My First Swimming Class

I got off of work rather early today and, after heading over to Hunter to take care of some more paperwork, I moseyed on down to the Y for my very first ever swim class. I spent much of my ride humming In the Navy under my breath because it's a song featured on DDR2, performed by the Village People, who also performed YMCA. Long convoluted association. See how my noggin works?

Anyway, I'm all psyched for this thing by the time I get to the Y (which, incidentally, I found to be surprisingly new, neat, and tidy on my initial visit, debunking my previous idea of the Y being a dank and dirtier variation on gay bath houses; guess I missed that little gem by three decades or so). I bought a new suit, a snazzy top and bottom set, and a very hot swimcap. I'm thinking to myself "I'm going to show this pool who's boss. Oh yeah!"

So I head to the locker room and get dressed, then head to the pool room. My eyes began to sting almost instantly, there was so much damn chlorine in the air. I'm standing against the wall, observing the tail end of the family swim, seeing all these little kids lord the swimming thing. I'm *still* thinking "Oh, hells yeah. Welcome to bitchitude, pool. I OWN you, ho!" The other nine or so adult swimmers emerge slowly, and stand in my vicinity. They're all looking pretty timid, which probably should have clued me in. I think the swimcap cut off some circulation to my brain, though, in my defense.

The lifeguard tells us that our instructor is getting changed, and tells us to sit on the edge of the pool and just kick our legs. I instantly revert to a five year-old and start splashing water every which way. The instructor emerges and puts a halt to my fun, telling us all to get into the water, hold on to the edge of the pool, and kick while in a horizontal position. At first I think it's easy, but then I realize it's only easy to do it incorrectly. The whole pushing water thing and staying afloat was what was giving me hell. The instructor went down the row of us, adjusting and giving advice as needed. That was Lesson One, and after five minutes of kicking and aid from the instructor I still couldn't get it down.

Lesson Two was water breathing, which apparently consists of gasping and then making water fart bubbles (or, as it's called in proper circles, "inhaling over water and exhaling under water"). That I had down-pat. Simple as pie.It was all downhill from there.

Lesson Three was kicking your way across the length of the pool using one of those float-y board thinggeys. Needless to say, since I couldn't manage to master Lesson One, Lesson Three wasn't going to be thrashed. A number of my classmates seemed to be in the same boat as me, and we all looked askew at the instructor when she demonstrated what she wanted of us. We tried anyway, and I'm fairly certain I ended up kicking this kind Irish guy in the face while trying not.to.drown. I mean, the pool was only four feet deep, but still, a person can, I don't know, fall and not get up or something along those lines. I mean, I would kick but I wouldn't go anywhere. Nowhere at all. When the instructor chastized me for standing up in the water, I lamely tried to cover my ass by lying and saying it was my first time in the water (I'm such a pansy). She then said that that meant I shouldn't get upset that I wasn't moving anywhere while I was kicking. Ha. Sure, chica.

Lesson Four was something like kicking your way across the pool with the boards while breathing in the way previously taught, a lesson that required an intricate mastery of Lesson One. Which was still bending me over and taking me obscenely. When I gamely tried to make my way across the pool and still didn't make any leeway, the instructor said it was because I had "weak legs" and seemed a tad frustrated herself (all of the women in the class seemed stuck on Lesson One). Riiiiight. And how the fuck does knowing that nugget help me do what the hell you want me to do? Stop bitching at me about my lack of kicking then, if my legs are so damn weak.

What killed me about the class was the speed of progression. I clearly remember my first day of clarinet lessons, where we spent the whole day blowing through the mouthpiece. Forty-five minutes learning how to position my mouth. I was never expected to play Clair De Lune in my first day of music class. Slow and steady; learn the basics thoroughly, build a foundation and move on. That's how it is even for mundane things like handwriting class, and in both of those things you don't run the risk of drinking in nasty amounts of water that burns your insides or kicking hapless foreign classmates.

Around Lesson Seven (don't ask me what that particular one was about; all lessons after Three are lost in a blur of bluish-tinted water for me) the instructor said that she wanted to see us freestyling by the end of the class (class is an hour long, btw). I snorted and thought "Oh, you want me to freestyle *rap*? I'll see what I can do. But swim? Right, lady, tell me another one." And it wasn't just me! It just annoyed me that by the end of class most of the guys could make it down the length once without the floaty thing sans major stoppage. When I put the board down and tried freestyle, on a lark, I managed to make it half-way before giving up. However, I think that was due solely to my arm movement. I still, for the life of me, can't do anything with my feet.

So, that was basically my class. My eyes are burning even as I type this, three hours later at home, and my hair seriously requires washing, but I did enjoy myself (somewhat; could have done without the chlorine intake). I hear that next week we're supposed to build on the freestyling. I think I'm going to be getting real friendly with my float-y thinggey.

One of those times you want to go "STFU!!"

I'm listening to my father rant on in the way he usually does towards my youngest brothers. I'm figuring he's saying, from what I can decipher from this rambling yell/earnest speech session, that my brothers should look to make themselves "superstars" in basketball, otherwise they're just being a waste. He keeps talking about basketball to them, but he never gets out on the court and demonstrates anything. He's played casually, but he never played on a traveling team or what have you. And he isn't that good. So how can he even try the dressdown speech? Really now. I thought my brothers played basketball because they loved it, not because they necessarily had any serious aspirations to become the next Jordan or Garnett. He's going to suck all the enjoyment out of something that should be fun, like the way he managed to suck all the enjoyment out of me playing music. Damn. He's such a twat. He needs to go back to work NOW, before I *really* go insane.

Stab me in the ego, why don't you?

Apparently my brother made $500+ this week at work. I haven't seen that amount since my Brown work study days, and back then I got paid biweekly. He hawks headsets at the Empire State. He offered me $50 as a "late birthday present". I saw the $50 floating down onto the computer desk and had a sudden flash to my bank account, which is currently reading negative $48.22. Then I calmly picked up the fifty, handed it back to him, and told him "Your birthday present to me will be to take this money, stick it in your bank account, and save it." He protested, but I stuck to my guns.

I did the right thing. I know I did.

So why do I feel like weeping now?