December 15, 2016

My hamstrings were really tight this morning when I went to aqua fitness. The class lasted about 40 minutes, and there were six of us in the pool. The instruction was via a cassette tape which was produced in the 1990s. My new friend helped me understand what to do. A ping pong player who reminded me of Spiderman came by the pool to fill his water bottle before his tennis game at the neighboring court. His wife and a few of the other women in the pool called to him. He ignored them. His wife then got out of the pool to chastise him, so Spiderman doused her with the hose. It was very funny – not to mention sweet – to see a couple who have probably been together for nearly forty years still behave in a playful manner with each other. I suggested that as a means of retaliation, she gather all of his underwear, wet them, then put them in the freezer.

The class was, in part, what I had previously witnessed while swimming laps over the years and observing such: talk-not-fitness. A bunch of fat, older broads get in the pool and bounce around while carrying on conversations: the instruction goes unheeded, therefore the exercise de minimus. It made me crazy to have to get out of the pool at YMCA so a bunch of women could have a social event in an athletic facility. I know socialization is important. I know exercise is important. But, if you talk and tread water in the deep end, you get both. My new friend and I were the only ones who went full bore. She used to row two hours a day when she lived in California 20 years ago. She's probably 75, and is in terrific shape, in addition to being friendly, interesting, and feisty. I like her.

Tomorrow, I have a busy day: aqua fitness for an hour at nine-thirty, and ping pong at one for three hours with my new friends. By the time I finish walking the dogs, I'll be flushing the black tank and packing up the table and chairs as the sun sets. My drive back to Melbourne Beach on Saturday is about four hours. I want to leave between nine and ten so I can arrive by three after stopping for groceries, etc. I have never stayed at an RV park for more than eight nights, and I have a month-long reservation in Melbourne Beach. As Spiderman said to me yesterday, I can always unhook BOB and drive anywhere I need to go. Right. I don't have to ride my bike to Publix to buy a case of crack, then ride back to buy another: I can drive BOB to Publix to buy the heavy, bulky things. I can drive BOB to have blood work. I can drive BOB to buy Blue Buffalo dog food at PetSmart. I can drive BOB because I like driving BOB. Right. I'm neither a hostage nor a survivalist because I can always drive BOB.

The other day Kim and Kate asked me if I were sick of them. I replied, "Not both of you." They grinned. I went on to say that I didn't know what I was going to do with all the space I'd have inside BOB after they left. There is only one place to sit and work inside of BOB, and that is the dinette. Four non-sugar-eaters can sit there comfortably. The real problem with the limited seating is that the dogs like the dinette, too. If you get up, one will take your place. If you slide in, one will sit beside you. And, when you put three tech-dependent adults together, there will be seven to nine gadgets on top of the dinette, swapping power sources below it, and competing for space with the tissue box and bowl of fruit on top of it. Serving a meal requires a complete dinette reorganization: we all move all of our shit to our beds. It works, especially when you have known each other for 20 years and traveled all over the world together. So, no, I’m not sick of them – either of them.

I love that Florida does not feel like Christmas. I have a hard time remembering what time of year it is because there are no environmental clues other than the amount of daylight. If I still lived in Providence, I'd be freezing and dealing with a little over nine hours of daylight. I have ten-and-a-half here, and everything is tropical and green. If it weren't so fucking humid here, it would be paradise; if it weren't so fucking humid here, it would be California – without the fires, earthquakes, water shortages, smog, etc.

I love that ibises roam the RV park poking their long beaks into the Florida grass: they remind me of dogs snuffling for scraps.

I haven't had a haircut in five months. I have entered the extreme shit-show stage of growing out hair which is exacerbated by the humidity. Kate says she likes my hair longer; Kim says he likes my hair short. I need a hair style which I don't have to dry, and which covers my rent-this-space forehead. What is that? I can now pull my hair into pony tails – one at the top of my head and one at the bottom. Oh, so pretty. Hat? Yes, please.