Washes me all over
Washes me away
And still I'm drowning" Joe Jackson
"(I'm) a brick and I'm drowning slowly." Ben Folds Five
"I’m sweating,
And breathing
And staring and thinking
And sinking
Deeper.
It’s almost like I’m swimming." Tool
Swimmers. Can you hear the contempt in my voice? Of course not. I'd worry if you did. For as long as I remember I've avoided swimming. But now, kicking and screaming, I have had to become one. I'm being literal of course. Most of my swimming consists of kicking and screaming when I'm not actually inhaling chlorine filled water.
I've avoided the big plunge forever, but my 39 year old knees decided that the day would be more fun with IT band swelling and general knee pain. I swear that my knees are giggling every time I squat down to play with my kid as the knees snap, crackle, pop and I groan like a 1500 year old Sequoia in the wind, only louder.
"Daddy, your knees sound like breakfast!"
"But son, they feel like ___." I'm never allowed to finish that sentence, as the glance from my wife tells me it's time to change the subject. Ah, if only I could stand back up.
I know swimming is good for you, but I've never really identified with these broad shouldered, muscle encrusted, rubber headed, eye goggled, body shaving, kick flippin', "we're the best exercise" gloating, chlorine breathing, please shower before entering the pool area bas**ds.
Ah, that helped. I feel better already.
Being a runner, biker, rollerblader, and doing any other sport that allows oxygen freely into your lungs, I've always considered swimming only one step away from the treadmill. You start at a wall, go to the next, and come back 'home'. Then you do it all over again. It's like commuting, only less fun and with dirty water left over from the previous hours pre-school swimming program. You know what I'm getting at and I'm sorry.
So there's no scenery, no favorite loops, no dodging cars, and no talking to a friend. Just the goggle distorted site of a black line, lost Band-Aids, water suspended phlegm, the sound of gasping, splashing, and the funky green colored bottom where the lifeguard will probably find me dead since he is too busy talking to the girl sunning herself in a bikini the size of the Sacajawea dollar.
But I'm not bitter. I just can't breath. Plus, I smack my head on the concrete every time I do the backstroke. Dear Michael Phelps, please save me or at least show me where I can find some air.
But I'm attacking the pool like we attacked Iraq, with my WMD being the green water. I liberate a little water from the pool every time I leave. A little in the lungs, a little in the belly, and a lot in the ears. However, unlike Iraq things might be getting a little better.
My last swimming experience was as follows:
So back and forth I go. I'm moving like a large, flailing rock, only less boyant. I've noticed that they've positioned extra female lifeguards for some reason. Maybe they just think I'm cute? It's tough to say with goggles that see the world as clearly as Donald Rumsfeld. Nope, that's a look of worry on their faces. I just took my pulse, and it was 358.. That has to be good. Did my right arm just fall off? Nope, it's just numb. I've just had the head of the local triathlon club offer her coaching expertise as I gasped for breath gripping the side of the pool like a vice. Her introduction was, "I can help you with your form." That can't be a good sign. At the end, I seem to have breathed more air and less water this time around. As I stagger out of the pool, I notice something.
I feel like I've exercised.
As Tool said, "It's almost like I'm swimming." I may have to do this again sometime. Now if I could only get this water out of my ear.
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