number 41

So, I do this weird thing. When I go to the Y, I put my stuff in the locker with the number that corresponds with my age. OK, well when I go to the West Seattle Y I put my stuff in locker 150 unless I know Roberta will be there, then I defer to wisdom and age and the woman who fed me my first Thanksgiving meal in Washington. But usually, I put my stuff in the locker that's the same number as my age. Today I opened locker number 40 and there was all this funky stuff in it--ear wax to keep pool water out, and some random swim cap. Oh yeah, I'm not 40 any more. I moved to the next locker, to number 41. And this sent me. The years go marching, it's what Sophia Lyon Fahs said, the years go marching. Yes they do. I looked just a little to my left, and there against the wall was locker number 37. There she was all cute and young with no troubles. And 38 stood next to her, a little worse for the wear, that locker has been through some stuff. And then was 39, proud of her spot but still, just barely holding it all together. And 40, oh yeah 40. Now that locker has waited, and waited, usually pretty patiently. Now here we are, locker number 41. Half way down the aisle. Finally. Here we are.

I put my clothes in the locker, changed into my work out clothes, tucked away my towel for the shower later, and slammed it shut. 41. Locker number 41.

Locker number 41.