So the other day I finally decided to get some exercise. Think mortality. Consider the shape-shifting of menopause. Suspect the hump beginning to form on the back of my neck from trying to figure out how Twitter works at a desk set-up that's ergonomically criminal. Desperation does funny things to a gal.
For me, preparing to get into a pool requires just a little less prep than a Rolling Stones concert. It requires shaving every part of my body that might not be covered by fabric, and that, in polite company, shouldn't actually have hair and let's face it, always does.
It requires rummaging through, finding, and then holding up by two fingers with a pained look of confusion on my face, the bathing suit that's been in the bottom of my dresser wondering what in God's name made me think that THAT bathing suit made sense. Ever. It makes even less sense now. It's damn near fluorescent. Perfect for Halloween actually and when I'm in it, rather pumpkin-shaped.
I work part-time at an employment centre in a town of 10,000 people. The only thing worse to do for money in a small town (if you prefer anonymity like I do) would be to be a shrink. I've realized that I really MUST get over being seen by every single person who has ever passed through our office looking for work or I can just hole up, order in, duck and cover. I've tried that. It's hellishly boring. Being seen in a bathing suit is the ultimate "get over it" test. Well, next to being naked.
I get to the Rainbow Road Pool. I peer inside. Nobody I know is there. Thank you mother of Mary. Well, nobody except the former Olympic swim coach whom I met earlier yesterday who needs to talk to me about something. Is there no mercy? Not now!!!
When it's time for the class to start, I put on one of those foam belts that helps you float (or not drown) since it's a deep water class. It helps me float so well I feel like I might just begin to levitate over the water the way the good year blimp floats over major sporting event. Note to self: Might not need the flotation device. How about a body fat test instead?
Apparently, my flotation device also doubles as a homing device that works better than a cruise missile. It's target, however, is any body bobbing next to mine. I'm like a big pale white rubber duckie bobbing and teetering and uncontrollably bouncing towards any other wet body near me. Trying not to collide with another means my legs must kick so hard under the water, I begin to picture one of those old fashioned egg beaters making cupcake icing.
If that isn't bad enough, when I turn my attention to the rest of the class, I'm even a little more horrified.
I'm not sure what it is about these classes but regardless of where you are in the Western Hemisphere or what the instructor on the deck of the pool is doing, it has little resemblence whatsoever to what is happening in the pool. She's got one of those microphones that's attached to a plastic head band and I think, if you're air traffic control, we're in trouble. Remember that Kelly dearest? Kerrisdale. Circa 1996. Aquafit laugh-a-thon.
These women take their aquafit exercising seriously. Well, some of them. The others act as if they're not even in a class or in a bathing suit or in a pool. They're in a coffee shop. They're catching up on their children's teenage dramas, other people's pet traumas and the obituaries in last week's Gulf Islands' Driftwood. We're not in Tim Hortons Ladies. Hellloooooo! That comes later. Except, there isn't a single franchise of anything here and we do indeed love it like that. (Actually that's a lie, I didn't know that Canadian Tire owned Marks WorkWearhouse).
And, that was that. I did it. I've done it twice now. And I'm gonna do it again. Anyone care to join me?