Loose
Summer hit the twin cities like a truck: sticky and stifling. Equilibrium is just barely maintained between my head on fire and the thick air it resides in. This summer haze, though, boy does it inspire. A city built for post-grad ambition it seems… Kaitlyn recently obtained her license to carry (strictly for journalistic purposes), Sophie is conducting oral history interviews with a stage photographer who captured Prince in his prime, Quinn is pumping out the “world’s best cinnamon buns,” and I spent my weekend in a constant tread earning my lifeguard certification for my upcoming seasonal job. Come September, I’ll begin working at camp Menogyn in Grand Marais, MN where I’ll lead canoe trips during the Fall season and mush dogs when the lakes turn to ice.
I’ve never been too proficient at staying afloat. When I was in primary school, my mom signed me up for a competitive Nike swim camp and feigned surprise as the double doors opened tokeeled over figures loosening their triangle frames via the Michael Phelps arm flap. My techni-color paisley bikini just didn’t offer that kind of flexibility, but by the end of the week, I was sporting a long-sleeve Roxy swim shirt and proudly accepting my branded kickboard for “most-improved.”
I dialed in for round two this past weekend at the Eden Prairie public pool. This lifeguarding course almost entirely consisted of 14 year olds boys, yet my post-pubescent slender shoulders were often praised. I was a prime spinal victim as I could seamlessly glide into the streamline saving position with both arms hugging my ears. Passive drowning drills, too, were a walk in the park. I preferred to be the victim who hung out limp at the bottom of the pool, but as the saver, I simply chose the skinniest person to drag up from the bottom of the pool and whispered in their ear “hey help me out here, would ya?” until they discreetly fluttered their feet and filled themselves up with air to make it all go a bit smoother.
Rigid
Strapped for things to do in my frost-bitten state, I attended the Rejects Cohort 2026 - short dances that were previously rejected (and for good reason). The show “served as a place to take a breath together, share art together, and be in community together. As a cohort we feel as though it is vital to continue to offer and create these spaces amidst the fear, grief, and fatigue we are facing.” The usage of liberal arts buzzwords is blatant. A compilation of humility followed: “Brief Kleptomania Groove” and “Reminiscent From the Rain” to name a couple. One dance reminded me of my 5 minute improvised solo to “Fourth Time Around” in dance composition class where I pretended to ride a bike in my “I Want You” band tee and “I Love My Brain” helmet. Though, to me it was all a bit.
A work-life balance has proven tricky but oh so crucial. From 8:30-4:00 pm, I quell, crawl on all fours, and babble incoherently with my baby far-from-kin. After which, I engage in free labor at the Roseville Wildlife Rehabilitation Center. Here, I attempt to net a squirrel with alopecia and big balls. His bare legs are rubbed raw against the grated enclosure. I drain painted turtle tubs and forget about the minnows residing in the murky water until they are belly up on the linoleum floor. And last Sunday, I was knuckle-deep in the mouth of a sedated bob cat who had to be euthanized due to a snapped jaw bone. Oh brother, it’s bleak.
As winter dwindles and I slowly acclimate to a newfound med-less dome, I’m hopeful that my feet will begin to feel less heavy. Until then, I rehearse professor Pat’s words: “23 will become 24 and things will improve as the way forward becomes clear.”