It's time to wake up!

When my soft and subtle alarm starts to sound from my beloved iPhone each morning, my heart breaks. It doesn't matter if it's Monday or Saturday, it's Every. Single. Time. Don't worry, I don't hate my life, I just love the feeling of pure relaxation. And it seems the only circumstance where I'm able to attain this feeling is in bed, after a night of sleep with enough time ahead of me to get where I need to go. Most days that's the office, surprise, surpise.

So why is the only part of my life that includes procrastination the sleepy part? I think this is where I'm actually kind of normal. I've been told more than once how odd it is that I'm so wired all the time and driven to do my chores, run errands and let (what should be daily) relaxation fall by the wayside... so by pressing my snooze button seven (yes, seven!) times on any given morning I am joining the club of feet draggers, the lazies, the colt of procrastinators... that is, until I get up.

Then I'm reminded of my lists. My half-awake brain usually sounds something like this: "Damn, I wanted to stop by Jiffy Lube to get an oil top off on the way to work but now I don't have time." In true disappointment I tell myself I'll get up early to be sure to do it tomorrow. Now do I actually follow through the next morning? You bet your ass I do. Who can live with putting off something like that more than once? Not I.

I know, weird. But it's that motivation which will inspire me to wake up the first time my alarm sounds the next day, giving me too much time before work and sometimes misleading me to be late because I felt like I had so much time I decided to water the plants, start some laundry and maybe even vacuum. Ha, so silly to vacuum at 7:30am.

Whether it's the necessary minimum of 15 minutes or a full two hours that I have that morning, every moment is used to it's fullest. Pending morning lists invading my morning or not. The bed gets made, my teeth are brushed, mascara is applied and most days I even put on some jewelery. People at work might never even know I woke up only 25 minutes ago if it weren't for the inital dazed look on my made-up face. On days I have an extra few minutes I'll make some coffee at home or even stop to treat myself at Starbucks for you know, making it all the way to Friday. Hey, sometimes we all deserve a little TLC. Mine comes in the form of a $5 Vanilla Chai Tea Latte I can sip at my desk while opening the first of my 100+ emails that morning.

Along with the small tasks one can easily add on to their morning, I've recently discovered the ingenious feeling that results from completing a workout at the start of the day. It totally negates that dragging feeling of trying to decide if I should squeeze it in before dinner, combine it with the evening dog walk or stay up late and miss that lovely feeling of going to bed at a reasonable time. Just the other day I was haunted by that familiar knock while standing at the copier at work (where I will sometimes do lunges while waiting for my papers) and was especially delighted to remember that I had already worked out that day. How could I have forgotten? Maybe I even vacuumed, too... I had to think back as that morning had felt almost like a whole different day. This left my evening to feel relaxed and free... I was able to sit on the couch and watch America's Got Talent without the guilt that I should be doing something productive. Because I already had.

Now there are people that swear by waking before the sun rises just for that reason: to be productive and allow time later in the day for other important (or not important, one may decide for themselves) activites.  My mother is one of them. Needless to say I didn't inherit this "early riser" trait from her, but I will state proudly that I have learned the value in it over time. Her reasons were more concrete (there are a lot of afternoon/evening obligations when you have seven children) while mine are somwhat trivial... but from either standpoint, starting your day without feeling rushed is probably a good thing.

That's why I have to go to sleep now. It's officially past even my "late" bedtime (after Jimmy Fallon has ended at 12:35am) and I have a feeling tomorrow is going to be one of those snoozers. But alas, this blog will be creeping into my relaxed mind as the bells start to chime in 6 hours... will I procrastinate another day? Hm, I think I'll figure it out then.

Here Comes the Sun

When the temperature outside becomes warm enough for tank tops and bathing suits, I smile. Although I know it means six months of sweaty car rides and high electric bills are upon us yet again, it still makes me happy. The sunshine represents a feeling of freedom... not only from feeling cooped up inside for the winter, but from the regularity of what we've let become normal: fabricated lighting and climate controlled environments. To me, there is something to be said about nature's NATURAL cycles... although I very much appreciate my air conditioning, I also very much enjoy what we are given on a daily basis. And during Spring, Summer, and some of Fall in Austin, it's sunshine.

My whole life I've been warned against skin cancer. Given that my Irish family has a running history of a few incidents here and there, I try my best to take it seriously. While at the dermatologist for my skin exam a couple years ago, I was asked how many times I had been sunburned in my life. I paused. "Am I really supposed to be able to answer that question?" I scoffed... I mean, at my age and with my swimming background, I can't even begin to have an accurate guess. I replied with doubt in my voice: "One hundred? Maybe more?" This would mean I was burned about 5 times each year from when I was 5 years old, about the time I started swimming outdoors each summer. And when I thought about it that way, I realized I must have been burned way more than that. At least once every Saturday at the meets and then again at each Schlitterbahn trip. You can't forget the team parties and 4th of July festivities... the list goes on and on. The dermatologist's facial expression showed disappointment. Woops. At least my exam checked out with nothing to worry about... for now.

Fast forward to today, Tuesday, April 10th, 2012. My skin is still a shade of pink (I like to call it sunkissed) from the weekend's outdoor adventures at the pool and the Barton Creek Greenbelt. Some would say it's unhealthy. I say it's life. Ok, ok, I should use sunscreen. But it's so greasy and smelly and gross. It makes my hands feel dirty and stings my eyes. And it comes off when you get in the water anyway, so what's the point? I realize these are childish and naive excuses... but I feel a sort of pride when I see color in my skin. To me it means activity. Fun. Life. It reminds me of the fun I had during my treasured time outside the office. Not to mention it looks great under a white tank top.

So for my dear friends and family that roll your eyes at me every time you see me basking in the sunshine without a greasy layer of man-made chemicals on my skin, remember that the sun is natural. I would like to thank you for your concern but also remember that many people lived long, happy lives before sunscreen was invented. One could even argue that I'm getting my much needed Vitamin D. Hah. At least I know I'm being careless. Next time we're outside and you're worrying about wrinkles I'll be soaking it all in, happy to feel the burn.

More than just a Walk

My ironically named childhood dog, Spike, was with our family from Christmas morning (when I was just 2 weeks old) until the day before my 13th birthday. He was an overly sweet & shy multi-colored mut, probably part Spaniel and part Lab, we were never sure. His floppy, ruffly ears and worried eyes are what I remember most. Our normal interaction was when my dad would let him in the kitchen through the laundry room during a rainstorm or when it was cold. I would cuddle up with him in a blanket on the kitchen floor, waiting for my mom to come home from PTA meetings. Other than that, he was mainly an outside dog. We were blessed enough to always have big backyards in which he'd pave a trail around the permiter. He'd pace those paths day and night, almost like he was protecting us from whatever was on "the other side".

In our current house, the one at which I have the most memories with him, there are two gates in the fence. With seven kids and our friends coming and going, you can imagine there was the occasional escape. I remember seeing him dash away while looking through the kitchen windows... he would take off up our quiet and secluded street that, at the time, only had 4 other houses on it. We'd rush outside and yell his name with a certain tone reserved only for moments like those. In desperate times my Dad's voice would always do the trick. He'd tuck his tail and come trotting back, sad that the adventure he could taste was cut short. We'd secure the fence again and find a sibling to blame. Some times took longer than others, but Spike always made it home safely. Although he was an active animal, the practice of taking him on walks wasn't familiar to me. I guess we were all partly to blame for his intense curiosity of "the other side" of the fence.

The main memory I have of taking him on a "walk" was when I was 8 years old and had gotten confident enough on my rollerblades to think it would be fun to take him out. I put him on the only leash I could find and off we went. I was like Santa Clause being pulled by my one little reindeer: I was flying while he was doing all the work. We were both pretty happy... until he suddenly changed directions, clotheslined me with the leash and I crashed to the ground. My bloody knees and tear-filled eyes accompanied Spike back home where not only my skin was hurt, but my pride as well. So much for dog walking being fun. I'm sorry to say that was the first and last time I tried walking my dog. And then I met Riff Raff.

Anyone who knows me knows that I don't have a dog, instead I have two cats. Jack and Honey are 6 years old and perfectly self reliant, but lovable all the same. They cuddle with me in bed and join me in front of the fireplace, but can also be left alone for the weekend. Not to mention they don't need to go outside. Ever. Which also means they've never seen a dog before. Again, until I met Riff Raff.

Riff Raff is not like any other dog I've met. Sure, he's got the basic and essential dog qualities that everyone loves in a canine: he's sweet, loyal and gets scared during thunderstorms. But what I will say that separates him from the others: he's so incredibly smart. Sometime I truly wonder if he understands english. He's obedient on what it seems is his own free will. Meaning, unless there are cars around, he doesn't need to be on a leash. And when he is, he almost never pulls. He merely trots next to you, enjoying the stroll and sounds of the world as if he were a human.

Until recently, I was only accompanying T on these walks. I would go along and enjoy it for personal reasons: excercise, quality conversation and catching some sunshine. But since I've had a number of opportunities to spend some one-on-one time with Riff lately, I've discovered just how fun dog walking can be.

From the moment I get home and he greets me at the door it's pure joy, for him and for me. It's been proven that pets can improve their owner's health but I'm satisfied with just an improved mood. It may have been a crazy Monday or a dragging Thursday... I may be hungry or need to go to the bathroom, but when Riff stands up to show his excitement that you're finally there you forget about your own needs. Since I'm not a mother yet I can only imagine this is what it's like to have kids.

Sometimes it's hard to even get inside the door to put my purse down. But I manage to grab a water bottle and go out the door again. Riff's bliss shines through his smile as he keeps looking toward you while going down the stairs. We turn the corner and in the evening sun he knows it's time for another walk. He prances through the parking lot and greets the other dogs - methodically looks around to inspect any changes from the morning trot, a long 8 or 9 hours before.

A lot of people might view this as a chore, but I've realized it's a gift. When else would you take 30 minutes to walk around your neighborhood or go to the park? When else would you have the time to breathe in the outside air and watch the sun set? For me, it's not that often since I work in an office and my kitties don't go outside. But thanks to Riff, I get to do that when he's there.

I guess I should be thanking T and the long schedule he keeps - it's because of his hard work that I get my alone time with Riff Raff. I think I'm now officially a cat AND dog person. If only Spike could be here to see it <3

Sixty Hours in Heaven

When D’s name appeared on my phone during a normal Monday afternoon at the office, I knew exactly why he was calling. It was just past the year mark since he and A met on the night of my birthday that past December and the question A was waiting for was actually in the works. I accompanied him to the meeting he arranged with A's favorite jeweler, Bell and Bird Custom Jewelry, just four days later. After all, I had visited the same store only a couple weeks before with the suspecting bride-to-be and was witness to all the design details. It was sure to be her dream ring, presented by her dream guy, all prelude to a dream wedding. And so it began… the journey we now know as A & D's Italian Wedding.

I wasn’t sure if I believed A when she told me I was coming with them to Positano… until I received D’s email that included our flight itinerary. My heart stopped and I had to take a deep breath; was this really happening??? It all seemed too good to be true, especially because a whole six months separated the invitation from the trip. The third week of September grew closer as I grew more excited, despite the normal routine I led. This was my first flight in three years and knowing my final destination was Italy felt so surreal. I was ready for a vacation… but little did I know what a true vacation it would become.

I had never been to Italy, nor had I done much research (shame on me). Although some might consider the Italian wine and American versions of Italian food I enjoy here at home ‘research’, I realize now that there is nothing quite like the real thing. The pasta is al dente, the vegetables and herbs are hand picked and, contrary to popular American belief, the individual portions are, dare I say, dainty. Our seven (yes, seven!) course wine dinner didn't leave me uncomfortable, rather perfectly satisfied.

From the moment we arrived at Le Sirenuse, jetlagged but ecstatic, I was truly on vacation, in every sense of the word. Thanks to D and A I didn't have to think about or plan a thing, something they know I tend to do. Nope, this was their show and they were running it. And because I was lucky enough to be their guest, what followed will live in my heart forever.

The view from the open air lobby was even more breathtaking in person than in pictures. I had been spoiling myself with the beauty of the views online during the months leading up to the trip, so when I finally saw it with my own eyes I felt as though I had been transported into a painting... but after my return home I now know it was actually some version of Heaven. With the Mediterranean Sea down below and the cliffs of the town all around us, everywhere you turned was, for lack of a more deserved description, perfect.

The hotel's impeccable team whisked us (and our luggage) away to show us to our rooms which were just as charming as the rest of the family villa-turned-hotel. Our keys were smooth hand carved metal mermaids that lived at the front desk while each guest was away; just one of their small yet significant touches that contributes the Le Sirenuse allure. I had to keep my jaw from hitting the floor as we navigated our way up and down the gorgeous M.C. Escher-style staircases and quaint hallways. Hand painted tiles lined the floors while custom photography accented the walls. Tropical plants filled lonely corners and retro-inspired furniture invited us to sit. All the while enjoying the Italian air and coastal views.

The shimmer on the water from the warm Italian sun was calling our names... a trip to the beach was in order. I found my bikini and down the steps we went, winding our way through ancient walkways crowded with gift shops and cafes. Just minutes later we found ourselves in the very salty sea where treading water is almost effortless. Sunbathing is one of my most favorite things, so when I get to partake while visiting the other side of the planet, I'm pleased to say the least. I laid on the dark sand and gazed at the (what seemed) bluer than American sky while olive skinned five year old Italian girls ran around me in just bikini bottoms. "This is it," I thought, "this is really happening".

Two hours and a few gift shop stops later it was time to prepare for the evening's festivities: Sunset cocktails and snacks at the Champagne Bar. D had reserved a lounge area just for us so we could enjoy the house DJ while sipping some of the most delicious prosecco I've ever tasted. The sky turned dark as the town's lights came on... Who knew the evening view was even better? This, of course, all before our car service would take us to our first evening's decadent dinner at half-Houstonian family-owned Dona Rosa, which happened to be a small house at the top of the mountain with an even better view. And can you believe they carry Tito's Vodka?? We were floored.

Our family-style feast was phenomenal. Everything from the generous pours of wine to the hand made ravioli... the beautifully painted platters and open kitchen that contained just two expert chefs made for a delightful three hour dining experience I'd love to have every Thursday. Except this wasn't just any Thursday... It was the night before their wedding and we were in Italy. Could it get better? Yes.

After just a few hours of sleep it was time to wake up despite the fact that my phone said it was 1:30am back home. I wasn't about to sleep any longer than necessary, afterall it was finally the day for which we had traveled here in the first place. Not to mention A had scheduled a mani/pedi that I was sure would be wonderful. I think I drifted off as the last coat was drying, writing my toast to the almost-wedded couple in my mind. A had been telling me about how this day would be filmed by Austin Cinemetographer, Joe Simon, for months, but I was beginning to feel like I left my "public" speaking skills at home. Just like in this blog, I feel my words are best conveyed when written... so the thought of trying to say exactly how special this experience was seemed a bit overwhelming. Still, I knew they would understand what I was trying to say no matter how the words came out. Even though they would, and hopefully did, I'd like to dedicate this entry, my written feelings, to the happy couple.

My suite's bathroom phone rang as I was putting on my mascara. I heard the frustration in A's voice when she told me the hairdressers were there and I wasn't. Typical me, running ten minutes behind. Up two and a half floors of horizontal stairs I went, there the bride was waiting with a smile. Not yet in her dress, we sat and enjoyed the morning view of the ocean while our Italian artists sculpted our hair into picture perfection. A was oddly calm, almost like this was a practice wedding day. I asked her how she felt and I believe she simply replied, "happy". No stress, no mess - just her favorite people in her favorite place. Pure bliss.

Town Hall in Positano is not like any place you've been. The historical architecture that somehow clings to the side of the cliff allows Italian (in this case, half American & half Canadian) couples to wed with a backdrop only seen in the movies. It was yet another moment I look back on and feel was part of a dream. As D describes it in Joe's video, "the magic of the moment didn't hit me until I saw her walking towards me". Although I was with her when she found that dress, saw her try it on more than once and even helped her into it just minutes before, she still took our breath away. We were here. It was real. Nothing seemed more important at that moment in time. I smiled away a few happy tears while a language I don't understand married my two dear friends. It only took 10 minutes for them to become Man & Wife, an endearing title they'll hold for the rest of their lives. And to be honest, they shouldn't be anything less to eachother.

Our private boat that would take us down the Amalfi Coast arrived on schedule later that afternoon. With two photographers and Joe in tow, our nautical adventure began just as the sun was setting. We headed east towards a calmer cove so A could "trash the dress". (This is just another reason D thinks she's the coolest woman on the planet.) If being photographed and filmed oceanside in an expensive dress with a glass of Veuve in your hand doesn't give you an insight to what "the life" feels like, I'm not sure what will. I can't help but daydream about it still... we took a swim, made our toasts and all 105 of the bobbypins in my hair actually kept it looking good for our seven course dinner that evening. Yet another Italian trick I need to learn.

I had barely been in the country 36 hours and Italy was beginning to feel like home. As I prepared for another fabulous meal I was reminded that I had another whole day in this amazing place, and for that I was more than thankful. That feeling continued as I walked down to the dining room on the third floor. Anyone close to me knows how much I enjoy a flawless dining experience and I knew this seven course dinner was going to be one of the best ever. We joined each other and over our first glass of wine gleefully recapped the day, A & D's Wedding Day.

We laughed about the mandolin player and how he ended his Italian serenade with a very American "YEAH!", balked at how incredible the boat ride's scenery was and inquired about their Vespa jaunt up and down the windy road. We enjoyed an impromptu, but very well done, live version of "We no speak Americano", sung by our ever-so-charming waiter and same mandolin player, just for the newlyweds. At that moment my heart felt like it might burst. All that love, happiness and beauty in one place; I was reminded of how perfect life could feel. I'm sure A and D still feel that way at least once a day... a day they get closer to the rest of their lives together. I suppose couples like them give us the phrase "lucky in love".

And for me? I'm lucky enough to relive that pure, priceless feeling of joy when I watch their wedding video. By the time P & I boarded our plane home we had been there just 60 hours... yet each and every time I hear D's voice start to describe Positano I can feel the salty breeze, smell the cappucinos and taste the limoncello. Thank you to P for being such a good travel partner; I'll let you know when we get picked for Amazing Race ;) And to A & D, thank you for an experience of a lifetime. I can't wait to share more amazing memories together.

Learning the meaning of "Spare Time"

When someone mentions what they do in their "spare time", I'm puzzled. Borderline baffled. So much so that I shake my head in amazement, raise my eyebrows while sighing and pretty much ignore the whole concept all together. Who has time for spare time, I wonder?

I don't have kids, I'm not in school anymore, I don't even have a long commute to and from work each day, so I'm pretty sure I don't have a solid excuse like other people might. But because I have officially submersed myself into what I refer to as 'adulthood' (working full time and maintaining a high standard of my home environment and personal life) over the past few years, I can't remember the last time I've had time to "spare".

Why is this, you ask? I'm what they call a "planner": By definition I am a "deviser", a "contriver". I like to plan to get things done, mostly by making lists. It's always go-go-go! Chores, itineraries, groceries, birthdays, errands, happy hours, you name it! The best part is that unlike most people that are known for making lists, I actually complete them. I've referred to my organizational therapy before by stating that "Busy is Fun!!". Although this is still true, I'm beginning to feel interested in the meaning of spare time. And because I'm not so familiar with what spare time feels like, I don't realize I have it until it's already gone... except for this past Sunday.

After making a run to TacoDeli (where I had the pleasure of experiencing the famous Mashed Potato, Egg & Cheese breakfast taco with their signature Dona sauce for the first time) it was off to the pool. Some might argue that pool time is spare time, but not in my book. My visits to the pool are a labor of love that includes squaring up to the sun in such a way that produces an even tan while browsing through one of my multiple magazines that have accumulated in my lack of spare time. Exhibit A: The stack that has been moved out of site into a basket on a shelf because I realize I can't get to them before my "clean freak" comes out and wants the counters cleared.

These magazines (and some books, as I have also noted before) make their way into my apartment and never seem to make their way out - mainly because I don't immediately read them. Even when I do get to the last page I feel obligated to keep them because of the wealth of information found on their pages... recipes and workout tips, new uses for old things, it's endless! I realize I'm beginning to sound like a hoarder, to which I will simply defend with "No". Have you ever read Real Simple Magazine? It's decidedly the best one out there. Oh, to write for them one day would be a dream...

Back to reality where the stacks of magazines await that mysterious "spare time": After the pool was going to be a Racquetball re-match, a game which I've recently learned to play and that was downright robbed from me a few nights before. I was up a whopping 13 to 4, just two points away from victory and somehow I ended up losing 16-14. I'll blame it on my lack of experience, given that I only learned to play about 6 weeks ago and T, my arch-nemesis, has been playing since he was a kid.

The sweaty walk back from the pool proved to be too much for the both of us, and as the blazing afternoon sun pushed the thermometer to yet another triple digit hell hole, we decided to stay inside. Movie time! Now, if I told you that the last time I remember actually choosing to get into bed on a Sunday afternoon and watch a movie while (gasp!) my lists beckon me from the other room was about 3 years ago, would you believe me? Yes, it's true.

At first I felt anxious, like I was making an irresponsible decision. Why would I waste my afternoon doing "nothing" while there was so much left to do? The chores started swirling in my head: you could empty the dishwasher, do a load of laundry, change the kitty litter, dust! And that's when it hit me: "Nothing" should be on my list. "Nothing" is relaxing, rejuvenating, pure repair... "nothing", I realized, transformed into "spare time" and it was all-of-the-sudden upon me. The feeling of "go-go-go" shouldn't lead to exhaustion, it should be inspiring. And for me it usually is - but thanks to T's habit of afternoon naps, I was (gently) forced to join his slow paced break from my busy world. Boo-hoo, right?

I'll admit that I didn't quite do "nothing". Afterall, I wasn't sleepy and I had already seen the movie that was playing. Nonetheless, I knew taking some time away from my normal routine would be a good thing, so I crawled into bed anyway. I settled in and an overwhelming feeling of "what do I do now?" washed over me. Then I looked to my nightstand where my TV remotes sit. Instead of on the actual table they're elevated by, you guessed it, magazines and books... just waiting to be read. They've been there for a few months now since the idea is to read them as I'm going to sleep at night; however as most of you have probably heard me say more than once, I get to bed too late as it is even without reading.

"A-ha! Real Simple is is!" The revelation that I could use this quiet time in bed to make some progress on my magazines was exciting. I smiled as I opened the first one, engaging in the beautiful photographs, clever recipes and finally reading the articles I tagged so long ago. It was like I was visiting an old friend and catching up on life. Over an hour passed by and I felt amazing. I thought to myself, "Why don't I do this more often?"

So that's where we are: I'm committing to my magazines. By doing this, I'm committing to myself. And although there is still a large stack of them in that basket I can't see, I like to think that it serves as a treasure chest of relaxation from which I can pluck some "spare time" whenever I want... I guess I better put it on my list.

"Willing" is Half the Battle

I was just 12 years old when a Blue Wave Swim Team parent first asked if I could help give their younger child some technical stroke instruction. Although hesistant to "sell" what felt like should come naturally at that age, it worked out to be a pretty nice summer gig. Never did I think I would be filling my iphone calendar with 13 lessons in one week after giving them up for over a decade.

Since my spontaneous (and probably over-caffeinated) decision to post a boastful, borderline arrogant, craigslist ad at 1:00am after writing my blog about how I missed being in and around the pool, I've been in the water at least 5 days a week. My skin smells like chlorine, my hair has split ends, my nails are chipped... and it's awesome! I feel like my stars are aligned while I didn't even know they existed before.

T gave me a book to read towards the end of May called "Cure for the Common Life" by Max Lucado. I'm ashamed to say I haven't made it past page 10, but only because I've been busy giving lessons! What I am proud to say is that it only took 10 pages for the message of the book to kick in: Get back to what you love doing. For me, it was being in the pool.


Nevermind the fact that my mother and High School swim Coaches will tell you otherwise. Just because I didn't decide to stay in the pool all these years doesn't mean I didn't keep a special place for it in my heart. I believe a lot of what we grow up doing holds special places in each of our hearts. Whether it's something as simple as going to eat at a certain neighborhood restaurant every Friday night or as extravagant as going to the beach with your family for the 4th of July, these things tend to hit home. They bring us back to that spark, that happiness... back to life.

As I interact with the 15 kids I've taught so far, I feel lucky to have been blessed with the talent of swimming. Some of them are blessed with talent, too, while the others are learning to work hard at it. Both are impressive attributes of young, determined children and it's incredibly rewarding to see them improve. Just yesterday a 6 year old boy, with whom I've had five weekly lessons, ran back out of the house to say, "Thank you for my swim lesson!" on his own free will. This is the same kid that during his second lesson told me he hated swimming. I simply smiled, said, "You're welcome" and drove home with butterflies in my tummy.

I guess this blog is another part of my "Sweet Spot". The whole reason I initiated it was because I missed writing. And lucky for yall, I get to blab on about whatever I like ;) This time it's swim lessons, next time will be the Fall Weather, I presume... given that it ever cools off again. Until then, you can find me in the pool.

Those Summer Nights

As the Austin evenings have grown warmer, the bugs have grown louder. And I'm perfectly fine with it. To me it's a true sign that Summer has arrived. Maybe not on the calendar, but in the memory of my adolescence.

Up until I was corrected about 10 years ago, I used to think the lovely chirping came from some sort of a cricket. It's actually the male Cicadas (http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cicada)
singing their nightly ballad. I like to think it's just for me.

During my 25, going on 26 Summers here in Texas, a good portion of them were spent at Balcones Woods pool. I would attend swim practice as early as 8am and literally stay all day. Some form of lunch was usually bummed off one of the Lifeguards (Doritos or an Ice Cream Sandwich) but if we were lucky, they'd go to Taco Bell or Schlotsky's and share some of their treasured fast food with us, the "pool rats".

The afternoons were usually spent napping on lawn chairs playing Truth or Dare or the forbidden game of "Buns Up" behind the tennis courts- at which point most kids would get hungry enough to go home for dinner. Not me.

I stayed until the last Adult Swim whistle blew at 8:50pm, when the skies became dark and the pool lights came on. That's when the summer bugs sing.

I still think about it every single time I hear them... About the care-free days in the sun with nothing to do except swim. The whole Summer was mine, to do with it what I wanted- and that was be at the pool, day and night.

I remember the intense feeling of freedom I'd get during the evening of the last day of school... sitting by the pool as the sun went down, knowing I had the next 3 months all to myself. It was truly priceless. And I realize that now more than ever.

I push the guilt I feel aside during my recent adult Summers- during all those Monday-Friday office hours I spend inside under fluorescent lights. The window I sit next to offers a view of the blue sky under which my instincts tell me I should be lying in a lawn chair eating an Otter Pop (green is my favorite).

I daydream of putting on my bikini rather than office attire each morning. I have more outdoor towels than bath towels. I have multiple designated "pool bags" that are always ready to go, given that I make time to be by the water on my Saturdays and Sundays.

But considering today is only Tuesday and I was not in my bikini at all, my interaction with the Summer Bugs was on my evening drive on Mopac. I opened the windows and lowered Lady Gaga for once, just so I could hear their song. They offer me a sort of peace, a version of freedom through my nostalgic attachment to their annual impression on my younger self.

So here's to the nights we felt alive, the Summers I can't get back, and the people who made my childhood great. Oh, and to you, Summer Bugs ;)