“Do you go to meetings?”
“Went to one and I hated it. I’m not sure if I’ll go back.”
“If you do, maybe I’ll go with you.”
No one I’ve ever met has been in better shape than Barbie. She’s thin, but that’s not why she looks good. Each of her muscles is perfectly defined without being all ridiculous and bodybuilderlike. She’s constantly in motion because of her profession, and she pursues fitness in her off time by biking, wake boarding, and playing beach volleyball. She’s an athlete and always has been, so I don’t even think she fully appreciates exactly what kind of shape she’s in.
“Oh, honey, no,” I tell her. “No, no, no. You can’t go to a Weight Watchers meeting.”
Barbie looks puzzled. “Why not?”
“Because they’ll kill you.”
“Really?”
See? Clueless.
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they would. How about I just tell you what I learn?”
“Deal.”
We move on to abs work, and I grunt and complain the entire time. After a week off, I’ve lost some abdominal strength, and the exercises seem more difficult than usual. She’s got me doing push-ups with one hand on the floor and another on a medicine ball, aka the “Jack Palances.” Barbie sees I’m struggling, so she tries to distract me. “What are your plans for later?”
“Ungh . . . I’m going to go swim laps at ungh . . . Holstein Pool.” Every time I push myself up, a bead of sweat falls on the floor. I can actually keep track of how many Palances I’ve done by counting them.
“Really? Double-workout day, huh? Good for you. Swimming sounds like fun. Will Fletch go with you?”
“Ungh . . . no, probably not. He’s not a great swimmer. Ungh. He’s more of a ungh . . . cocktail-by-the-pool guy.”
“Truthfully I’m not great in the water, either. I tried to swim laps when I was in Miami, and I practically drowned. I had to grab one of those kickboards to hold myself up.”
“That’s kind of ungh . . . surprising. You’re so athletic, I assumed you’d be good at any sport.”
“Not swimming. And that’s two . . . one . . . and you’re finished.”
I take a second to catch my breath before telling her, “That’s because you’re not naturally buoyant. Like with me, I can be motionless in the water for hours without any effort. My brother says it’s because I’m built like a manatee.”
“Your brother sounds like an ass.”
“He absolutely is!” I agree. I take another deep breath and stretch my arms over my head. Wow and ow. I can already tell my everything is going to hurt tomorrow.
“You’re all done.”
“Nuh-uh! That was not an hour!”
“We did three sets of every circuit. You were just talking and didn’t notice. Check out the clock—it’s three p.m. Nice job! Glad to have you back!”
“I’m going to run out of here before you change your mind and try to make me do one more set. See you Wednesday, two o’clock?”
“Yep, see ya then! Have a great swim tonight! Let me know how it goes!”
Fifteen minutes before the lap-swim session begins, I take out my contacts and change into a bathing suit. I have a number of suits, but most of them are cut lower to accommodate proper tanning and wouldn’t work for lap swimming. The last thing I want to do is stroke, adjust, stroke, tug, so I put on a ratty old blue tank suit with extragrippy straps and support. I’ve worn it so many summers that the Lycra has been eaten away in a couple of parts, although it’s well lined, so nothing shows. Plus I’m going to be in the water the whole time, and who’s going to see me?
I yank my hair back into two rather high pigtails—again, not a look I’d ever, ever advocate, but it’s the only way I can keep my bangs off my face. I’m about to wash the rest of my eye makeup off, then realize I’ve spent too much time screwing around with my hair. I figure what didn’t already melt off at the gym earlier will rinse clean the second I dive in, so I leave for the pool.
I get to the field house and place everything but my towel and flip-flops in a locker, blindly heading out to the pool. I’d wear my new glasses out there, but I don’t want to leave them unattended. They’re a gorgeous horn-rim and have little diamonds on the arms, and I’m afraid someone will swipe them. I particularly don’t trust the lifeguards who work here, since I’ve yet to see them guard lives or order. They allow way too much horseplay during the open-swim period. Yesterday I saw a group of teenagers trying to drown one another, and the thuggy lifeguard just watched and laughed.
I’m curious; do lifeguards really need to wear cell phones when there’s a field-house phone ten paces away? How are any of them going to have time to remove all that stuff if a person needs saving? Aren’t they supposed to be in a constant state of readiness? A lifeguard needs a Speedo, whistle, and zinc oxide. (And maybe one of those little orange footballs. ) They do not need a do-rag, elaborately laced basketball shoes, multiple necklaces, three layered shirts, and a pager. I’m going to be one unhappy camper if I get a cramp and drown because these jokers need to stay in constant touch with their baby-mamas.162
I’m waiting at one of the picnic tables for lap swim to begin. A couple of the lifeguards belly flop into the pool. Even with my diminished vision, I can see them thrashing and sputtering along in the water as they stretch the lane dividers from end to end. Wow, we’ve really got the junior varsity squad playing tonight. I suspect all the good lifeguards work the lakefront and these people are just a bunch of guys the parks department found hanging out at a gas station. Possibly they got hired because they had their own orange tank tops embossed with a big white plus sign on the front?
I notice a couple of women sitting at the table next to me, and I see they’ve got kickboards. “Hi!” I call. “Can you guys tell me where you got those?”
“Ahh, they’re right next to you,” the younger one says with more than a trace of sarcasm.
Bristling, I look down at my foot, and I’m practically touching a whole bin of them. I’m not even sure how I sat down without tripping over them. Oh. Perhaps the sarcasm was merited.
One of the lifeguards—or possibly the leader of the Crips; who can tell?—blows his whistle, and people begin to jump in. I don’t know the protocol for lap swimming, but I assume it’s kind of like driving, that being the slower-moving vehicles stay to the right. I imagine I’ll be the cement truck on the road, at least at first, so I swan dive at the very far end of the pool.
Hot and muggy, the night is perfect for a swim. The water isn’t so cold that it’s unpleasant, but it’s not so warm that I feel sluggish; I couldn’t ask for a more ideal situation. I swim underwater for about fifteen feet and surface. I notice that everyone else is doing the crawl stroke. I much prefer the backstroke because it’s easier, but when in Rome . . .
Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe!
Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe!
I paddle gracefully, my limbs constantly lengthening. As I kick, I can feel the water ripple from my toes all the way up my thighs, and I know I’m getting more and more toned with every motion. My shoulders, my back, my arms—everything’s firming up.
Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe!
Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe!
This is glorious! Look at me! I’m a fitness queen! I am inordinately proud of myself. If you’d have told me last winter when I couldn’t even climb the stairs without getting winded that I’d easily complete a couple of hours of strenuous activity, I’d have never believed you.
Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe!
Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe!
I’m humming along in my lane with my eyes shut, deep in the zone. I feel incredible!
Well, mostly incredible, anyway. My long, firm limbs aren’t quite used to this motion yet, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of warming up. I’m probably using different muscles than the ones Barbie and I worked on today, so they likely aren’t quite as up to speed as the other ones.
Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe!
Hmm. I extend my legs a bit farther. Shouldn’t I be touching the bottom of the pool in the shallow end by now? I’ve been on this lap quite a while. I’ve got to be pretty close to the wall on the other side, and honestly, I could use a second or two to catch my breath.
Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe, pant, breathe, pant.
Oh, my. My muscles are getting a bit too toned right now. As a matter of fact, one could say they are . . . tight.
One could also say they are getting warmed up.
To the point of burning.
Stroke, stroke, pant, pant, stroke, burn, gasp.
Shallow end . . . where are you?
I finally leave the zone and open my eyes. I’m a solid mile and a half away from the other side. Wait a minute; those aren’t lifeguards stationed around the edges of the pool—they’re sorcerers! And they’re pissed off that I mocked them, so now they’ve magically, exponentially lengthened the pool in order to make me have a heart attack and die.
Or maybe I’m not quite as fit as I thought.
I try to take a huge breath and continue, but I end up swallowing a mouthful. I choke and wheeze and try to dig in to no avail. I’m barely moving forward with the crawl stroke. Finally, I flip over and begin to do the backstroke. At least I know I won’t sink doing it.
I’ve huffed and puffed about halfway down the pool when an old man buzzes past me like a speedboat . . . vroom! Nice. Now your grandfather moves faster than me.
Since I’m on my back, I can see a whole parade of swimmers cruising past me. This is terrific! What fun! Maybe tomorrow I can go to the prom with my brother. The day after, perhaps I can wear white pants and unexpectedly get my period.
I finally get to the other end and double over trying to catch my breath. This is ridiculous—I already worked out today. There’s no reason for me to embarrass myself in this pool. I should just go home now.
But if I get out now, that means I’ll have been gone from my house for ten whole minutes. Although Fletch is quite nice to me, there’s no way he wouldn’t tease me, particularly after the grilling I gave him for pooping out during the group class.
You know what? I’ve probably got another lap or two in me. I’ll swim down and back once or twice more, and then I’ll get ready to go home really slowly. That should be enough to keep me from getting mocked.
I stretch again and scrub at my eyes with my palms. There are traces of eyeliner when I look at my hands. My makeup isn’t quite rinsing off like I thought. I run my fingers under my lashes and they get covered in mascara flakes. Shoot, my towel’s all the way on the other end of the pool—I can’t even use it to get off the excess. Argh. Maybe this stuff will come off in this next lap.
Breath caught, at least temporarily, I manage to propel myself to the other end of the pool. All my muscles have turned to stone, and I feel like I’m breathing through a cocktail straw. This trip down, I use a kickboard, and it makes the whole process easier. I’m not sucking nearly as much wind when I get to the shallow end this time. While I’m catching my breath, I notice how many more people have gotten in the pool since I started, and the lanes are getting crowded.
The people here seem to take this whole lap business kind of seriously. Everyone’s wearing a bathing cap—no, thank you—and goggles, and many are wearing special racing suits. All week long I’ve been calling this pool a hidden jewel, but maybe it’s not so hidden after all?
On my third and, let’s be honest, probably last trip down the lane, I decide to backstroke again. My pace is still kind of poky, so it comes as quite a surprise when I end up hitting the girl who started off half a length in front of me. “Oof!” she cries.
“Sorry! Sorry! I’m so sorry—I didn’t think you were anywhere near me,” I effuse with one hundred percent sincerity.
Well, almost a hundred percent, anyway. This is the same girl who made me feel dumb for asking about the kickboards.
I flip back over and begin to swim the crawl stroke again, and we both end up in the shallow end at the same time. “Again,” I say, as we lean against the edge, “I’m so sorry. This is my first time doing laps here, and I guess I have bad pool etiquette.”
“Yeah,” she replies.
“So,” I say gamely, my stupid endorphins accidentally making me all happy and nice, “is it usually less crowded during the morning session?”
She looks me up and down before replying, taking in my cosmetically blackened eyes, moth-eaten swimsuit, and crazy pigtails. I am the only person here not in racing suit, cap, and goggles, and I notice her angling away from me. “I wouldn’t know. My friend and I don’t come here in the morning. We have jobs.” And with a larger splash than is necessary, she’s off toward the deep end.
On the one hand, this means I’ve lost enough weight for people to entertain the possibility that I could be homeless. But on the other, you bitch.
I look around the pool and notice that the lane next to us is less busy, so I slip under the divider and start another lap. My interaction has left me feeling somewhat energized, and I decide to see if I can’t do another lap or two. I try to make conversation with a couple of other people, but I guess my capless, goggleless appearance is foreign and off-putting, and no one really answers me.
Forty-five minutes later, almost everyone else has quit, and I’m among the last to leave the pool when the final whistle blows. Save a quick rest at each end, I’ve managed to swim the entire time, putting in twenty more laps than I’d originally planned. Each time I’d complete a pass, I’d tell myself, I can do one more. And I did.
I round the end of the pool, and with all the chlorine I’ve gotten in my eyes, my vision is even hazier than usual. But as I approach my towel, I see a very thin person jackknifed over by the other table.
What the . . . ?
As I get closer, I see it’s not a person bending over at an odd angle at all. Rather, it’s a prosthetic leg, and it appears to belong to the sarcastic girl.
I guess that would explain why she was cranky, and I grudgingly forgive her.
And yet a very petty part of me can’t help but think, Maybe you’ve got a fancy swim cap and snappy goggles, but since you only have the one leg, I could certainly beat you in an ass-kicking contest.
Session Twenty-eight
“Since appropriate headgear is apparently so important for fitting in at that pool, next time I’m totally wearing one of those big rubber-daisy caps with a chin strap and possibly a snorkel mask.”
“Ha! I love it!” Barbie replies. “All right, that was the last of the pushes. We’re going to move on to pulls.”
Barbie has really turned my workout up today and forced me to do the worst thing I’ve ever done here. In pike position, I have to move these two little padded plastic discs all over the floor with my hands, propelling myself with my legs. The discs are almost exactly what I use to scoot my furniture around when I’m rearranging things, so I call this exercise “moving the couch.” The problem is, with each set I’ve worked up too much momentum and I’ve fallen flat on my stomach at the end. This last time I actually knocked the wind out of myself, and now I’m trying desperately to not vomit grape energy drink. Barbie tries to make me feel better, saying how I’m showing terrific effort. When compliments fail to rally me, she points out how much better I must be at the furniture-mover than the mean girl at the pool.
Oh, yes, she’s good.
Barbie picks up her clipboard to see which exercise we’re going to do next and then begins to howl.
“What? Do you have more medieval torture moves for me? What’s so funny?” I demand.
“Even better. Check out the name of the next move I’m having you do.” She’s shaking as she gestures with the set list she created after my last workout.
“Which one?”
“Here,” she gasps. She points to the top of the list in the third column. “Can you read my writing?”
“Not really,” I admit.
&n
bsp; Barbie’s laughing so hard that she’s turned beet red by the time she reads it off to me.
“You won’t believe this, but it’s called . . . the one-legged swimmer.”
I bought regular swim goggles.
So I’m a sheep.
Baa.
I wouldn’t have given in to the pool’s unofficial lap-swimmer dress code, except my eyes felt like hard-boiled eggs the whole night after I swam. My vision was so blurred, I had to pull the ottoman right next to the TV so I could watch So You Think You Can Dance, and even then it was a struggle. I’m still not wearing a bathing cap, though, even though the chlorine has made my hair distinctly more flammable. I keep asking Fletch to not smoke too close to me, fearing perfectly highlighted bonfires.
I’m turning into quite a regular at the pool, and each time I’ve come, I’ve been able to add an additional lap before the session ends. I’m still not fast, but I do have better endurance than many of the people here. I’ve yet to quit before the final whistle, and my breaks between laps are getting shorter and shorter. I’ll probably never master the underwater-turnaround-and -keep-swimming dealie the show-offs do, but I’m more than satisfied with my progress. One guy here keeps a little plastic flipbook at the end of his lane to keep track of how many laps he’s done. Oh, yeah? Well, I can count to twenty- five in my head, pal.
I’d forgotten what a Zen activity swimming is. With all the other exercise I do, I’m either talking to Barbie, or listening to music on my iPod, or reading a book. The laps give me a chance for reflection. Tonight in the pool I keep replaying the conversation Fletch and I had after my Weight Watchers meeting.
“I’m telling you, by the time I was done, I wanted to punch that smug leader in the throat,” I said. “Encouraging people to fear food is just swapping one set of neuroses for another, and it’s wrong.”
“Consider this, Jen—if you want people to stop a certain behavior, the easiest path to compliance is getting them to fear it,” Fletch told me.
“How so?”
“Look at religion—the best way biblical scribes had to get people to not kill each other, steal their neighbors’ stuff, or sleep with wives other than their own was to make these societal problems sinful. Think of the animal world—all the stuff I just mentioned, rampant breeding, jockeying for position, survival of the fittest—these instincts are hardwired into us to propagate the species. But then religion came along and got society to fight its natural instincts by overriding them with the fear of God.”
Such a pretty fat: one narcissist's quest to discover if her life makes her ass look big Page 24