At first, it was a simple addition to the equation. On one fine Monday afternoon, six silver-haired aristocratic fashionistas took over the deep end of the Glen Abey Pool. Yes, I was a little late to the pool that day, but I had grown accustomed to having the Deep Zone to myself. Aha! Just when I had grown complacent. The Fearsome Foursome + 1 + 1 friends (truth be told, with less silver, more black, or hint o' black), wading flush in the middle of the Deep Zone, deep in conversation about one MBA'ed son or another, one trip to Europe or another, one party or gala or another. Bla, bla, bla.
"My son .....brilliant.......took over.......".
"Promotion......bonus......lakefront property........yacht........".
"Gorgeous grandchildren.........dean's list........".
"Five-star hotel.....limo........ gourmet chef.......".
Bla. Bla. BLA. "My.....". "Well, MY...".
Yep. This was a pissing match, of the gray-haired variety. Minus the pissing, but with sneers where mouths usually rested. Although at that age, the bladder is a little weaker, so I've been told. Hey, we were all in a pool, sharing water after all. Nose and mouth above water level at all times. Just in case. The rest could be shaken and shivered off in a shower. Ingested, not so much.
So, with the obstacle grown to six, it meant a few more fakes and fumbles for me, as I crossed from one side of the deep end to the other. I even tried my kicking-up-a-storm routine, splashing and gesturing as I got to within a couple of feet of the party-of-six. If you can't join them, splash them.
But when additions became a multiple from the original four, I acquiesced. Not defeated. Acquiesced.
The lane for lengths would be my next zone to conquer. It would only force my legs to work harder, nerves to pump and regenerate more. Better stronger, faster? Besides which, the legs didn't have the goods to kick-up-a-storm for eight. Six was pushing it a little. Eight, nada.
Lengths it would be. 30 metres. Swimming, sharing a lane with others, ahead or behind me. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, breathe. Breathe. Breathe.
Float on your back, quick. Turn over, now.
Mayday. MAYDAY.
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2 comments:
It's kind of hilarious to hear these people try to one-up each other. It must be the equivalent of the kids contest: "My dad can beat up your dad."
Pissing contest is a good term for it...but not in the pool, I hope. LOL.
I often wonder when I swim amongst the over 65 crowd, especially those who have mobility issues, just what is in the the pool water.
Oh well, that's what the chlorine is for, right?
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