T A B L E++T A L K

Public schools vs. private: Take sides in the Mothers area of Table Talk

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R E C E N T L Y

Spice of Life
By Chitra Divakaruni
My fictional children
(01/28/98)

"Mama, you're Old Spice!"
By Ariel Gore
Spice Girls, aka the anti-Christ
(01/27/98)

Femmes fatales
By Margaret Talbot
Are women more violent than men?
(01/26/98)

Can this marriage be saved?
By Camille Peri and Lori Leibovich
Will Hillary Clinton stand by her man?
(01/23/98)

Do the right thing
By Sallie Tisdale
Should the U.S. apologize for slavery? Only if we ever want to have a real conversation about racism
(01/22/98)

ARCHIVES

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Mamafesto
By Camille Peri
Why it's time
for Mothers Who Think

B Y__G R A Y S O N__H U R S T__D A U G H T E R S

The best time to go to the pool is midmorning. Then, there is a space at the end of the lanes where sunlight pours into the water from the glass side of the natatorium. You can swim back and forth through that space as you do laps, flip-turning your way back into the brilliant square of light, passing through it methodically, with your swimmer's poise turned up full.

If you get to Saturday morning water aerobics class early enough, you can stake out a spot directly in the square of light. That way, you can pass the class watching your still-tanned summer legs and arms create sparkled bursts of liquid light, millions of times more powerful than any engagement ring you've ever laid eyes on.

The pool is not fancy, just five lanes in need of resurfacing. Being members of a hospital's health club, the clientele aren't very fancy either. A lot of efficient swimming doctors and their small children on the weekends.

The water aerobics class is more comfort than work. Some days it feels like a gathering of Italian widows, two lanes filled with plump women in supposedly slenderizing black swim suits, all earnestly churning away with the fleshy parts of their arms resting near the surface of the water. The blind lady and her companion walk their way back and forth simultaneously, rhythmically, in the next lane.

The best time to visit the club, if you can make it, is midmorning during the week. There are no kids screaming in the showers then, with mothers way too busy to speak to you. The chlorine-smelling locker room is filled instead with the arthritis class ladies.

The arthritis class ladies are not quiet. Sometimes there are many of them, all slowly, slowly dressing together after their exercise class, calling out to each other in their distinct Southern accents. Their high, sweet voices echo against the tiled walls, not really matching the aged skin you sometimes glance, then glance away from. Their skin can be as wrinkled as a load of laundry you've left in the dryer for over a day.

The arthritis ladies have an innate deference to the young women who pass strongly by them as they slowly, slowly make their way from the showers to the dressing space. They don't give me that same look. I guess I'm not fit enough nor young enough anymore.

Instead, they all smile at me, every single one of them. Never fail. I wonder if they know they break my heart every time they do that. Every time they smile at me with their perfectly applied lipstick, their stooped backs and their waved and colored hair, I see my grandmother standing there with me in that locker room, giving me that same kind of telling smile.

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N E X T+P A G E: A great floater