Growing up, you always think mermaids are gonna be pretty. Like, real “Princess of the Sea” stuff. You think Ariel– or Aquamarine. All luscious hair and sparkling tails coasting breezily through a vast, colorful ocean. As a child devoted (perhaps addicted) to bath time; I wanted this. I wanted this so bad– in fact– that I started saving pennies.

It started with a handful, and then a pocket. Two pockets. Sandwich baggies, a mason jar, a flower vase. I went spelunking in the Caverns of the Couch Cushions, scuffed my knees on concrete inspecting  sidewalk cracks. Eventually, I wheeled my rickety metal wagon to the town’s old wishing well. A dragon’s hoard of copper-coated zinc and a heart full of hope, I stood tall for 15 hours. Stood hunched for another 10. One by one, I tossed all my pennies in the well and–with each coin– I wished I could breathe underwater. Eventually of course, I collapsed, reeking of a day’s worth of urine, sweat, and (in my opinion) success. I was certain I’d wished hard enough to be heard. I would be a mermaid.

And what better time to put it to the test?

In desperate need of a shower to cleanse the evidence of my efforts, I beelined to the bathroom. A comforting rain surrounded me, but I grasped the wall beside me cautiously. You know, as to not be caught off guard by any mystical transformations, but…nothing.

I stayed there til the hot water ran cold, just in case.

Wrapped in a scratchy towel, the foggy clock on the bathroom wall reminded me that tomorrow was coming quickly. Desperate for the bliss of a permanent bath, the stakes raised a bit with each clock tick. My phone responded to my pruney finger’s touch. 

There’s a version of me 6 hours from now that’s crusty-eyed and ornery. Filling up the greedy gas tank of a car that demands more than it’s worth. And he’s on his way to work– right? But for some reason he’s standing at the pump and staring off into space with a sparkle in his baggy eyes. You can’t help but wonder when you see him, “What’s got this dickhead looking so zen? I’ll have what he’s having!”

He’s thinking about being alone at the top of a lighthouse, or the bottom of the ocean. He’s imagining a world where he isn’t himself, just a body held by warm water, sporting a beard made of green apple bubbles. Where he suspended in time, floating atop a bed of epsom salts and scented oils. 

The minutes raced past me. Tomorrow is coming. Against my better judgement, I watched my own wrinkled hand reach for that silver spigot. I’d try again. Not a shower, but a bath this time. That would do the trick. The water ran cold, I flinched when I touched it. The clock loomed over me, unforgiving and unwilling to negotiate. There is a version of me 20 years ago that splashes around giddily, ignorant and inspired. I reached for her, but she vanished. 

I dove into the freezing tub headfirst, and what once was shallow now completely submerged me. I was desperate, and committed to stopping time one way or another, so I didn’t bother with holding my breath. Surrounded by tight walls of water, I inhaled, and allowed my lungs to flood with liquid fire. The burning in my chest warmed the icy bath to a comfortable temperature, and when I tried to hack out a sputtered cough, only bubbles escaped my freshly puckered lips. When I had finally peeked at myself in the faucet’s reflection, it was no mermaid looking back at me, but a fish. Speckled green on top, with black beady eyes, and a bright orange belly.

A big brook trout, damn near 2 feet long. 

That was a lifetime ago. Or maybe yesterday. It’s hard to know, since the clock has stopped ticking. The tub’s a tight squeeze, and it’s more “Fish of Freshwater” than “Princess of the Sea”. Still, it’s a dream come true.  I don’t have to make shopping lists, or sit in traffic. Us big fish in small ponds get this lousy reputation. But to tell you the truth, I’ve never felt more snug.