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I like swimming, the gliding in perfect rhythm with arms slicing through the water, hands firmly cupped, legs kicking in strong, steady motions.

There is a choreographic beauty almost like ballet in the smooth turns at the end of the pool. There's the strong kick off the side, a roll under the water and then - as if by magic - breaking through the surface speeding through the water again.

Well, at least this is what swimming looks like in some of the other lanes at my club's pool. The fat lady in me tries to convince me to go home. What am I thinking standing out here by the pool? Go home, she says. Relax. Get a nap.

While I argue with her, another woman arrives and places her things at the edge of the lane next to me. She looks me over. "Are you going to swim in that lane?"

I silence the fat lady, nod and proceed to twist my long hair into a knot. I bend down to rummage in my backpack for a barrette but find only a pencil.

Still squatting, I look up to find I am staring straight into the back end of a skimpy swimsuit. It seems the new arrival is doing stretches. She stands with her legs locked and her palms flat against the surface below her feet. She is breathing in loud puffs as she works through the stretch.

I move over to give her a bit of room. She releases the stretch and extends her leg until it is pushing against my backpack and my foot. I give her a dirty look, but she ignores the message. Annoyed, I quickly drop into my lane and gasp as I bounce up and down in an attempt to warm up.

I start out on my first lap and discover that it is not as easy at it looks. Instead of cutting through the water, my arms flail and my hands plunk. Instead of having strong, rhythmical kicks, I splash more water than Shamu at Sea World. And when I bring my head up to get a breath, I cough, sputter and choke as the chlorine gushes into my nose and down my throat.

I stop swimming and stand coughing in the water only to discover that I have only moved a few feet from the edge of the pool.

Determined to get the hang of this, I press on. Splash, sputter, cough. Splash, sputter, cough. I find a rhythm all my own, as awkward as it is.

I finally make it to the end of the pool and do a quiet victory dance before turning around. I bend my head and begin my slow progress back across the pool, thankful for the plastic bobbers tied together which help me weave back without invading another lane.

I am halfway across the pool when I look up to find myself face to face with the humming stretcher. She is now swimming in my lane, coming straight at me. It seems that during her long session of stretching someone else took her lane.

She cuts by me, spins below the water, and rams into me as she crosses back on my side of the lane. She stops, pulls off her goggles and glares.

"What are you doing?" she demands.

"Um . . ." I reply with as much dignity as possible under the circumstances.

"Follow the rules! Get over on that side when you're going that direction. It's easy."

I hurry to the other side of my lane as I scan the walls around the pool for "the rules." There are none to be found.

The woman snaps her goggles back in place, adjusts her swim cap and moves away from me with a powerful kick. I wipe more water out of my eyes and get back to the business of figuring out the rules.

Do I go in a circle in my own lane, then, or do I stay on one side? Can I swim on my back, or am I only allowed to do certain strokes while sharing a lane? It is all so confusing.

I'm still standing in the middle of the pool as this woman barrels down on me. I jump to get out of her way. Mid-kick, her foot catches me in the shoulder. I want to think nice thoughts, but I am beginning to suspect it is on purpose.

A few more collisions and the woman gives me one last angry glare before getting out of the pool and storming out of the wet area while muttering under her breath. I catch a few words like idiot and incompetent. The smart aleck in me thinks about telling her not to be so hard on herself, but my better part stops me.

Just as I think I'm ready to try one more lap, an older gentleman approaches and asks, "Do you mind if I share a lane with you? They're all full."

I give him a sad smile. "I'm just finishing up. You can have this one all to yourself."