Next to blogging and posting pictures of yourself on Facebook taken in your bathroom mirror, I have stumbled upon the third most self-indulgent activity known to man: floating around a pool in an over-sized swim ring that looks like a tire for two hours a day.
Previously imagined as something only Floridian girls of 1981 (smothered in baby oil and iodine, of course) did, I have fully embraced this lazy pastime. With nearly 8 weeks left of pregnancy, it's been easily justified. By the end of a long day with the kiddies, I have a slight waddle/limp to my step. And based on the giggles my running on the treadmill evokes from the children, the only eyes to lay witness on the spectacle are Heath and Stella, their toys, and my reflection I occasionally catch in the guest bedroom window, often mistaking it for a clumsy morning home intruder. So I deserve to aimlessly spin about in one of the two Surf Club Race Team swim rings bought for my four year old and his visiting cousins.
When the guilt of frivolous activity sets in, I'll ask Heath to hang onto the back of the ring while we flutter-kick our way across the length of the pool ending at the number seven swim team starting block. Exhausted by the burst of motion, I then suggest Heath get out and grab the other swim ring so he can have his own, and I can sink my lifeless limbs back into the heat of the black plastic, only to be moved by gentle pool waves generated by someone else's flurry of energy.
It's not a bad way to pass a hot summer day, or a never-ending third trimester of a never-ending pregnancy. It's actually what's on the agenda for our late afternoon. You know, right after "they" take a nap.
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