THINGS ARE GOING SWIMMINGLY




Astute readers of the sidebar to my blog will notice that it mentions my recent discovery of the love of my fitness life, swimming. I will say right now, I love swimming. I love it so much I want to marry it! (I have already admitted my crush to Pie and he is happy for us. Frankly, I think he was relieved I am two-timing him with a "sporty activity"--after all, he has been cheating on me all these years with basketball, mountain biking, summer league softball, etc and etc.)

But back to me. I loved swimming in our backyard pool as a kid in California but this is even better. I know what you are thinking. You are thinking "That Julie is even more cracked than usual. Who could love lap swimming at o'dark-thirty in the morning over splashing around in the sunshine as a kid?" Me! That's who! Aside from the fact that my indoor pool requires no application of sunscreen (of course neither did the pool of my childhood--back in the days before sunscreen or skin cancer were invented) it also is chore-free. In the year and a half since I started swimming at the Eastridge Recreational Center, never once has anyone even suggested that I spend the better part of my day vacuuming up algae, which just shows you where my parent's priorities were when I was growing up. Sure I miss all those synchronized swimming routines that Kelly and I endlessly choreographed there in our classy, "above-ground" pool, but then again the rec center doesn't have Christina Dominguez's little brother there splashing us and having one of his daily nose-bleeds. However, this is not to say that crazy things don't happen in our pool in Highlands Ranch. Of course they do! That is just part of the fun.

First of all, my pool is jam-packed with weirdos, all of which are my close personal swim friends. Most of them I know by their first names, but all of them are better known to me by the identities I have secretly given them. (I think it is important to survey your surroundings and take note of all those you come in contact with, categorizing those people you see around you according to looks, ability, smell, or any other distinguishing feature. I'm pretty sure this is what Jason Bourne would do if he showed up at my pool.) Plus, giving everyone at the pool funny nicknames in my head is just my way of being friendly. Most of these names end with "guy", for the obvious reason that most of the swimmers are men, and guy sounds so chummy. For instance, this morning I shared a lane with Sponge Bob Square Pants Hands Guy. His real name is Jim. He is super nice and wears bright yellow rectangular swim paddles on his hands. See how easy that is? Also there this morning was Slappy. His name is Andrew and he slaps the water with his left arm every stroke. I mean, the guy SLAPS the water. Little Fish, aka Jessica, is an amazingly speedy little swimmer. She is approximately 4'9'' of solid muscle and could give MaryLou Retton's thighs a run for their money. Happy Laps is a pair of giggly girlfriends who laugh their way down the lane, and Snorkel Head is pretty self-explanatory (and overly serious for a person who wears such ridiculous equipage on her head).

Most everyone is really quite pleasant. However there are a few people who, due to their sucky attitudes, want to ruin the fun for the rest of us. (But we don't let them because we make fun of them behind their backs, thus showing them how to get along like grown-ups.) One of these trouble-makers is Circle Swim Guy. He is a real jerk, and we all love not being able to stand him. Circle Swim Guy doesn't want to share a lane with anyone, so if ever some poor, unfortunate schlub makes the mistake of asking him "Hey, do you mind if I share the lane?" he acts hard of hearing and barks "Circle Swim!" in this real fakey accent that we all know is just a bunch of baloney. (Note: We don't circle swim at the pool, but rather everyone stays in their own half of the lane when sharing. At least that is the idea. Good luck, though, if you end up with Drunken Stagger Lane Hog Guy in your lane.) Circle Swim Guy has had "encounters" with every life guard and all of us regulars. When he's not around, we all like to share our recent run-ins we've had with him. It is a real bonding experience for us and we've taken to greeting each other with shouts of "Circle Swim!" whenever we think of it. It makes us feel witty.

Another guy who caused a stir recently was Captain Underpants. Now I am sure that Captain Underpants is probably a really nice guy. I am also convinced of the quality and recent purchase of his underwear (Fruit of the Loom, I believe). What I am not so sure about is why he thought that we were all in the pool in nothing but our unmentionables. Maybe he's just culturally unfamiliar with the whole public swimming attire situation in North America, but since at least the Coolidge Administration, people here have come to swim in public pools wearing swim clothes. A swim diaper, at the very least! It was a disturbing morning for everyone that day at the pool, and I'm not sure if any of us knows exactly where the blame belongs for this misunderstanding. However it is important that we remember this: we are not here to make fun of others, but merely to laugh at them.

And we swimmers are a pretty funny looking bunch. For me, aside from a very unflattering racer-back suit and goggles, I get to wrangle my hair up in a swim cap and feel extra pretty. It's a fabulous look. My head reminds me of a bean or something. (But with all the pulling the cap does, at least I know what I would look like should I ever get a face lift.) So I know I don't look good, but when I occasionally run into one of my swim friends out in public it is still mortifying to hear "Wow. I didn't recognize you with hair and makeup. And with clothes on." Then the random person walking past us in the grocery gives me a funny look. Nice.

But there is so much more to this experience than just the pool, the friends and the people I try to avoid. On the plus side, there is the sauna (which I have learned to love, despite feeling like I am breathing through a damp gym sock) and the hot tub (which is my reward during the 6 months out of the year that I drive to the pool in the dark, in the snow, up hill both ways). Those are the perks. The locker room, while necessary, is not on the list of perks. Ah, the ladies locker room. It is such a kaleidoscope of assaults to all the senses I hardly know where to begin. First of all, it is always cold. This seems counterintuitive to me because with all the showers they put in there you'd think the management would understand that people will be spending at least a portion of their time in the locker room wet and/or naked. So I propose cranking up the heat a skoosh and turning down the John Cougar Melloncamp "Jack and Diane" music because, really John? Are they really doing the best that they can? Didn't think so. (Sorry, I am just so sick of that song. I swear I hear it at least once a week in the locker room, which is pretty amazing considering I am only in there for about 10 minutes 3 times a week.)

Okay, no mention of the locker room would be complete without addressing the nudity issue. Showering naked is fine. Sauntering around the joint, chatting with friends or doing one's hair and makeup while in the buff is just wrong! I don't care how much work you've had done, act like you were raised by parents in some decent shame-based religion and get dressed already. But there they are--the excruciatingly naked--tootling around the place with absolutely no regard for the rest of us. In addition to the blatant nudity, there is also a general abuse of cheap perfume. I can literally taste the lack of taste, if you know what I mean. The other morning I (hungrily) walked from the pool into the locker room and was tantalized by the cruelly delicious aroma of cotton candy--my favorite breakfast! It took me a moment to realize that what I was smelling wasn't actually that delightful pink confection, but rather some very aggressively applied fragrance. And I am thinking to myself, "Who wears cotton candy perfume to work? A middle-school teacher? A carnie maybe?" I mean seriously, what did this woman put on her lips? Watermelon Lipsmackers?

Actually, one of the most rewarding aspects of swimming is not how great my body feels afterward, or even the Hooray For Me attitude that I assume as I drive home at 7:30 in the morning, passing all those people lumbering through a jog (ha ha, I'm all done). No, for me it is the feeling of superiority I get when I compare myself to the elite athlete that I am married to, Mr Pie. He is super-competitive and I learned long ago that we are both happiest athletics-wise when our paths don't cross. I prefer to work out in a civilized environment (translation: no dirt). Pie likes to come home from a ride sunburned with a story about why his jersey is ripped wide open and covered in mud. I like to sweat without really knowing it. For Pie, there should be evidence that he has had a good time, a bloody elbow or cracked rib or some such. Bruising is encouraged. For me, there should be emergency personnel in the vicinity and plenty of opportunities for visiting with my neighbor. Pie likes to win. I could care less about winning. Unless we are talking about sprints in the pool. As it turns out, I'm pretty competitive in the pool, and for this simple reason: I know I am a better swimmer than Pie. Much better. The truth is, I can outswim Pie in the pool any day of the week (and twice on Mondays). He knows this, but refuses to acknowledge the fact. I take great delight in this. Whenever I have an opportunity to bring it up, I do. (Pie: I talked to so and so today, I haven't seen him since high school. Me: Wow. What's it been, like 23 years? So did you tell him your wife can beat the swim shorts off you in the pool?) No, my immature behavior is not very attractive, but trust me, it is very gratifying. Because with the notable exception of miniature golf, a "sport" in which I repeatedly whip his hiney, really all I have is swimming. But for me, it is enough.




Oh how I wish I could just end my blog there, but my overdeveloped sense of honesty and fairness (and the fact that Pie will probably read this) compels me to admit the following: Pie beat me. Now understand, he beat me by the smallest possible margin--and indeed everyone watching the race thought I beat him--but nevertheless, he won. Oh how that rankles me! He had a flip turn that I was unaware of, and without that I think I could have done it. We hit the back wall at the same moment but he left me there. I clawed my way back in a brilliant burst of athleticism and speed and if the pool had been any longer, even Pie acknowledges that I would have won. But alas, it was not to be. Next time we will race for 2 laps instead of one, because I figure at that point the resulting oxygen deprivation will have rendered his arms and legs practically useless. And then you will hear some real gloating, because obviously this experience has taught me nothing.