Some Really Random Thoughts

I realize it's been a while since I last posted something. Usually that's because nothing of interest has happened for me to want to write anything. And now, well, nothing of interest has yet to happen, but I do have a few random thoughts to share.

Actually, I'm putting off doing work I'm supposed to do for my classes. What possessed me to teach two evening classes when I work full time during the day? I must be nuts. I'd also begun to wonder if it was all worth it, until I got an e-mail from one of my students thanking me for the help I gave him on a paper he was writing for another class. I realize that I like helping people and that teaching is fun, but I much rather prefer working with students one-on-one. Thank goodness I have a job that lets me do that for a living. I'm totally astounded that I have the good fortune to have a job I love because I've had jobs that suck and it's a miserable feeling. I'll never be rich doing what I do, but I'll be happy and that's something money can never buy.

And now for a random transition . . . I was telling Kirsten about the local "water park" on Tybee that my friends and I would go to in the summer. We called it the waterslide, though I don't remember if it ever had an official name. It only took up the space of about two lots; it had only three lanes and was made of . . . concrete. Yes, concrete. For some reason, this never bothered me as a child. I was never fortunate enough to go to a real water park until I was older and so I never knew they were supposed to be made of fiberglass.

So, if you wanted to ride the waterslide, you had to get a mat. I remember the colors, too. They were a royal blue, teal, yucky mauve, and canary yellow. There may have been a green one in there, too. (I remember some of them had chunks missing from the corners-- I thought people picked at them or tore them but in hindsight I realize that may be the effects of concrete on rubber had finally taken it's toll.)

The journey to the waterslide began at the bottom of the slide where, clutching your mat, you'd join the line of people climbing the stairs to the top. The floor was covered in that bright green, astroturf flooring that they use in miniature golf courses and it was always sopping wet and so gross to walk on. The stairs were covered in it too and they were old and rickety. I can't remember exactly how many flights of stairs there were to climb, though it seemed like a lot. I remember being completely worn out by my fifth or sixth ride down the slide-- I wanted to keep going for more rides, but didn't relish climbing the stairs again. The tricky part about the stairs, too, was carrying your mat. They were huge and you needed a mat that fit your body from your shoulders to your knees. This was most important because if you were to let a toe or elbow dangle from the side of the mat, you'd come down to the bottom of the slide with considerably less skin on your body. But it made carrying them quite difficult. Some people carried them over their heads, but I lacked the upper body strength to support mine, plus I was rather uncoordinated and I'd end up whacking someone else in the head. So, I'd wrap the mat around my body as best I could and try to walk up the stairs. But rubber mats that are three inches thick don't easily wrap around anything and so it was a struggle getting up the stairs.

But once at the top, I felt exhilarated and a little nervous. There were three lanes to choose from, each supposedly more dangerous than the other. I usually went down the middle lane because it was the best of both worlds, but it had this weird bump halfway down (someone didn't smooth out the concrete perfectly) and it made my stomach hurt after a while. If I was daring (and as I got older), I'd go down the 3rd lane. This one was more daredevil because it had this huge sloping wall that, if you got enough speed going, you could almost flip over. But if you got high enough, you could see over the side of the waterslide (it was a grassy little area on the side) and out toward the ocean. The best part, though, was the lifeguard at the top of the slide. He would have to watch the bottom of the slide and then give the all-clear so that too many people didn't go down at once and then collide at the bottom. But even if you were the only one going down, there was still the chance that you could jump into another lane when you got to the bottom. The mounds of concrete that separated the lanes were so low that one good jump combined with your rate of speed and you were flying into someone else.

During our family's annual beachweek, we'd beg our parents to let us go to the waterslide. It could be raining and lightning and we'd still beg. I can't believe the waterslide was actually made of concrete, and I still can't believe our parents let us go there. But those were different times. I miss the waterslide-- not that I'd ride down it again, but I'd like to see it. And I miss the old beach house. We only had the top floor-- the bottom floor was rented out separately and nothing kept the two apart except for a staircase with a little wooden fence in front of it. Some of us used to sneak down the staircase and peak into the other unit but we'd never go down there. Actually, I remember one time that I did. My older cousin, Amber, was staying in a house nearby and I remember that she and I and her friend (I don't remember the friend's name) snuck into the downstairs and looked around. I learned that there was a toilet underneath the stairs that we'd climb. I thought that was the funniest thing.

Now I realize that I've rambled on about absolutely nothing and I still have a ton of stuff to say about the beach house, but I might have to wait and post it later. I've procrastinated enough and there's work to be done. But don't fret-- I've got plenty of beach house stories to tell.