numb

Call me crazy. Or masochistic. But at 7am yesterday morning, I went swimming in the San Francisco bay.

The water was warm -- for the bay. It does not feel it. 56 degrees has a way of making itself felt on warm flesh. Here's more about that.

The beginning is pleasant enough. You stand on the beach of the Dolphin Club with the sun on your legs, chatting with friends who are regulars. People launch in clusters, with one group on the beach at a time. You don your cap (I wore two) or squid lid, if you have one of the orange thermal bonnets. Goggles go on, earplugs in. There is an imperative to entering the water: Do it quickly. If you dally, as I did, it gives the feet a chance to fully broadcast their message ("cold; wet; real cold; real wet") to the brain. It's so shocking at first, it's difficult to discern whether it's the "cold" or the "wet" that's causing the problem. This creates an odd possibility that this water is just more wet than other water.

Diving is best. That way your head, torso, arms, back, buttocks, and legs go into sensory overload all at the same time. The first thought that makes it through my head, besides how green the water looks at an ebb tide, is that I could turn around right now and make it back to the beach in seconds. I ignore the idea, heading out into the bay, where even more water awaits. It feels sandpapery, viscous against the skin. To swim in it is to windmill the arms as if they were lead weights slung on spastic rubber bands. You flounder.

3 minutes in, your skin feels like it's burning. For a few strokes you instinctively try to keep your face out of the water. This accomplishes nothing. Next your chest muscles tighten, making it hard to breathe. This lasts for a few long minutes, during which it's easy to get panicky. It helps to remind yourself that there's no problem raising your head and getting air; you just aren't getting very much air. You breath more often, you gasp.

Keep moving, and the alarm bells gradually stop ringing. You -- dare I say it? -- warm up a bit. The air is clear, the sky is blue, and the view of the Golden Gate is fantastic. The waves lap languidly in the protected cove of Aquatic Park, where people walk their dogs and push strollers and generally have a nice San Francisco morning. Giant ships, moored to the equally giant piers, look like buildings from the water's surface. The cold invades the crevices of your body: the folds behind your knees, your armpits, the curls of your ears. Your body acclimates. There is nothing left to offend.

We made it to the last flag, just short of the quarter-mile buoy. I turned around when the soles of my feet went numb. I figured my circulatory system had had enough fun for one day. The real trouble starts when your core temperature drops, and a pleasant warmth floods your body. This is your body's way of telling you you are toast, so why not pretend and make the best of it. The numb feet were enough of a hint for me.

The Dolphin offers warm showers and saunas, and it's open three days a week to the public. Although, my friend Paul points out, the door is always locked and the members are a bit hard of hearing, when it comes to the bell. Why kind of people subject themselves to a daily dunk in ice-cold seawater? A sign in the boathouse offers a clue: 'Every day is a chance to renew yourself fully. Take advantage of it.'

Is that bird bothering you?

Reading through a transcript of a customer interview video, shot in Marin a few weeks ago. At one point the interviewer asks: is that bird bothering you? I'm curious what he was planning to do about it. Whatever happened next, it wasn't in the transcript.

My work situation is coming to a head. It's all skulls and daggers around here. I received an e-mail just now letting me know that my manager is going to call me today to set up an in-person meeting on Thursday to "discuss an important business update." I can only imaginge that she, or I, am being laid off. (sigh.) Me? I was online this morning researching the San Juan islands. I was thinking it might be nice to spend a few weeks in August cycling around and taking ferries and camping. I could sublet my apartment, save some money. We'll see.

Is it human nature to try to prepare for possibly bad news by trying to make the bad news seem like something you really want to happen? Sure, go ahead, lay me off. Then I can go on a bike trip. Or back to school. So I can get on to what I'm *really* supposed to be doing with my life.

I guess my realization at this point is that I'm not at all confident that I'll hang onto my job, not because of my skills, but because of my personality. Working for a large corporation is isolating, and more chaotic than I can deal with. My relationship with my manager pretty much sucks, and the function that I provide has no visibility or value to the group that I'm assigned to. So it's pretty much the worst possible situation, except that it pays me reasonably well and is stable. Unless, of course, I am laid off.

Then there's this, the personality thing. What it boils down to is that I think other people's ideas are stupid, deficient. Unfortuantely people can tell that I think this. So there's a little problem that could accurately be described as "rubbing people the wrong way." Compounding this abrasion problem is that fact that it doesn't concern me very much, virtually guaranteeing that it will continue, possibly even escalate. That too does not concern me. Although it probably should. It's pretty hard to get by on brute talent. Unless you're an artist or independently wealthy. Or you want to live with your parents the rest of your life.

What a pickle. I suppose these thoughts are garden-variety anxieties that precede a layoff. I'll feel better on Friday, after I've received the Important Business Update. I hope.

red letter day

Today was a day of momentous occassion, the fruition of countless hopes and dreams, the cessation of unending frustrations. Today ended the torment I have borne these 7 years silently and with only the occassional witness. Today is the day I called the plumber.

Bold, you say? Perhaps not. But my landlady has insisted her handyman is up for the job. Not that I have anything against Paul, who is by anyone's standards absolutely adorable. Alas, he is no plumber. Neither was his predecessor, Ike, who took several shots at my toilet and failed to tame it. I required the services of a professional. And with just a few well-placed calls and a stubborn resolve to pay the tab, no matter what the cost, I engaged Frank, who told me all about the mess that was my shitter.

Toilets are rather tricky beasts, especially if they date from the Pleistocene era. In 15 years of plumbing, Frank had never seen a toilet like mine. He could not rebuild it; the washer cannot be replaced and the flush valve is, well, odd. Frank put in a new angle stop, so when the leaking begins again I can at least stop the flow of water from driving me quietly insane. He gave me a new ball cock and a new stopper and ground out my threads (or something) so for the time being, my small apartment is quiet, free of the sound of running water, which for the past month I have tried to imagine was a friendly Zen fountain, happily dribbling calming negative ions into my living space. It almost worked. Then, I had guests. And my toilet's dysfunction made itself felt on others. It had to stop.

They say the best part of climbing a mountain is getting to the top, because you can finally stop climbing and enjoy the view. I feel the same way about faulty plumbing. Finally, after years of torment and neglect, my toilet is obedient, quiet, and sound. All hail to Frank, and plumbers everywhere who get down on their knees and fix our stickiest problems, bringing solace and relief where trepidation and humiliation once reigned.

Now, I'm going to crack open a beer and enjoy the silence. And another World Cup game.

pegged

There I was, minding my own business, and taking care of my physical health with a nice jog in the park. When I was whacked in the arm by a golf ball.

For those of you who have only been whackers but never whackees of golf balls, know this: it hurts. And it makes a really loud thwacking noise when, after flying several hundred yards through the air, it hits bare skin. In fact, the noise so startled me that at first I didn't realize I'd been hit -- I though something had dropped out of the trees above me, narrowly missing my head. Which in a way is what happened. The rubber-band-powered missle hit the back of my right arm, raising a healthy sting and transferring alarming amounts of kinetic energy to the fascia beneath the skin: muscle, tendon, sinew, and bone. Poor arm.

"Ow!" I exclaimed, turning to confront a woman whose Siberian husky I had just run past. I imagined I'd been pegged with one of those dog ball hurlers you see people carrying around who, like me, can't throw for shit. She in turn, looked behind her, where we both spied the dastardly little white ball bouncing happily into the brush. My eyes narrowed. Golfers.

Now, keep in mind that I myself tried to learn to swing a club a few weeks ago. I still have a twisted back to prove it. Golfing is not easy. However, if you can hit a golf ball 200 yards from the first tee of the Presidio Golf Course, then you should darn well learn to hit it straight. After my run I dropped into the club house to alert the management there to my newly found victim status. They were only mildly impressed, in spite of my red mark and my I'm-willing-to-be-reasonable demeanor. They took down my name on a General Liability form, which apparently can be cashed in for a doctor's visit. I suggested a free dinner voucher (they have what I've heard is a quite decent restaurant.) but the nice man said only the whacker of the ball could recompense me for my pain and suffering. Nuts.

So I've decided to recompense myself. With fresh squeezed orange juice, a long hot bath, and ice packets pressed to the afflicted area. There's something about my new-found victimhood that's quite invigorating. For instance, instead of slavishly cooking dinner last night, I treated myself to a nice Rainbow Salad at Burma Superstar, and a pot of mint tea at the Blue Danube where I read Joan Didion sucessfully for the first time. Slouching towards Bethlehem. Here is someone else who suffers without redemption; I've decided she's my hero. Suffering and all.