Swishy Shorts

Phooey.

I lost my shorts.

This morning I woke up before 6:00 am,—the lingering effects of jet lag are slowly wearing off—but was able to sleep again until 7:15. I got the emergency cell phone from Ji Sung, the coordinator of the Yum Kwang Summer English School, the one who stayed with us last night in the conference center where we’re living, which is about a 20-minute drive from the Yum Kwang church.

After descending the five flights of stairs, crossing the parking lot, and walking down the hill-so-steep-that-I-didn’t-want-to-attempt-to-run-down-it, I started my 30 minute morning run. The road travels with the river which ribbons through the cresting tree-covered hills. I lost track of how many times I jogged over a bridge crossing it. The roadside was dotted with touristy attractions: motels, hotels, beverage and snack shops, restaurants, and some type of an amusement park. There was even some international influence: I saw an establishment with the European Union’s flag on its sign, and a signpost which listed the distance to what I assume were prominent European cities. I can only guess, because they were written in Korean.

I am frustrated with how little I know of Korean. I have no legitimate reason to expect that I would know more, but that doesn’t stop me from lamenting that I can barely remember our teaching assistants’ names, the name of the neighborhood in which the Yum Kwang church is located and the place where we’re staying. It has taken me until today to remember how to say: “Hello” and “Thank you”. I don’t know how much more I can reasonably expect my brain to retain. I want to be fluent in the language, and I haven’t invested any time in learning it. The fact that I don’t know it discourages me from studying it because I like to think that I have the potential to learn it. If I were to put that thought to the test, I know that I’d be disappointed. And so thus far I’m letting the idealistic, unrealistic part of me triumph.

I returned from my run at 8:00. After my shower I rinsed out my swishy soccer/pajama/swimming/painting/exercise shorts in the sink and hung them on the balcony to dry. When I came back this evening, they were gone. I went back down the five flights of stairs and got on my hands and knees in the dark parking lot to look under the two vehicles parked beneath our balcony, but there’s nothing in sight. Thus my “Phooey.” I brought along too much of just about every article of clothing, but these were my only swishy shorts. In fact, they’re the only pair of swishy shorts that I own(ed).

Two weeks ago I wore them when I painted the gable on the front of our house, and acquired another strange tan line—this one on the back of my legs—from the sun beating on my calves as I primed and painted in purple. By the time I finished, their navy blue was splotched with lavender. Laura wrinkled her forehead and bit her tongue when I finished cleaning the paint brushes and changed to go to Green Lake that Saturday evening and the shorts morphed from painting to swim attire. I raised my eyebrows and gave a teasing smile in response. Yes, I was going to go swimming in my painting shorts. To be fair, she didn’t make any further comment. Some things are better left unsaid. So rest assured Laura: you made your point without speaking it. The shorts are gone, which means that this Saturday I’ll likely have to purchase new ones when we go into Seoul and spend the day shopping. Until then, I’ll be sleeping in rather than taking a morning jog.