I have a friend, S, who is part fish. Perhaps in a former life she was a dolphin but is now consigned to a land existence. Still her soul is in the water. She swims about five times a week and often says how at home she feels there.
Whenever both of us are free, we swim on Sunday mornings at the local health club. It’s tricky because there are a lot of rules for swimming at this over-used, over-scheduled, not particularly attractive pool.
You have to book a swim lane in advance. You have to show up within five minutes of the time you booked or you’re cancelled. You can swim for only half an hour. You must do this; you must do that. There is a certain frustration about this that impinges on being in the water.
There’s more. If I wear my suit to the pool, I must remember to bring underwear. (This is something you forget only once.) There’s the shower before and after entering the pool. I do both, not for hygienic reasons but because my hair stylist said it is better for my hair to have it filled with unchlorinated water before entering the pool. The same goes for after swimming; you want to get that yukky stuff out of your hair and body as soon as possible. There are also issues about the lockers, but I’ll save that for another rant.
If it weren’t for S, I wouldn’t bother. She is so faithful about encouraging me to swim in spite of what a hassle it is. We persevere. But here’s a secret.
I don’t want S to know that I really do it because after swimming we go to KFC for chicken.
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