Noise in the Shape of Writing

Happiness is filling your own damn pool. Splurging for that extra $35 on the water bill at the end of the month. Staring into a crystal reflection that — for one day anyway — has no scent of chlorine. Oh, don't get me wrong... I dearly love the smell of chlorine in the morning. It reminds me of high school. Reminds me of girls that avoided me due to the stench of chemicals and that unnatural bristle-head look that only a deep, industrial coating of muratic acid can provide. Not to mention that glazed-over expression that only red-eyed swimmers can really pull off until, oh, lunch time. 3,000 gallons of mineral-infused hard water. And do any other swimmers out there agree that nothing beats a post-workout thirst like root beer? Am I right? It's just plain wierd. Good lord. That's two swimming-related posts already on this blog. Years from now Guy Riessen will see this post and say "Yeah. That proves nothing." You'll just have to go with me on that one.