Last Sunday, I made sure I got my weekend errands done before 1:00. I did my grocery shopping, collected the empty water bottles from my car’s backseat for recycling, and reconciled my records of the past week’s debit card transactions with the bank’s. I wanted to get these things done so that I could go swimming.

Not that I’m a budding Michaelina Phelps or anything. I don’t do laps. It’s just been so hot and sticky lately, the thought of splashing around at the Hamlin Park pool seemed like heaven.

I put on my suit and stepped into a very worn set of shorts and peeling bluish flip flops, and I packed for my close to home day at the beach. I had one of those over-sized beach towels with the kinds of crazy colors you’d never see hanging in anyone’s bathroom, a couple trial sized tubes of SPF 30 lotion – sports edition (i.e. waterproof), a small boom box, a book, and a bladder blaster-sized can of Arizona Iced Tea. Yep. I was ready for serious water frolicking.

When I got to the park, only a short walk from my apartment, I hit the path that winds between one of four baseball diamonds and an open green area. Couples and small groups of twenty-somethings had set out blankets for some sunning and dogs were walking their owners to the dog park on the other side of Ernie Banks Field. I smiled at everyone enjoying their summer Sunday then tripped up the cement stairs of the recreation building. I was trying to remember whether the ladies locker room (and access to the pool) was on the left or right on the information desk when I saw a large portable chalkboard with the message, “Pool closed until 4:45.”

What was this about? I walked up to the clerk at the information desk and asked. She told me that I should call later to get updated information on when the pool would open. The engineers might not clear it for opening until even later than 4:45. “What was the exact nature of the problem?” I demanded to know. I held my loaded tote bag close to my side and shifted my weight with exasperation. The lady at the desk took a sigh as big as the deep end of the pool.

“A child,” she whispered in a confidential way, “went to the bathroom in the pool.”

Oh my God. Maybe I won’t go back to the pool the rest of the season, I thought. As much as I hate hearing “no,” I felt grateful that someone was holding to the rules on this one. I might have indulged myself in disappointment, but I let it go.

I walked back to the grassy area. I spread a lightweight blanket, and then my beach towel, on the ground. I placed my boom box down and turned the receiving dial until I found the broadcast of the ball game. My can of Arizona Iced Tea was still cold. Good. I stepped out of my shorts and applied sun block to my arms and legs and as far down on my back as I could reach. I stretched out on my stomach with my head over my book; a true story of a scientific discovery that was as easy and engaging to read as fiction. I heard the Mexican fruit ice vendor making his jing-a-ling sound as he rode his oddly customized bicycle cum freezer around the park. When I finished each chapter, I looked up at the blanket thirty feet away and exchanged winks with a little white dog that was part of his family’s outing. Summer afternoons are beautiful, I thought.

Developing the discipline to move from “no” to “yes” is no small thing.