Swimming in Fog

We hosted our three oldest grandsons for a sleepover halfway through their spring break. I thought an afternoon at the pool would provide a great way to burn off some adolescent energy, and the boys certainly weren’t opposed. Before leaving the house, I reminded them at least twice to remember their swimming suits and towels. Once everyone loaded into the car, I asked again. Trunks? Check. Towels? Check.

Away we went, grateful to live so near Stride Place. Nobody was surprised to find the parking lot full, but we found a space some distance from the doors and the boys barreled out. I looked around my feet. Where was my purse? I must have put it in my tote bag with my bathing suit. I opened the back of the vehicle and checked my bag. No purse. I never forget my purse.

How humiliating. “Sorry boys. I have no way to pay. We need to run home for my purse.”

At least we hadn’t gone all the way inside. I gave them the option of staying there or coming home with me, and they all piled back into the car. Luckily, it’s only a five-minute drive. Graciously, the boys said nothing but they certainly could have ribbed me. I ran inside, grabbed my purse, and away we went. Again.

When I opened my purse to pay for our swim time, I discovered I’d forgotten my cell phone. I never forget my cell phone.

Oh well, not a huge deal. I could live without it for a couple of hours. I just wouldn’t be able to text hubby to let him know when to expect us home.

Unfamiliar with how the change room lockers worked, I hadn’t known to bring padlocks. I purchased two—one for me and one for the boys—increasing the price of our activity by thirty percent. (Although, without the calculator on my phone, my math could be off.)

The boys and I parted ways and reconvened in our swimwear on the pool side, locker keys firmly attached to our wrists with the rubber bands provided. This being spring break, the pool was shoulder-to-shoulder people. Plenty of grandparents with grandkids, like us, as well as parents. I checked out the hot tub first, then dog-paddled around while the boys rough-housed. Once the lineup at the slide shortened, they tried that. I did not. Two hours seemed plenty for them, so back to the change rooms we went.

I opened my locker.

Inside, I found someone else’s stuff. What?

I checked the number. I’d opened the wrong locker. Mine was two doors over. Why had my key worked in someone else's lock?

I locked it, then opened mine. No problem. Was I losing my mind?

After dressing and returning to the lobby, I told the receptionist my weird story. He suggested that maybe the other person had not actually clicked their padlock properly closed, in which case I only thought my key opened it.

Now new thoughts tortured me. What if the person deliberately left their lock unlocked because they didn’t have the key but wanted it to appear locked?

I guess I’ll never know. I do know the whole experience felt a bit surreal. I chalked up my forgetfulness to lingering brain fog after fighting a month-long virus. Or the stress of having to oversee three minors when I’m no longer used to it. Or fatigue from missing my afternoon nap. Probably all three. Certainly not old age.

It felt good to get home.

“For God is not a God of confusion but of peace.” (1 Corinthians 14:33)