A Life of Lists

I am prone to making lists in my mind, at my desk, on the subway. I am addicted to little notebooks, stick its, post its. I get this thrill at the very thought of doing something, but the “doing something” excitement fizzles when it's time to get up for bat. Tragic and when forced to complete the thought, I feel like I’m eating a week of leftovers.

Yesterday I forced myself to go to practice. Lately, I’ve been swimming like a slug, mentally not all there, fearful of not being able to read the new digital clocks or understanding the workouts. The coach, a Telly Savalas lookalike, likes me. We exchange few words, but the guy is brilliant. He can see right through me and into my fears. But, as the sister once said, "Even Ray Charles can read you." Last night, he said, "You just need to calm down and relax."

But back to the lists and the swimming. It is only when I swim that I don't make these lists. In the water, I start dreaming up other things, sometimes letting worry infiltrate my thoughts. The other day, I caught a white hair in the mirror, yet another, and began to panic. I am prone to wackiness when that happens. I took out the camera and snapped a picture of myself, seeking out signs of crows feet, laugh lines and wrinkles. That’s where the lists come in: what I want to do by 33, 34, 35, five years from now, ten years from now.

I told the mystery man the other day that it is terrible to have too many choices. I am prone to going to restaurants and annoying the waitresses by flipping through the menu as if it were written in Greek. I admitted the other day to him that my favorite restaurant (if you can call it that) is In and Out, where there are four choices on the menu — hamburger, cheeseburger, with onions or without. If only life were that simple.

Life is pretty simple in the pool, too. There is something very mechanic about just moving one’s arms and legs, a certain rhythm to it, something unlike daily life.