the fat lady's float

I've been swimming lately. Eve got me started going to the university pool. My first day, I was hesitant, but since I'd put in the effort to shave my legs in my tiny corner shower and to wrestle my nose clip back from the cats, I figured I should go.

Originally, Eve had told me lots of preggos and kids swim there. But instead, I arrived to find the pool full of studly college boys doing laps. It doesn't help that it's an Olympic year. A Michael Phelps year. They're all zipping around with lungs the size of Kansas, these boys and I'm more than a little intimidated.

At this point, I suppose I should mention something – I can't swim. I mean, I can get around in the water when need be, but the childhood swimming lessons just didn't take. Okay, they were a disaster. A having-to-be-removed-from-the-diving-board, -little-fingers-white-with-fear-peeled-back-one-by-one disaster. Follow this with impressionable middle school years when my best friend could only swim by holding her nose. The consequence for me, little copy cat, fit-in wanna be, was my own loss of ability to swim any other way.

Somehow, however, I still love the water. Can't imagine any better place to be – flopping around in a pool, beaching it, riding in a boat – whatever, gets me near the stuff. It's, dare I say, "grounding." So back at the pool, I squirm into the last lane left, which isn't really a lane, but a skinny little space in the deep end under the diving boards. Me and my green foam kickboard drop in between two sporting men who can't be happy to see me. After a few paltry attempts to exercise my legs and jimmy across the pool and back with aforementioned flotation devise, I spot Eve – the one who coaxed me here. "Where are all the fat ladies??" I call across the lanes. Just then my kickboard leaps from under me and smacks me hard in the jaw. I bite my tongue and try not to cry.

Frankly, I'm shocked that I've continued to go, me, my belly, my sucky-ass swimming skills. From where cometh this new feeling of I-don't-give-a-crud-if-they're-staring? I'm overly proud of my little exercise routine so far. And I'm the type who wants to be credited for these simple things, loudly and often. Like today, when I missed swimming, I went biking instead. I know, right? Go ahead, slather me with praise. Unbelievable, my dedication. I need lots of pats on the back for stupid shit. This character trait is yet another reason why motherhood is not necessarily the ideal vocation for me.