I have been in a foul, foul mood for about 48 hours. Generally, I get really growly about once a month, like many other ladies out there, but since my uterus has been gone for a good five years, there is no way to forecast when the emotional storms are going to hit. Hurricane Gahhhh! anyone? In the middle of all this internal drama, The Electrician took me to The Avengers last night. He’s been planning to take me for a couple months already, but suggested that I watch all the origin story movies first so I had the necessary background information. It’s been a “Marvel-ous” summer so far, friends, in that regard.
To all my female friends out there: to heck with Magic Mike! I’ll take a Thor platter with a side of Captain America any day of the week.
Moving on. The Avengers was far better than I anticipated. Maybe part of it was my bottled angst reacting to all that smashing. Maybe it was the bulging, sweaty muscles. Perhaps I just enjoyed sitting in the dark, holding hands with my awesome sweetie. Either way, I felt much better after the film. Granted, I did come home and light a candle because I really had the urge to burn something, (my hormones are extra aggressive this month) and I figured lighting up some pineapple coconut paraffin would be preferable to tossing a match on the fricking trailer full of garbage that has been blocking my alley for the last nine days. I went with aromatherapy over arson. Excellent choice.
To further aid the recovery of my mood, I hauled my sorry carcass to deep water aquasize for 8:30 tonight, arriving about six minutes before class started with my (new, spiffy) suit under my jeans and tank top. As I scanned into the facility with my card, I glanced over the shoulder of the front desk lady and I noticed a bunch of women bobbing about in the deep end with foam dumbbells. There was also disco music pumping and a thin wisp of a woman shouting instructions from the edge of the pool.
“Uh, did they start early tonight?” I asked the desk attendant.
“I’m here for aquasize at 8:30,” I explained, “but they are already sizing.”
She looked at me like I’d forgotten my eyebrows and was confusing her. Then dawn broke. “Aquasize started at 7:30 tonight.”
“Uh,” I paused, feeling Hulk-like rage brewing just left of my spleen. “The internet said it was 8:30.” It’s also 8:30 all year long at this pool on Wednesdays, but I didn’t bring that up.
“Yeah, I need to call downtown about that,” she admitted. “People have been asking.”
Deciding I would simply swim lanes, fueled by my considerable moodiness, I stomped to the locker room and prepared for the pool. Everything made me peevier. The floor was covered in frigid puddles. I sat in a wet spot on the bench in my denim. When I got in the water, there was a horrid smell coming from somewhere that was akin to elephant droppings (seriously) but only at the shallow end. I was in a retched mood, which is so unusual for me. I’m normally a perky little thing, but these last few days have been rough.
Then, it happened. I saw a little humpty dumpty of a man talking to the lifeguard by the elephant-scented end of the pool. He was insisting the board-shorted man play track six. I was swimming with the kickboard to warm up, so I heard the entire exchange but pretended I wasn’t eavesdropping. It’s one of the many skills I’ve honed in my years as a teacher. My interest, I confess, was somewhat piqued by the exchange. Approximately, 22 metres later, as I closed in on the far lip of the pool, the music started. Immediately, I knew exactly what “track six” was.
There, proudly in front of the hot tub at the far side of the water, stood a little round man with a medium-sized bald spot, enthusiastically performing “The Chicken Dance.” Since he was still soaked from his swim and his red trunks clung to his skinny legs and he was stepping awkwardly to keep his footing on the wet tiles, I’m sure we could call what he did “The Duck Dance.”
At first, I just stared incredulously as I kicked along. It seemed like something that couldn’t happen in real life. When the tiny dancer launched into the part where a person would normally whirl around with the other folks in the floor, he cranked up the gusto, and I feared for his safety in the puddles. As he spun around again, skipping like the happiest man on the planet, I started to giggle. When Humpty Dumpty launched back into the regular part of the song, the “verse,” if you will, I began laughing with full force.
There I was, laughing out loud at what I’m certain was the losing end of a bet at my local swimming pool. Unbelievably, the little old man danced to the end of the little old song, as enthusiastic as any guest at a wedding who has had one too many glasses of wine, and I laughed the whole time. When it ended, and I decided to transition into my back crawl, my mood was lifted in a major way.
Who knew the thing to break my funk would be a dude with no funk whatsoever? Thanks, Mr. Duck. I don’t know who you are, but you gave a growly woman in a (highly flattering) black swimsuit just the lift she needed tonight.
Next week, kindly perform the dance for “Watermelon Crawl.” A little country music is good for the soul.
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