for recycling, one for the Salvation Army, and one to keep; then put everything back in a way that makes sense. I've never gotten around to it, because it seems too huge of a project and I get overwhelmed. I started with the microwave nook. We have a miniature purple microwave that only has one setting, and it lives in a cabinet under the kitchen counter. Crammed above it on a wobbly shelf that’s missing two pegs is my mother’s dark orange cast iron Le Creuset stock pot from her first wedding in 1964, and resting on top of that is an inverted tray. I pulled the tray, sending the cast iron cookware on a short trip to the floor, connecting with my shins on the way down. I actually cried, I felt like such a baby but no one but the cats were around to witness it so I indulged. The stock pot had a scratch in the orange enamel that ran from top to bottom, and I had the beginnings of at least three bruises.
I spent the next six hours taking things out of cabinets, filling up bags of recycling and taking them into the alley, dusting, vacuuming, and putting things back. Intermittently I checked the Irving Park YMCA pool schedule. Along with the schedule was a page listing pool protocol, and information on pool closures:
The pool will be closed for the following reasons:
Vomit/Bodily Fluids/Feces
Missing Swimmer
Fire
The pool with NOT be closed for the following reasons:
Severe tornado watch/warning or weather alert
Lightening
I was amused and horrified, and chuckled at the misspelled “Lightening”. I couldn't imagine how a swimmer would go missing in such a small pool, or how a fire could break out, and decided right then and there that if I ever saw vomit, bodily fluids or feces I would withdraw my name from the triathlon, or just skip that part of the race.
By early evening I was tired from housework, and my shins were angry from their run in with the stock pot, but I couldn’t possibly let another day pass without swimming. This is sure to be the hardest part of the race for me; while I have the stamina for it I’ve never been technically proficient at swimming. I took lessons when I was about six or seven, and was afraid of putting my face in the water. At summer camp I never moved beyond Advanced Beginners, and though I've participated in a few distance swims, I always bring up the rear.
I piled everything I needed into two pannier bags and set out into the cold rain on my bike. At the front desk of the Y I bought a swim cap and a Master lock from the same woman who'd taken my registration a few weeks ago, and as soon as I reached the women's locker room I had to go back upstairs and ask her for the pass code to get in. I almost forgot it again on the short journey back down, and had to try it twice before I got it right. I’d reversed the numbers in my head, something I do frequently with phone numbers and addresses. At least twice in the last month I’ve gotten lost looking for addresses that I’ve written down incorrectly. I’ve never been tested for dyslexia, but if there’s a dyslexia specific to numbers I’m sure I have it.
I chose a locker and set my things down, and realized I’d have to remember the combination on the Master lock. Great. I left the sticker with the combination on the back in case I forgot it between now and when I came back for my things, which proved to be a useful strategy.
I suited up and went into the humid shower room where a woman with a tattoo on her shoulder was rinsing off, then opened the heavy door to the pool.
It was even more beautiful than I remembered it. Besides the words “deep” and “shallow” spelled out in tiny blue tile, there were intricate designs along the walls, and numbers indicating how many feet deep the pool was in any given spot.
Along the shallow end of the pool was a banner reading:
Irving Park YMCA Iguanas
2006 Champions
Boys division, age 8 and under
The banner was flanked by two shelves covered in trophies. Along the length of the pool were two large boards spelling out the pool rules, the first one covering rules A through G, the second H through P.
There were four lanes, and five people in the pool. I took the far left lane, next to a dark haired man in goggles, his eyeglasses folded neatly at the edge of the pool. I wore my glasses into the pool like a ninety year old man. My father once lost a pair of glasses this way while swimming in the ocean, and I lost a coveted pair of vintage sunglasses by diving into a lake with them on my face, but I figured someone would come to my aid if my glasses slipped off at the Y. I swam the length of the pool and saw a sign off the deep end that read: “44 laps to a mile”. I swam a few more lengths before realizing that I didn’t know if a lap meant the length of the pool going one way, or both. I asked the distracted lifeguard, a serious woman in her early twenties who clutched a clipboard to her chest. To my dismay, a lap was both ways.
“A mile is 88 times back and forth” she said, and dribbled a red rubber ball onto the damp floor from her perch.
I’d lost track of how many lengths I’d swum, so I made up a number – 8, and decided I would try to swim a quarter mile, or 22 lengths. By the time I was done I could hear the pulse of my own blood in my ears and was breathing hard. I was so tired once I got home that I weaved up the back stairs, and almost dropped the bike a couple times. This morning I registered for the "Adult Intermediate" swim class to get some help with my form. I wanted to sign up for "Adult Stroke Clinic," but it had been canceled due to lack of interest. It's just as well I guess, it's a terrible name for a class.
I spent the next six hours taking things out of cabinets, filling up bags of recycling and taking them into the alley, dusting, vacuuming, and putting things back. Intermittently I checked the Irving Park YMCA pool schedule. Along with the schedule was a page listing pool protocol, and information on pool closures:
The pool will be closed for the following reasons:
Vomit/Bodily Fluids/Feces
Missing Swimmer
Fire
The pool with NOT be closed for the following reasons:
Severe tornado watch/warning or weather alert
Lightening
I was amused and horrified, and chuckled at the misspelled “Lightening”. I couldn't imagine how a swimmer would go missing in such a small pool, or how a fire could break out, and decided right then and there that if I ever saw vomit, bodily fluids or feces I would withdraw my name from the triathlon, or just skip that part of the race.
By early evening I was tired from housework, and my shins were angry from their run in with the stock pot, but I couldn’t possibly let another day pass without swimming. This is sure to be the hardest part of the race for me; while I have the stamina for it I’ve never been technically proficient at swimming. I took lessons when I was about six or seven, and was afraid of putting my face in the water. At summer camp I never moved beyond Advanced Beginners, and though I've participated in a few distance swims, I always bring up the rear.
I piled everything I needed into two pannier bags and set out into the cold rain on my bike. At the front desk of the Y I bought a swim cap and a Master lock from the same woman who'd taken my registration a few weeks ago, and as soon as I reached the women's locker room I had to go back upstairs and ask her for the pass code to get in. I almost forgot it again on the short journey back down, and had to try it twice before I got it right. I’d reversed the numbers in my head, something I do frequently with phone numbers and addresses. At least twice in the last month I’ve gotten lost looking for addresses that I’ve written down incorrectly. I’ve never been tested for dyslexia, but if there’s a dyslexia specific to numbers I’m sure I have it.
I chose a locker and set my things down, and realized I’d have to remember the combination on the Master lock. Great. I left the sticker with the combination on the back in case I forgot it between now and when I came back for my things, which proved to be a useful strategy.
I suited up and went into the humid shower room where a woman with a tattoo on her shoulder was rinsing off, then opened the heavy door to the pool.
It was even more beautiful than I remembered it. Besides the words “deep” and “shallow” spelled out in tiny blue tile, there were intricate designs along the walls, and numbers indicating how many feet deep the pool was in any given spot.
Along the shallow end of the pool was a banner reading:
Irving Park YMCA Iguanas
2006 Champions
Boys division, age 8 and under
The banner was flanked by two shelves covered in trophies. Along the length of the pool were two large boards spelling out the pool rules, the first one covering rules A through G, the second H through P.
There were four lanes, and five people in the pool. I took the far left lane, next to a dark haired man in goggles, his eyeglasses folded neatly at the edge of the pool. I wore my glasses into the pool like a ninety year old man. My father once lost a pair of glasses this way while swimming in the ocean, and I lost a coveted pair of vintage sunglasses by diving into a lake with them on my face, but I figured someone would come to my aid if my glasses slipped off at the Y. I swam the length of the pool and saw a sign off the deep end that read: “44 laps to a mile”. I swam a few more lengths before realizing that I didn’t know if a lap meant the length of the pool going one way, or both. I asked the distracted lifeguard, a serious woman in her early twenties who clutched a clipboard to her chest. To my dismay, a lap was both ways.
“A mile is 88 times back and forth” she said, and dribbled a red rubber ball onto the damp floor from her perch.
I’d lost track of how many lengths I’d swum, so I made up a number – 8, and decided I would try to swim a quarter mile, or 22 lengths. By the time I was done I could hear the pulse of my own blood in my ears and was breathing hard. I was so tired once I got home that I weaved up the back stairs, and almost dropped the bike a couple times. This morning I registered for the "Adult Intermediate" swim class to get some help with my form. I wanted to sign up for "Adult Stroke Clinic," but it had been canceled due to lack of interest. It's just as well I guess, it's a terrible name for a class.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Renegade Shitter
About six months ago, we rescued an alley cat and her two kittens who were living in our garden, among the tomato plants. We socialized the kittens and adopted them out to new homes, but we didn't know what to do with Mama Kitty. None of the no-kill shelters in the area had any room for her, so we kept her. It's been six months now, and she's come a long way. At first she hid behind the bed in the guest room, and wouldn't even come out for food. We'd fill her bowl, close the door, and several hours later open the door again to find the food gone, and little poops in the cat box. That was the only real evidence we had of her existence.
Now she rubs against my legs every morning and lets us pet her, although she still won't let us pick her up, or sit with us on the couch or the bed. The other cats have gotten used to her, for the most part. Oblio, our boy cat, fell in love with her at first sight, and follows her wherever she goes. Mignonne, our girl cat, took some convincing before she got used to Mama Kitty, but they maintain a civil peace between them.
Everything seemed to be going fine, until a couple weeks ago when I stepped right into three hard little poops that were sitting on the kitchen mat. I flushed them down the toilet and washed the mat, but they reappeared shortly. I started putting paper towels down on the kitchen mat, and the poops started making their appearances there, which was more convenient but still disgusting. Eventually the renegade shitter started going in other corners of the kitchen. Something had to be done.
I called our vet for advice, and they gave me lots of information on how to reform our little shitter. Step one is to figure out who the offending party is, which is proving difficult. Our shitter is very stealthy; one minute I'll walk into the kitchen to set up some coffee, taking note of my surroundings and making sure the coast is clear, and within moments the unmistakable waft of scat comes climbing up my nose.
Among the many pieces of advice from our vet was to put a cat box in the renegade area, and move it a couple feet each day until it's next to the correct cat box area. We've done this, with some success. The box has moved a couple feet, but it's still in the center of the kitchen. The difference between cat turds on a mat and cat turds in a box is minimal when they're still in the room generally reserved for the preparation and consuming of food products, but still, progress is being made.
Tonight before we go to bed we'll move the box another two feet closer to the designated shitting area, and hope for the best. Wish us luck.
JP
Now she rubs against my legs every morning and lets us pet her, although she still won't let us pick her up, or sit with us on the couch or the bed. The other cats have gotten used to her, for the most part. Oblio, our boy cat, fell in love with her at first sight, and follows her wherever she goes. Mignonne, our girl cat, took some convincing before she got used to Mama Kitty, but they maintain a civil peace between them.
Everything seemed to be going fine, until a couple weeks ago when I stepped right into three hard little poops that were sitting on the kitchen mat. I flushed them down the toilet and washed the mat, but they reappeared shortly. I started putting paper towels down on the kitchen mat, and the poops started making their appearances there, which was more convenient but still disgusting. Eventually the renegade shitter started going in other corners of the kitchen. Something had to be done.
I called our vet for advice, and they gave me lots of information on how to reform our little shitter. Step one is to figure out who the offending party is, which is proving difficult. Our shitter is very stealthy; one minute I'll walk into the kitchen to set up some coffee, taking note of my surroundings and making sure the coast is clear, and within moments the unmistakable waft of scat comes climbing up my nose.
Among the many pieces of advice from our vet was to put a cat box in the renegade area, and move it a couple feet each day until it's next to the correct cat box area. We've done this, with some success. The box has moved a couple feet, but it's still in the center of the kitchen. The difference between cat turds on a mat and cat turds in a box is minimal when they're still in the room generally reserved for the preparation and consuming of food products, but still, progress is being made.
Tonight before we go to bed we'll move the box another two feet closer to the designated shitting area, and hope for the best. Wish us luck.
JP
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