shit rainbows

My blog is giving me a complex. When I work at a post, I hate it because it seems inauthentic, like I'm trying too hard. When I abandon coherence and rhythm and go for raw sentiment, I hate it because it seems sloppy. 

Then there's the whole site meter thing. 

I guess, to be fair to my blog, I already had the complex. I already had many complexes.

Yesterday I went swimming for the first time in a long time. What I love most about swimming is that I love swimming even though I suck at it. My parents claimed when I was 12 that my swim coach at camp that summer had told them I was a talented swimmer but fated not to go anywhere with the sport because my feet were too small. I don't know if he said that or not, but they believed it, and I did too for a while. I've since realized that my problems with biomechanics and physiology are more extensive than that, though I don't know what they are exactly. I've studied videos of elite swimmers and read up on proper stroke technique, but no matter how hard I try, I'm really seriously slow. I'm a decent athlete; I'm just not a swimmer. 

Still, I do my laps, and that makes me happy. And yesterday was no exception, even though it became obvious to me after the first lap that after so much time away, this was going to be a challenge. 

I hang onto that: the knowledge that at least in one domain, I can enjoy myself even though I'm not good, and the hope that maybe over time this gift will transfer to other areas. 

Today, my hip flexor muscles are so sore that I had to lift my left leg with my hands every time I wanted to step on the emergency brake. 

As I was driving around this morning, it began to rain--enough that I had to turn the wipers on, but not enough to actually rinse off the windshield, which was covered in bird shit since we've got a village of starlings living under the eaves of our house, driveway-side. 

The wipers just smeared the shit around on the windshield, and I thought, "Oh, shit! Shit." But then I noticed that because of the motion of the wipers, two grayish arcs were forming. I just knew that if Ezra had been in the car with me, he would have said, "Mommy, look! Rainbows!" 

So I tried to put that spin on it: shit rainbows. I mean: yes, shit, but shit rainbows. It felt a little forced.