Thoughts on Guarding Lives, Dormy McDermott, & Running Out of Posting Material

These are my sunglasses.  That is a pool.  And that is me, reflected in said sunglasses.  They're the awesome aviators (I know you're jelly) I bought from Newbury Comics up in Boston before the end of the spring semester and I love them.  Even though they're a little scratched from riding around in my bag with my keys all the time.

Also note that I have the Sprint Instinct, which is literally so obsolete, they don't make the driver software available anymore.  It's a miracle my phone even connects to my computer.

Also note the empty pool and deck.  I mostly sit and read, alone, at this job, unless friends decide to visit.  I've tried a bit of writing, too, but ever since my friend said she used to write letters here to her boyfriend at boot camp and our boss would read them, I've been a little paranoid.  I'm still going to give it a try, though.  How awesome a story to tell, about how I finished that collection of poems or short stories, or that novel, that summer I worked at the Harbour Club?

--------------

Thoughts on Chlorine, Mirrors, & the Art of Traveling Light

I absolutely love the smell of chlorine.  That sounds sick, seeing as it's a potentially harmful chemical, if ingested in large quantities.  It also really smarts when you get it in your eyeballs; trust me, I work at a pool.

And that's the exact reason I love the smell of chlorine.  It's not exactly a crisp and clean smell, though you do know the water must be safe, if you get that scent early in the morning.  It burns your nostrils and wakes up your brain.  It makes your eyes sting and water, when you forget your goggles.  And God help the poor soul who actually swallows a mouthful or two of chlorinated pool water - moreso because no one really knows what kids are doing in the water, not because of the chlorine.  It's almost sweet, not sour, and hangs in the air and on your clothes long after you've climbed out of the pool.

One of my favorite things to do in the dead of winter is to dig out one of my village-issued swim instructor T-shirts and summon up the sights and sounds of a summer that exists only in my memory.  Watching the older kids paddle through laps through my aviator shades, the world tinted brown or blue or gray.  The bridge is in the distance, across the bay, promising the beach later in the day, maybe, and boats sometimes pass too close to the bulkhead for the lifeguard's comfort.

And it's not even the memories that makes me love the smell.  It's the smell itself, so singular and indescribable.

--------------