My ability
to swim is only slightly surpassed by my ability to text, which is marginally
better than my ability to twitter on the tweeting machine—and unfortunately I
perform those tasks so well, I am qualified to run for president.
In fact,
last week, after Tammy and I popped in to visit our friend Natalie, my texting
skills were brought to light. Half the time my fingers hit the wrong buttons,
half the time the autocorrect has a different agenda, and the other half of the
time I have the keyboard set to French. Is that too many halves? Oh well, you
get my drift.
A couple of
months ago, while exploring the metropolis of Meaford, I found myself very
hungry, standing in front of the local coffee shop at 3:02 p.m., face streaming
with tears, because, apparently, in Meaford, coffee shops shut at 3:00 p.m.
What? You bunch of country bumpkins. Does no one drink coffee past 3?
I texted
Natalie for advice:
Me: Did u knew the coffae ship in Meaford class
at 3? What kand if town is tis???
Nat: Huh? Lol
Me: John id doing soins check for tonught si I an
windering aimlessly
Nat: You need to get your blood sugars up
before you text Lol!
Me: OMH, Yeis.
Nat: Do you need an ambulance girl?
Me: haha. I just fawnd anuther café. Catering
place. It us culled Kitchen.
Nat: Simple enough. Are they going to feed you
so that you can text in English?
Me: Hahah…I hop sow lol
Confeve
that convo…
So, given
this history, it is no surprise, when shortly after Tammy and I left Natalie’s
house, I texted: “We need u. We need a leash” that she assumed I was up to my
hypoglycemic texting tricks again. However, in reality, Tammy and I had found a
loose dog, wandering the streets. The little,
sweet dog appeared to be confused and we were corralling her in hopes of
keeping her safe. Natalie’s reply: LoL!!
Oh Heather. Get some sugar in your body!
Me: Nope lol
This
obviously isn’t going to plan. Trying to clarify the confusing situation, I try
again.
Me: Dooug
Nat: Yes: Lol! I’m Peron laughing
Peron
laughing? Who’s hypoglycemic now, Natalie?
Me: Huh?
Nat: Oooops! Peeing
I still don’t
have a leash. Finally Natalie hangs her head out the window and we clear up my
texting fiasco, and Natalie and her son Adam come outside with a leash. She
kindly takes the dog to the local vet and luckily thirteen-year-old Bebe was
microchipped and is returned to her rightful owner.
As
mentioned, my swimming skills are probably even worse. However, with a torn ACL
and 25% of my meniscus gone in my right knee (knowledge courtesy of MRI and incessant
Sarah McLachlan music in my earphones) I need some type of physical activity.
That and the fact that it seems no matter what I do, I keep gaining weight.
So, Lyndsay
and I plan on going swimming together. Now, there is something you should know.
Lyndsay and I have the combined organizational skills of a six-month-old. In
fact, I identify her car not by the license plate, but by looking in the back
seat. If it looks like the residence of three homeless people, I know I have
the right vehicle. Even the most populous back alleys of Mumbai can’t rival the
interior of her car--a scene straight from of Slum Dog Millionaire. I remember looking in once to see one high
heel shoe, countless Tim Horton cups, a half-eaten bagel, a macramé project and
possibly a dead body (I can’t be sure).
Given this
information, it is no surprise that the following text thread starts:
Lyndsay: How are you feeling about swimming?
Still able to? I have to find my stuff.
Me: I have to find my stuff too.
No shocker
there. It's only the morning of the planned event and neither of us has bothered to locate any of our swimming gear.
Lyndsay: OK. Great
Me: I have found everything except swimsuit and
lock.
Which is
only half true. I had found two locks, both locked permanently to my swim bag
because I can’t remember the combinations.
Lyndsay: Ok…I need find my goggles and lock.
(two
minutes later)
Me; Found suit.
Lyndsay: Found lock.. Just need goggles. I’m
very excited. I have to spend some time primping first.
Me: I found two pairs of goggles now.
(two-minute
pause)
Lyndsay: I think we should swim more regularly
to keep up on grooming habits and gentle reminders of what it feels like to
squeeze yourself into sausage casing.
I am
laughing pretty hard right now, but that isn’t the punchline.
Lyndsay: My suit is so tight it’s correcting my
posture….
On the way
to the pool, I go out to the dollar store to find a replacement lock...(s). Knowing
that this predicament occurs every time I stop swimming for over a week, I pick
up one, no two, what that heck, four locks. They are only $2 each.
I get home
and put on my suit, but it seems to have altered. It has been over a year, what
could possibly change? It appears that the elastic in the bit that is supposed
to snuggly cover my bottom has given up, completely lost its will to live.
There is a full inch of slack between the material and my backside causing the
suit to naturally ride up in a sort of permanent wedgy position. It is incredibly
uncomfortable and awkward for me, but not nearly as much as it is for anyone who has
to witness the scene.
Upon
arrival to the pool Lyndsay and I chat about the beautiful day:
“It is so
nice out today. We could have swam in the lake," Lyndsay mentions.
“Yeah, that
way we wouldn’t have to ingest all that toxic chlorine. We could drink the oil
from the boats and the refuse from the city’s water treatment plant instead.” I
cheerfully chirp.
“Yeah,
except here we are in a controlled environment that when we start to drown, we are more
likely to be rescued.”
“True dat.”
And with off into the pool we go.
I like
swimming because it seems like it should be the quickest route to Michelle
Obama shoulders. I love her shoulders. I would give anything to wear one of
those tops with cut out arms and look like her. I tried on one of those tops once,
and I looked less like Michelle Obama and more like Buddhist prayer flags
flapping at Mount Everest Base Camp.
Slow and
steady--well maybe just slow (after all, it is called front crawl)--we traverse the pool, back and
forth like pensioners walking laps around the perimeter of our long-term care facility in our
zoom-a-frames. And, it feels…good. Moving meditation. That is what I miss most
about running: the space between the moments when you float, suspended. There
are no worries of miscommunication or bathing suits that have failed us or the
craziness of the world. Instead I simply focus on one arm in front of the
other. And since I am such a bad swimming, I really MUST focus solely on this movement…or I will drown. Literally. I am serious. I swim like a rock. The
stakes are kind of high: lift arm, don’t
drown, pull arm through water, don’t
drown, breathe, don’t drown,
repeat.
After the
peaceful swim, we somehow find ourselves at Starbucks. How does that happen? I
enjoy chatting and catching up and think, why
don’t I make more time for these types of moments, moments of laughing and
peace, moments for ME? Instead I often choose to drown in my daily challenges instead of
taking those moments to just be and enjoy life's simple joys. Sigh. This is one padlock I want to
try to remember the combination to!
