Chapter 1: Preamble

Early March, and spring has arrived. The trees are already pruned, the grass is raked, crocuses poke through the rotting mulch in the flower beds left over from last fall. My world is unfolding as it has for the past 68 years.

I spent the winter in a funk. The best part of most days was in the first two hours of the morning. Roll out of bed, contemplate life on the porcelain dais, tidy up my visage, unknit my eyebrows because I slept on my face most of the night, then walk down the six steps to the coffee maker while strangling the handrail lest I should slip in my socks.

Standing in front of the fridge, I arch my back with my hands on my hips unknotting my muscles and hoping I don’t hear that creaking sound from my knee, and look to the ceiling. I notice that a light bulb has gone to the afterlife. Hmm… looks like I’ll be busy this weekend.

I click on the Breville Cafe Roma orgasmacoffeetron and rustle up the makings of a cappuccino; add the precise amount of espresso grounds, tamp with a twist of my Joefrex Technic adjustable tamper, place my Van Gogh starry nights china coffee cup under the dual spouts and press the bliss button.

With a thick brown layer of crema caressing my upper lip I lean forward to gawk at the monitor; first to three separate weather channels (just to make sure that I still live in the best place in the world), than to rue the fate of our investments, and finally to see who still loves me by sending funny and encouraging emails each morning. Of course the digital friendgrams are blurred by the avalanche of product suggestions from Google’s search algorithms. Annoying as it is, it does give you an insight into what you’ve been thinking of over the past month. How to clean goose shit off your knee when you slip in the park, or Miss Turkmenistan 2011 was Gulshat Gurbanova whose favorite tool is a meat cleaver; just random thoughts that pass the dog days of winter.

Fortified now both mentally and orally, I disrobe, step outside, and sachay the twenty-six feet across our covered deck and down to our Softub Water Wonder300. Flip open the lid, carefully step over the side and stand twenty-eight inches deep into a 104 degree water cauldron. Then I ease my posterior down to the vinyl surface and luxuriate in steamy warmth. Our tub is called Steve. Steve is my friend.

No water jets, no neighbor or street distractions, no sounds but for the chickadees and song sparrows, just a euphony for the auditory satisfaction of myself. My aqua routine usually consists of squirming for a bit trying to find the perfect spot for my neck to rest against the padded wall and then close my eyes. Soon after I rotate my body like a crocodile drowning it’s prey, and then lean on the edge of the tub with my elbows pushed wide and my hands under my chin grinning at the spectacular view of the Kootenay River valley that our back yard looks out upon. After forty-five minutes to an hour I am thoroughly saturated and pruned and I reverse my entrance order and head back indoors. It’s almost time for my nap.