The other day, while doing laps in the pool, I wondered: can I be a mermaid? Why not? I am blissfully weightless in water. Mercifully near-painless in water. I can walk forwards and back, I jog and I jump; and I can maintain yogic poses that I would never attempt on land. I can do the breast-stroke for at least 30 minutes, the back stroke for less, and the crawl – not at all.
If metamorphosing into a mermaid is impossible, then how about: a house by the water, a home near a pool, a hut by the ocean, or a haven by the sea.
I was ridiculously tempted to put in a request with Eric, the aquatic coordinator, for a trial period. I could pitch a small tent on the far side, to test it out. The facilities would suffice for awhile, friends and family could provide food and books, I’d have easy access to the studio for yoga classes – which I’d ensure coincided with men’s-only swim time.
Knowing that water was within feet of my abode-aka-healing-pad would be something of an elixir. I would revel in the sweet knowledge that I could dunk myself into the water at the first sign of pain – or better yet, I’d swim to stave it off. I would glide into the water for a few laps or an hour of walking. Perhaps I’d even join an aqua-fit class or two. They might even be able to convince me to stick around to keep an eye out for the daycare kiddies.
For now, perhaps it is only a reverie. But I will continue to believe in it so that I might truly live this way one day, on this side of sleep.