In Which Our Heroine Achieves Domesticity
Well, after a long week of selling T passes at Harvard (a job which is suprisingly more interesting than it sounds, if for no other reason than my perkiness quotient just goes up all day - it is an interesting phenomenon to me. This is not even considering the fact that somehow I have managed to start to make friends with some of the people I have sold T passes to - two of them are e-mailing me about careers in patent law and one, God love him, is hooking me into the anti-war effort. This is what happens when you comment on someone's "No War in Iraq" button.), I acheived domesticity all weekend. I was supposed to have pancakes with Lolo on Saturday morning, but she was too tired from a hot date on Saturday night, so I headed off to my first meeting of the parents.

Why am I meeting with parents? Because I am the new novice boys and girls rowing coach for Cambridge Rindge and Latin School. Practice starts March 17, we race a month after that. It is my job a) to teach them to row (they haven't before), b) make it fun, c) keep it safe (I'm a *bear* about safety), and d) who knows maybe we'll even win something. I must say though that winning isn't my priority. I suspect it is for some of the parents, but it is much more important to me to instill love of the sport and the safety aspects in them. Winning is about how well you row on the day comapred to everyone else. If the competition is weak, you can be bad and still win, and if the competition is strong you can turn in the row of your life and still lose by a country mile. So I met the kids. My initial impression of them is .... terrified. They didn't even get to meet me until they'd had an hour meeting with parents in tow of being told "don't get detention, don't do drugs, don't miss practice, don't do this, don't do that, if your grades aren't high enough" and so on. They've never done it before, they don't really know yet what it involves, and two weeks before they even get to touch a boat they get put into the whole "this is everything that can go wrong" deal of it all. The parents had loads of questions, the kids were pretty quiet (there weren't that many, I will meet more next week) and I now have a survival suit. It is windproof, waterproof, quite warm (I think there's neoprene or something similar in it) and basically looks like a big snowsuit. I am quite certain I owned something similar when I was two. Certainly the minute I put it on and zipped it up I immediately had to disrobe due to a sudden urge to pee. It is also bright yellow. You could certainly find me in a snowstorm with it. Or bobbing up and down in the middle of the river. It will be great for coaching. Rowing at least you work out, you exercise, you stay warm as long as you're working. Coaching you're stock still, the wind is nipping at you from being in the motorboat, and often it is raining to boot. Rowing in the rain, I like. Coaching in the cold rain, not so much. Of course, even with rowing in the rain, its all about the right gear. Coolmax is the biz. And with coaching is also the gear. Thus, the survival suit. Though I have to say sexy it is not. Somewhere between fisherman and astronaut. My friend Elenarda is arriving the 19th of March. The woman hasn't seen me in years. This will no doubt be quite a vision for her. She will no doubt turn around and run fleeing back to England, baby in her arms.

The survival suit, I have to say though left me feeling a little less than feminine. So I came home and drew a bath and threw in the old Lush bath bomb, complete with salts and rose petals. Chickiness reigned supreme, so I was able to shove myself into a pair of trou (they're getting snugger every minute and workouts cannot start any too soon for me) and head off to Waltham for dinner with some friends. Even this had an air of domesticity to it - Mike had very socially set up an even number of lads and lasses for an Indian meal out. With one married couple and a mix of people who knew each other and who didn't, it had that air of a very grown up dinner party. Good fun, good people, good food, and somehow I felt a bit immature with it all. Aren't grown ups supposed to do this sort of thing, not me? Ok, so there was also a bit of envy - I want to have real furniture I picked out myself! Mike's taste seems to be pretty decent.

That's ok, as this morning I accelerated full on into happy families. Jim came over and picked me up for brunch. In typical fashion, we didn't actually *eat* our french toast et al until three in the afternoon, but still. I made the mistake of telling his son to go wash up for lunch and was promptly corrected by son that we were having breakfast. Lunch to Will means that Sunday is almost over and its time to start thinking about school in the morning, so breakfast to him is a key component of the denial that it is Sunday. After that it was what Sundays I think are supposed to be. A bit of lounging around, catching up, not really talking about anythng in particular, and soon enough it was time for dinner (which is what happens when you don't eat breakfast until three), with which I was actually helpful as I had trimmed my rosemary bush before I went over and was armed to the teeth. Next thing you know, it is roast chicken dinner with spinach, avacado and pistachio salad. Mmmmmm. And then the three of us sat and watched "Jimmy Neutron: the Movie." It was all terribly happy families. But again, I'm way too young for all this. I'm too young to be married, too young to have a child (much less a 12 year old one) too young for dinner parties and parent/coach meetings. I am only 32 after all.
Tomorrow, internship. Contract clauses galore.
Love,
Anne