NOT NAKED

Under-Packed for the Pool And Popular

So cozy

I’m trying to get back into swimming. It isn’t easy, but it isn’t war or solitary confinement. Wait. It’s solitary confinement.

Swimming is a project in packing. When you go to the Bahamas, do you pack a ski suit? Same for swimming. You must pack a swimsuit when you go to the pool. Which I didn’t do the other day, which is why I’d rather have been at war, but maybe I was. You tell me.

I walked into the locker room at the Rec Center. I had 45 minutes to try to love swimming again before the high schoolers arrived for their swim team practice. This is when my gang of lap lane prison mates gets sent out to the courtyard for fresh air.

You understand when I say ‘courtyard’ I’m referring to the parking lot where we get in our cars and screech out of there, whooping out our windows, “No more laps for me, suckers!!”

I would never say suckers. I would just think it.

Surprise, surprise

I b-lined to the corner locker and unpacked half my worldly possessions. I need to be perfectly organized for after my swim when I’m dripping with such fearful frigidity, I need my shower paraphernalia stat. Keep in mind, when you organize stuff you’re also mercifully shrinking swim time.

I hung my clean clothes on the hook. Clean clothes after a post-workout shower is nirvana, where you ritualistically swaddle a body that has risen from the chlorine of a pool, the algae of a lake, or the E. coli that enriches your Sunday morning swims in the Potomac River.

I lined up my shower necessities on the top shelf, got out my music player, swim cap, goggles — then, uh-oh.

Where’s my swimsuit? It’s not here!

This was a disaster, but then I put my swim-thinking cap on and realized — the heck with it. I’ll just swim in my clothes.

I’d never done laps in my clothes, but I wasn’t averse. It’s just that I follow the crowd. I’d never seen anyone doing kick turns in a skirt or suit and tie. I wasn’t fancy though. I was in sweatpants. Yet, I couldn’t imagine alternate breathing above the high, puffy collar of my down vest.

Never waste imagination. Life’s too short.

Freaky reasoning

Off to the pool, I went. I slowly scanned the lanes until I saw an older woman drifting in a floatation belt. Perfect, I thought. She’d have a head above water to keep an eye on whether my socks slipped off.

I sat down at the edge of the pool next to her. I yanked my cap on, rigged the music player, affixed goggles, then lowered my cotton-covered legs into the water. I was just about to lunge forward when the lifeguard’s whistle blared from the high perch to my left.

I looked around. Was there a fire? A heart attack? A poop in the pool?

Nope. It was me. For some freaky reason, the guard was honking at me. I turned off the Goo Goo Dolls and hollered up, “What’s the matter? Am I in the wrong lane?”

“Ma’am,” she yelled down, “You can’t swim with your clothes on!”

I was peeved she assumed I was a shoddy swimmer.

“I’m skilled!” I barked. “I can swim with and without clothes.”

“No, ma’am.” she yelled back, “You’re not allowed to swim with your clothes on.”

What kind of rule was this?

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” I told her, “My clothes are not a problem! They’re from Costco!”

Costco is a very nice corporation.

“Ma’am, you can only swim in a swimsuit or similar. No clothes.”

Similar, eh?

An iterative approach

I bent over and rolled up my pants as far as they would go. I rolled up my sleeves and tucked everything into my waistband to resemble a one-piece. It looked very similar, so I shoved my earbuds back in and turned to Coldplay because now I was cold.

I shoved off. Splash!

I started swimming and two things immediately stood out. One, it was harder to swim with winter clothes on. Two, the lifeguard still didn’t like my outfit.

This was going to have to be her problem because what happened next was beyond my control.

As folks noticed my new swimsuit, they wanted one for themselves. Water is cold when you’re a lightweight. It’s the main reason swimmers don’t want to swim — the refrigerator sport. One by one, people went back into the locker room, put their clothes on, rolled up sleeves and legs, and hopped back in the water. Now it was the toaster oven sport!

I contemplated the trend I’d just started as I labored back and forth through the water, dragging so much resistance I felt like a barge. I was strengthening. I was trendsetting. Now the crowd was following me.

Disaster averted.

This is what you get when you forget to pack what you need. You make lemonade and serve it to the group. You become wildly popular. You also get escorted off the property. At which point, you get in your car and scream out the window, “No more laps for me, suckers!!”

Thanks to editor Amy Sea for diving right into this, and for being my swimming accountabilabuddy.

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