Michael Phelps once said, “Swimming is normal for me. I’m relaxed. I’m comfortable, and I know my surroundings. It’s my home.” He then added, “Hey, hey, smoke weed everyday,” while exhaling a plume of smoke in the shape of an Olympic gold medal.
Personally, I probably do not feel as comfortable in the water as Phelps does, but I do enjoy a good swim every now and then. It’s as relaxing or strenuous as you want it to be, and you can do it practically anywhere there’s water—examples include the Luce Natatorium, a clogged shower, Lake Erie and in the salty tears of your opponents. But no matter where you doggy-paddle, it’s almost always going to be fun. (Unless it’s in the aforementioned shower, as there was probably all sorts of disgusting hair in the drain, and that just grosses everyone out.)
I have recently begun attending Asbury’s swim meets, much to the annoyance of the fundamentalists who insist that no one should be allowed on the deck without a speedo (apparently thongs don’t count). Thankfully, though, you’re generally accepted if you have a fancy camera with which you appear to be taking pictures for journalistic purposes, and use words like “shutter speed,” “aperture” and “wait, do that again,” so I decided to borrow one and take blurry pictures of various abs.
Seeing these athletes perform such incredible feats reminded me fondly of my pool back home and doing flips under its shallow surface. On the eve of the day on which I would take the written portion of my driver’s license test, I was having a particularly fun time splashing around with pool toys and seeing what was the dumbest thing that I could do that wouldn’t quite result in me drowning.
I like to be able to see when I’m underwater so that I can pretend to be an exotic fish or sea monster, but I hate the feeling of chlorine eating away at my retinas. So, naturally, I wear goggles (Momma didn’t raise no dummy) when I swim. However, the only ones available were giant, yellow ones that covered half my face and were a bit too tight. Whatever, swimming isn’t about comfort—it’s about the sensation of being wet and afraid for your life. Kind of like birth.
Now, don’t get me wrong, smacking my face against the bottom of the pool wasn’t fun, but I was elated that I didn’t accidentally swallow a pint of water when I screamed like a little girl who had just smacked her face against the floor of her pool after trying to do a flip underwater. Apparently, I had finally outgrown our above-ground, four-feet-deep collection of liquid. I just found out a bit late.
The next day, I awoke looking like a victim of spousal abuse (but, thankfully, without the added pain of having a spouse) and readied myself for the big exam. “Finally,” I thought, “I’ll be my own man. No longer will the oppression of my parents and the laws of my government hold me back from driving to and from school or Taco Bell. No longer will I submit to the wishes of this world, and its warranted fear of me behind the wheel. Today, I become a man.” Then, due to the slippery cotton of my Spider-Man slippers against our wood paneling, I fell butt-first down the stairs, and each step made its own distinct impression onto my battered bottom—which is only slightly worse than a buttered one. I cried like a little girl. With pigtails.
So there I am: broken nose, black eyes, the need for a donut pillow, and I am about to be forever immortalized on a laminated card to be held on my person for years. “Cheese!”
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