Swimming

(18) Contains strong language, bloody gore, nudity and scenes that some may find disturbing.

On the back of some very kind feedback to my blogpost on "Exercise", I thought you might like to know how went my first foray in 27 years into competition swimming for 5 year olds.

The preamble to this was fraught with problems and poor conditions.  As I like bullet points, here they are:

• I had a clanging headache the day before my swimming lesson which I thought had developed into hayfever by 10am as it was the second day of sun for the year, but then slowly dived into a miserable cold, combined with dizziness and a woolly head.
• Mildred was making her monthly visit. 

So, conditions were not good, however, the direct debit was in place, so I was going.

I spent the evening before, making my preparations.  I started by shaving my head, so cranially, I could be as streamline as possible, with the exception of a small quiff. Firstly, because without the quiff, I look like a POW and secondly, I assumed this would help my speed in the same way a spoiler does on a young man's Ford Granada.  If not, I could always use it to hold my woofer or goggles.  As I watched the hair tumble from my head and land on my nakedy chest like Magnum PI, I knew, the haircut was definitely worth it.  The bodily hair removal was text book although, I knew deep down I would have left a very small but dense patch of hair somewhere above my under knee like a square of black velcro that everyone would notice apart from me.  

I was ready, nervous and excited.  I decided to wear my "Thorpedo" swimming costume branded Speedo!  What a contradiction in terms for obvious reasons but additionally, because I only own such a costume because it was as close to a swim burqa as I could find.  It covers all my hoochie coochie's but is still not quite big enough, as it requires the occasional bit of butt pickage.

When I arrived at the leisure centre I got changed, slathered myself with goose fat and stood in line with three other wannabe's.

I walked round the pool to take my position on the starting blocks, well, the floats that were on the side and did my rapid arm swings ten times while rotating my neck to loosen up.  This would have all looked impressive if I didn't have small squares of toilet paper stuck all over my legs from the mornings panic shave.  No matter, that is what the pool filter is for.

I looked at my fellow swimmers, sizing them up.  I wondered if they were like me.  In a beginners class but can actually swim.  I still felt justified to be there because I knew that I was a hopeless swimmer and imagined that the other women were that sort of friend you have at school who, when it gets to Finals time, warble on about how they did not revise at all and then completely ace their test.  I hated those girls.  I bet they could all swim brilliantly but were in beginners to humiliate those of us who were really lame.  I was going to show them!  Yeah ... "eat my chlorine dogs".  

I then realised, I should stop letting my imagination run away with me and it was important to play down the fact I could swim, albeit badly, so they did not stick me in "Improvers" where they would expect me to swim without my feet on the bottom of the pool. 

The truth is, my fellow learners were not Missy Franklin and pals but a trembling nervous bunch like me.  An old gentleman who we will call Rudolph, an old lady, who we will call Flemjella and another lady about my age who we will call Pandinga.  They were all extremely nice and all terrible in the water.  In fact, I looked like a veritable Rebecca Soni in comparison.  That said, by the end of our half an hour we had all improved significantly.  Rudolph had managed to swim about four metres with a noodle, Flemjella had managed to swim about a third of the pool with a noodle and Pandinga and I were promoted to the second lane to practice our swimming, unaided might I add, breathing to the side, inhaling as much water through our noses, choking, but still not drowning.  

I was also told that I had "nice legs" by our coach, who we will call Chad.  Unfortunately, not when I was strutting and sucking it in poolside but when I was kicking my legs effectively in the water.  So, all in all, a success.  I was the best swimmer in the class, I learned how to breathe properly while swimming like a cadaver and got a date with our handsome swimming coach.  All true apart from the last bit.

The other saving grace in all of this was at 10am, the leisure centre was only peopled with the fit elderly and before I went into the changing rooms I estimated 98% hearing aids and 99% glasses, meaning, none of them would see me drowning or hear my screams.  Result!

Overall, I came out excited and happy that I had learned something new and do feel confident that swimming could become my cardio exercise of choice once I have mastered the finer points.  We know why cycling is a no go for me and now that I have to wear an undercarriage girdle like Borat's mankini following my failed Zumba classes, any high intensity sport is out.  Based on my one lesson, I think swimming it will be.

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On a completely separate note and I am only including this because I thought it was rather funny, I recently bought a couple of little birds to clip onto some old twigs that I have.  They are very sweet and delicate.  Annoyingly, they are attached to a very stiff determined clip that requires a huge amount of pressure to open.  My poor little stonechat robin took the brunt of my aggression to open the clip, by throwing its left eye on to the floor.  Luckily I found it and managed to stick it back with some superglue.  Unfortunately, I didn't realise the eye (bead) is not perfectly round but more doughnut shaped and now my little robin looks like the late great Marty Feldman.  I have attached a picture below of this failed eye transplant as it makes me laugh and I think my blog is rather short on pictures.  I think pictorial irrelevance is still better than nothing at all.