While my husband insists upon calling my “Word Lounge” the “Abode of Writeyness,” it actually has another moniker that dates back to January when I bought some weight equipment.
As someone who doesn’t keep “normal” hours, and doesn’t particularly like group exercise anyway, I determined that I needed some form of strength training in addition to the walking and dance warmups and calisthenics I was already doing, I found a weight machine that only cost $200, and I’ve been using it fairly regularly ever since.
The brand listed on all the documentation is some sports-equipment-y name I can never remember, but the name MARCY is stamped in friendly orange letters on the seat back.
Can you blame me, then, for thinking of the room as “Marcy’s Playground?”
It’s that time of year again, when the sun seems to be so close it’s cruel, and the temperatures are so hot that economy of movement is a necessity rather than mere laziness. It’s the week that my month starts (other people may celebrate their birthdays for a single day, but I lay claim to the entire MONTH of August…though I share it happily enough).
As if they’re doing it just for me, the Discovery Channel offers their annual tribute to sharks. Yes, Shark week begins tonight with a two-hour Mythbusters extravaganza.
Somewhere in a box there are pictures of me as a young girl, when my hair was still more gold than brown, and my mother made most of my clothes. I’ve never really cared for pictures of me, but suddenly I want the one of me and a childhood friend in school girl costumes – you know, like when you put the hood of your sweatshirt over your head, and tie the strings under your chin, but slip your arms from the sleeves so that it’s a cape, and your ruler is a ray gun, and the cheap mask leftover from Halloween turns you into Supergirl or Wonder Woman or whatever.
Somewhere in a box there’s a picture of me and a boy my age dressed up like superheroes, with blankets and towels tucked into the collars of our t-shirts.
We were superheros who fought against JAWS because it was the ’70s, when the movie was new enough, scary enough, to keep our young toes on the sand when we went to the beach, and instead of pretending to fight with plastic light sabers (because they didn’t yet exist) we argued about who’s house the radio guy meant when he said, “Coming soon to a theater near YOU!”
Somewhere in a box there are pictures, but in my heads are the movies and the memories and the taste of innocence that lingers at the back of my mouth and the scent of childhood that wafts across my dreams.