I didn’t go to that job fair.
You have to understand, this is the third job fair that’s been shoved in front of me.
“Oh, third time’s the charm!”
- except there’s nothing charming about shuffling around a room that feels so empty while having so many other bodies in it, hearing people attempt to speak Linkedish and faltering at the sounds coming out of their own mouth, a rock in your gut. It’s not even like you fill out an application at the job fair, not for most things anyway, so you’re just browsing tables at this instability convention and smile tight and polite to some stranger who returns that empty gesture. Still, to keep the peace amongst family members with selective perception, I must go.
Or at least show effort.
See, attending that job fair would have been a decision based in lack. However, I opted to make a decision based in abundance and pleasure.
I went to the Venetian Pool.
Born and raised in Miami, but I’ve never been before. Just one of those things you know exist in your city and yet seems like its an entirely different place; somewhere difficult to reach, that’s interesting enough to notice but not enough to undertake the journey. Unless . . . you need to show the appearance of leaving for a job fair at 10 in the morning, somewhere you can kill a couple hours’ time for a better lie performance.
The pool didn’t open until 11, and apparently the traffic is incredible prior to noon, so I spent a leisurely half an hour plucking library books from shelves like grapes from the vine.
Here’s the thing about Coral Gables.
It is obnoxiously well resourced. If you don’t know about tree poverty, just know that it’s a well researched phenomenon of more affluent areas having a greater volume of trees than you would see in poorer areas- and Coral Gables canopy is so thick it always looks slightly darker than the time would suggest, and it’s a couple of degrees cooler than its counterpart neighborhoods 20 minutes northward. Another thing that pisses me off is how luxurious of an experience visiting their library is.
Coral Gables has the prettiest library in Miami-Dade county, bar none. All stone and wood and a big water fountain outside. And it carries one of the most diversely stocked shelves in the system, probably second only to the main branch in downtown. You would not find so many translated texts at the Golden Glades branch, or even Aventura! Their library is this perfect, prissy, pretty reflection of the old money and polished class that has kept the Gables a cut above the rest of Miami-Dade since its birth.
Overall, hauled two Lispector novels, some new finds in Deleva and Kitamura, and a few others. By that time I’d realized that I was five minutes late to the pool’s opening.
The pool was a 20 minute walk from the library, but only a three minute drive . . . and it was awfully humid. A quick drive had me there at 11:15- only fifteen minutes past opening, and there were three cars already! The iron gates were open wide, beckoning you in to a little slice of paradise, a tropical fairytale. Rich people used to have taste. Even though it’s always been a public venue, you feel a certain change in atmosphere, almost a change in the taste of the air, when you step inside the building for the first time.
A taste of a sumptuous era, as if the passage of time has been routinely buffed out of the silver of this facade. I felt like a guest when I entered, and a shmuck of a tourist when I paid that $23 ticket. Coral Gables has a way of welcoming you, and a way of saying you're temporary.
So, with gratitude and a sense of purpose such a reminder always brings, I entered, showered, and then stared at the pool. Why had no one else entered in the twenty-five minutes it'd been opened. Why. God, I get shy when I feel like I'm imposing as the first. Someone tell me if that's some facet of Imposter Syndrome. To delay that, and let someone else get the honor, I paced along the breezeway and beside the benches, taking in the beauty of the construction. The beautiful water fountain installed in the wall of the courtyard- at the plastic bag waffling in its waters. I was compelled to fish it out. And then, seeing nobody else go in, I stood at the edge of the pool and took it all in.
The shallows reached a depth of four feet, and the deepest portion of the pool eight feet. A big, raucous waterfall I could imagine in a mermaid's grotto. A few ladders at different sections of the pool, and statuesque palm trees guarding the perimeter. Jumping in felt like an inelegant action, and a quick way to be judged by the limestone's memory. I tucked my bag underneath a bench ($5 for a locker rental? Do I look like I'm made of money?), and then sat on the edge of the pool so I could slip into the water.
For over a month- since Aries has its big planetary rally- I've been feeling simmering heat in my ribs and from the small of my back down to my hips. I longed for the cool transition of a river, to sit and feel water push it out of me, through me and away. This clashes with the inalienable truth that the waters inland belong to the gators . . . so the year round 76 degree water of the Venetian was a pretty good 2nd place.
Another inescapable truth: I hadn't gone swimming in years. Even just five minutes of a messy backstroke/doggy paddle reminded me that this is actually a competetive sport, because swimming is tough!
I felt it keenly, treading the choppy water right in front of that pretty waterfall. No other had crossed the line seperating the deep end from the shallow . . . I felt scrutinized, and therefore hesitant. Combine that with shortness of breath, it lef to a measly pop-up behind the waterfall before retreating to the first break of the day.
I alternated between swimming, floating, and pressing heavily into the sunbaked tile and faux rock of the pool's edge. The feeling of hesitation did not leave, and the reason was so silly.
The battle with self-image has its phases, like the moon- and this day was a phase of insecurity over the privilege of my gibbous waxing belly. To combat this, I thought to forego the one bikini top I owned (an impulse buy from a Victoria Secret sale) in favor of a white cropped tank top. Here's the thing:
A proper swimming top is structured not to fall prey to the weight of water. Unlike a cotton shelf bra tank top. So, if I swam any faster than 0.5mph, I was slipping nips. Which wouldn't have been as big an issue of concern if three people weren't wearing swim goggles. It's like when a Pokemon hurts itself in its confusion, and the confusion here is Western and capital based beauty standards.
But, you know- breasts are Piscean in that they can spill over boundaries, or even if you just leave them alone, soft and rebellious in not justifying their purpose, indifferent to anyone's wish to hide, not really able to hide . . . like dreams.
At least an hour of swimming would justify the ticket price, I decided, and as the hour mark neared, I needed to feel the waterfall. The second swim over, I felt more confident. Used to the resistence of my body through the water. The waterfall was maybe 10 feet tall. Placed just at the edge of the waterfall's impact into the pool, faux rock jutted out, and a foot behind the waterfall was a short ridge you could sit on if balanced carefully. I swam through the curtain of water, found a good handhold along the jut of rock, and then inched forward-
BAM WHUM WHUMMMMHHH
The first 10 seconds underneath that force nearly dunked me underwater. It's always a shock to be remindede of how powerful water is. Relentless. God, it felt so good. I rolled my head forward, let the water punch into the fat and tendon along my neck and shoulders, straightening back up to once again earnestly attempt to have the water cave my skull in. If not for the sounds of my ragged breathing, I think I could have drowned there without much fuss.
It's been diffincult to find a way to describe the sound and feel of it. But. It's something like . . . the sound of fists pounding into that boiled sugar before it hardens into taffy. And it's the sound of mountain stone falling to the beginning. Sugar, stone, freshwater cool.
The last order of the trip was a short snack/lunch at the cafe. I ordered a chicken sandwich (two tenders in a white bread coat), no fries (an extra FOUR DOLLARS), and a bottle of water.
The lunch might have been lackluster, but the vibes carried all the weight of the moment anyway. Tall, firm palm trees auduaciously tickling the sun, the burbling water fountain, the stone and wood breezeway connecting pool to courtyard to exit. I was sitting there, almost steaming in the light and breeze, hearing Sade's "Is It A Crime" playing in my mind. A day so picturesque, even the sight of orange cones and dust at a construction site across the street wasn't the break in paradisical continuity it should have been. It was more like a cheeky wink, a hint of reality in a cloistered oasis, akin to a pinch of salt to enhance sweetness.
I'm a facade loving bitch- immerse me in the fantasy! Don't make me do all the work! My first trip to Rapid's Water Park as a child was a letdown after a dozen times in the simulation called Typhoon Lagoon. I love pretty places, call me a snob if you must, but I think they improve the mood and uplift the spirits. I know what's out there, but right now I want to be concerned with what's here. Here, with my shoulders approaching burning, stiffened curls, the cool of the acquifer folding into my blood and shielding me from Pluto for even a brief time.
I left there sleepy, fuzzy, still unemployed, with the gnarliest bruise I've ever had. No idea how it even happened. What I do know, is that this was a significantly more useful (and far more pleasureable) use of my time. I'll have to sit down and face what burns in my heart, and along the base of my skull eventually. Speak it aloud, let it out. But, for now, a shower and a nap will take precedence.