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Commentary: The basic necessity of life itself is just that

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My name is Carol, and I am addicted to water.

Here’s the ugly truth: Not only do I chug back at least the nine cups of beverages the Institute of Medicine says is the daily recommended amount for women, but I feel bereft when denied a shower and am nearly beside myself between the months of October and May, when our pool isn’t warm enough for me to dip my toe into.

I twitch, I pout and I fume when I don’t get enough of my fix.

An enabling co-worker tries to assuage my guilt during this prolonged drought by pointing out that I can’t help myself. She reminds me I was born under an astrological water sign. She knows my poor old body teeters around more noticeably during the months I can’t spend hours treading water in the deep end. She’s also keenly hip to the fact that without enough coffee in my system each morning there is no use trying to get me to string coherent sentences together.

On the plus side of the liquid equation, I have made sure our dishwasher and washing machine are of the water-saving variety. I’ve also become a less enthusiastic gardener in recent years, so I’m not hand-watering multiple pots of color bowls these days. And anyone driving down our street can tell by a quick glance that neither my husband nor I have power-washed the picket fence or dust-laden shutters that frame our windows — not for a very long time, indeed. But gray’s the new white, right?

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Ah, but there are the lawns. Ours are modest but grass does consume space in both our front and backyards. Both of those water-sucking swaths of green are too inviting on summer days. Bermuda in the front, St. Augustine in the back, they scream “come do cartwheels on me!”

Nevermind the fact that I haven’t made any gymnastic movements since the seventh grade, I’m still enamored by the idea that maybe — perhaps after being limbered up by a long session in the pool — I just might be able to answer the siren call of the lawn and perform some sort of spiraling feats across its surface before decrepitude sets in permanently.

There is one more confession I have to make related to our water consumption. It’s not my addiction that led to this, I swear, but my husband’s. For 20 years we’ve enjoyed a small pond and fountain that a handyman constructed for us behind the picket fence. It’s kind of sweet, with its yellow-blossoming water lilies, but it’s not appropriate in this climate. It needs to disappear.

If you sneak in during the night and steal our turf, I won’t object. It will save us the cost and effort of doing the deed ourselves. I’ll happily relinquish the dream of doing cartwheels on it, especially if you do the dirty work for us. You can also have my husband’s pond, as far as I’m concerned. But I’m begging you not to take my pool away, nor my showers, nor my multiple steaming beverages. A woman’s got to have something to live for.

CAROL CORMACI is the managing editor of Times Community News in Los Angeles County.

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