I love my bed. Heaven knows how much I love my bed. My husband will tell you how much I love my bed. I love my bed so much I get excited when it’s time to go to bed. I love my bed so much that I giggle when I put on my pajamas.
So leaving it can only be done v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y at 5.15 am every weekday morning. One painful milli-movement at a time.
But from the moment I slip into the water and push off from the wall, I am exhilarated. My breath bubbles through me, my arms and legs power me forward and I begin to follow the thick blue line. Up and down, back and forth, again and again, I swim, length after glorious length. Don’t get me wrong. I am no dolphin. To even the most sympathetic observer I am clearly land-based. But I diligently follow that line, perhaps 80 to 100 times a day, knowing with certainty that it will lead me to the same rewarding destination. Sanity.
When my children run away shrieking, “the momster’s coming”, then clearly all is not magical in the palace. Or if the deadlines, the clients, the traffic, the shopping trolleys, drive me absolutely, 100%, stark raving crazy, then there is no alternative but to head for the pool and power-on-down. It’s my ponder-pond and it’s my lifesaver.
Not only does it allow me the space to think clearly, slowly and rationally (or not think at all) but it also cleanses, physically and spiritually, leaving a refreshed, invigorated and inspired woman in its wake. It buoys me, supports me, calms me. In my mind’s eye, as I glide up and down the lane (think swan, not duck) I am no longer hectic and harried, but sylph-like, svelte and lean. I finesse those fins (heaven forbid you should call them flippers) to an inch of femme fatale. I am fabulous.
Yes I love my bed. But more than that, I love who I become through the discipline of getting out of it.
Image: xzoom.in