Speedo

The water is being churned into a hotbed of bacterial infection by a writhing mass of flesh.

Welcome to the public swimming pool, Barney.

I shut down the part of my brain that has been trained, over many years of discipline, to help my body avoid both physical contact with other people and life-threatening water-borne diseases. It goes into hibernation with my dignity; I had to turn that off before I hit the men’s change rooms. The only concession I did make was to purchase swimming shorts rather than an actual Speedo. Let’s be honest, there are only three acceptable reasons for a man to wear a Speedo:

1. He is an Olympic swimmer;

2. He is a world champion Ironman;

3. He has lost all self-respect.

Although I’m skirting number three, I’m not there just yet, so I tighten the drawstring on my shorts (nobody wants a repeat of the horror of my eighth-grade swimming carnival), pull down my goggles, and prepare to embrace eternity.

Until I notice the lifeguard walking toward me. She’s patrolling the pool like a lioness watching over her cubs, pacing along the side of the water, her eyes flicking over each lane, each swimmer, each potential rescue. Her dedication is both reassuring and, dare I say it, unexpectedly alluring. I’ve had very few women care about my life before, let alone be prepared to risk their own to save it. So when she draws level with me, I feel like the honorable thing to do is to let her know she is highly valued. “You’re doing a great job,” I say.

She looks up from the water. No doubt she’s surprised by my gallantry. “I’m sorry, are you talking to me?”

She is surprised! This is going well!

“I just wanted to let you know you’re doing really important work.”

She smiles.

I try to flex my stomach muscles. My bladder aches.

“Thank you,” she says, and then steps away from me, back on the prowl.

But I can’t let her go yet. Not while we’re getting to know each other! “I’m here because my physio thinks a swim will be good for my back.” I make a wincing face as though I’m currently experiencing back pain and pull my shoulder blades together to give physical accompaniment to my words; a classic conversational technique.

Then I realize that by pulling my shoulders back, I’m thrusting my chest at her, which is probably the beginning of some sort of mating ritual in the animal kingdom. I don’t want her to think I’m a hairless primate, so I throw in some self-deprecation; another classic conversational technique. “I’m not active like you, of course. I’m just your typical desk jockey. Except the only race I’ll be winning is the one to osteoporosis!”

She looks a little bit like the Angel of Death just appeared behind me. “Okay. Well, I’ll keep an eye on you, then.”

“Fabulous! I’ll keep an eye on you, too!” I say to demonstrate that we’re all in this safety gig together.

I hit the water invigorated by this positive exchange with a woman and, after the first five strokes, start cursing myself that I haven’t been doing this all my life. I feel so light, so carefree, so…much like I’m ABOUT TO DIE!

My arms are in rebellion. After three long decades of neglect, they’re now schooling me in the art of reaping what you sow. Oh, the burn! My lungs are like an obstinate balloon that won’t go down to let more air in. My legs are trailing behind me as uselessly as a “Be treatwise” label on a packet of Party Mix candies.

One thing motivates me to keep going. Her. The lifeguard whose name I forgot to ask.

A modern-day miracle occurs. I make it to the end of the pool and scramble out of the water like a baby turtle climbing the Empire State. Because I can’t manage breathing and standing at the same time, I kneel in a growing puddle of tepid water next to the “Slow Lane” sign.

My lifeguard crouches down in front of me. Perhaps she was impressed with my determination, my will to survive, my tenacity in the very face of death itself. Maybe she thinks I’d make good lifeguard material.

“You should consider a lesson,” she says. “Beginners classes run every weekend. For now, how about you call it a day?”

Time to buy a Speedo.