swimming
was a first day in a flowered beach suit with a back too low. It was a new black Speedo, also with the wrong kind of back. It was two or three torn practice suits on top of each other for extra drag. It was a meet suit you could barely roll up over your hips.
It was crawling in the beginner lane, trailing too close to someone's feet, eye-level with a wart, a flap of skin, a band-aid.
It was anchoring a relay that had been lapped already, swimming alone before a crowd that was done cheering.
It was a hairball in a drain. It was the girl who didn't wear tampons. It was pushing someone's glob of mucus out of your way. It was having a perpetual cold.
It was watching someone flip too close to a wall, hearing the backs of both ankles smack the tile, seeing her body wilt toward the bottom.
It was trying too hard. It was leaving too much for the end. It was counting the laps wrong. It was bruises on your hands from hitting the lane lines. It was terrible chlorinated skin.
It was the day the coach turned the lights off and Aerosmith up as the team motorboated back and forth, pushing beat-up kickboards.
It was the smell of your coach's shirt when he hugged you as you cried after you lost, how he didn't care if he got wet. It was waiting in the bleachers for your race, listening to Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg. It was pulling yourself out of the pool at the end of a good swim, how your arms shook.
It was frozen hair and cold car rides. It was a heavy bag full of wet towels, finding space for them in your parents' bathroom. It was being bone-tired with homework still to do.
It was leaning down at the end of a lane to yell for a friend as she flipped.
It was someone making fun of the Head and Shoulders your mom bought you, because your mom thought shampoo was shampoo. It was everyone seeing your underwear. It was growing your leg hair from fall to spring and wondering whether to shave your arms for States.
It was the bright yellow panic of trying to swim the whole length of the pool underwater. It was getting up on Christmas Eve morning and driving to practice, the heavy doors and the quiet changing room.
It was the day-to-day, the everyday, the twice-a-day. It was the difference between what you thought you could do and what you did do and what you would do.
It was crawling in the beginner lane, trailing too close to someone's feet, eye-level with a wart, a flap of skin, a band-aid.
It was anchoring a relay that had been lapped already, swimming alone before a crowd that was done cheering.
It was a hairball in a drain. It was the girl who didn't wear tampons. It was pushing someone's glob of mucus out of your way. It was having a perpetual cold.
It was watching someone flip too close to a wall, hearing the backs of both ankles smack the tile, seeing her body wilt toward the bottom.
It was trying too hard. It was leaving too much for the end. It was counting the laps wrong. It was bruises on your hands from hitting the lane lines. It was terrible chlorinated skin.
It was the day the coach turned the lights off and Aerosmith up as the team motorboated back and forth, pushing beat-up kickboards.
It was the smell of your coach's shirt when he hugged you as you cried after you lost, how he didn't care if he got wet. It was waiting in the bleachers for your race, listening to Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg. It was pulling yourself out of the pool at the end of a good swim, how your arms shook.
It was frozen hair and cold car rides. It was a heavy bag full of wet towels, finding space for them in your parents' bathroom. It was being bone-tired with homework still to do.
It was leaning down at the end of a lane to yell for a friend as she flipped.
It was someone making fun of the Head and Shoulders your mom bought you, because your mom thought shampoo was shampoo. It was everyone seeing your underwear. It was growing your leg hair from fall to spring and wondering whether to shave your arms for States.
It was the bright yellow panic of trying to swim the whole length of the pool underwater. It was getting up on Christmas Eve morning and driving to practice, the heavy doors and the quiet changing room.
It was the day-to-day, the everyday, the twice-a-day. It was the difference between what you thought you could do and what you did do and what you would do.
posted by Elizabeth Thorpe at 1:20 PM
1 Comments:
I love the ebb and flow of this. It was so tense and then so calm and then became tense again, but not as tense as it had been: ripples from a stone thrown into a calm lake getting longer and longer.
I hope you're doing well.
(P.S. I feel criminal having to "verify" my comments -- do they really mean anything if I have to verify them?)
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