YMCA

Walking into the pool area, I checked for an open lane to swim. I spotted the one against the far wall and chose it for the same reason I hug the edge of my bed at night and never take the last cookie on the plate. It’s a comfort to be out of people’s way on occasion. In the lane next to me, a chiseled youth in a Speedo warmed up his limbs in circus-like positions. Next to him, were two high school girls sharing a lane, cutting through the water like twin knives sliding through softened butter. 

I slid into the water, suddenly aware of my leg stubble and thrifted one piece suit, thinning in the bun area. My less than toned body reminded me that I was a mother of five, in the pool to ease my way back into working out. I was sure they could tell and I quickly hid myself behind foggy goggles. I tried to bring to mind my glory days in middle-school swim team, however, all I could recall was an awkward photo of my flat body and tye-dyed swim cap that my mom had snapped to celebrate my one try at athletics. 

As I inhaled and got to it, my brain couldn’t stop imagining what everyone else must be thinking. When my head lifted from the water, I blurrily met the life guard’s gaze and imagined that he was snickering to himself at my childish breaststroke, alongside the Olympian twins and underwear boy. It didn’t help that my nose and ears seemed to suck up the chloriney water like a thirsty plant and my goggles leaked every lap. With red eyes and a sick feeling in my throat, I checked the clock. In just five-minutes, I knew I didn’t belong. 

I was resigned to stop swimming. That experience was anything but therapeutic. I went home to shave my legs and hug my kids. 

However, I did go again. This time, I was greeted by a few elderly folks walking in their lanes, their saggy arms blithely pushing foam weights up and down. I smiled at them and straightened my shoulders. I could do this. My speed would blow their socks off. I entered the water like a swan and began swimming freestyle.

Maybe it was the boost of confidence the elderly gave me, or perhaps it was the sun shining in the windows like lasers, but whatever the case, I was in for a treat. As I dove under water for the first time, I was stunned by the brightness of the sun underneath the surface of the water, which had covered the tile floor with thousands of octagons of light. The water was clear as crystal and the silence was something you could almost savor like the first bite of a well-cooked steak. The pool seemed to be plugged in and electric. If it is possible to gasp in water, I did. Instead of being at a local pool, it was as if I was scuba diving in the tropics and beholding my first magnificent coral reef. 

I was no longer the awkward Mom-swimmer with insecurities cramping my style. The glow of the water worked it’s magic and I felt my body gliding with ease. I was amazed at my ability to move inside this supernaturally lit world. I felt half-mermaid, half-dolphin and thrilled to be alive in such terrific quiet. 

I wondered at this. One day I am the scum of the earth with unsightly legs and red-rimmed eyeballs. My head is crammed with the imagined, cruel opinions of others. And the next day, I’m pretty much Ariel of the YMCA. I am thanking God for my healthy body and proud of my aliveness. The world offers hope and I am expectant that God is good and has things to say to me. 

If only this wasn’t such a frequent occurrence. In learning Hindi and living in a new culture, I am almost constantly the awkward swimmer. Too many times it’s my turn to speak in a conversation and what I utter in Hindi sounds like a rooster who chooses to bark when it should say its famous cock-a-doodle-doo. And I’m left feeling like an insane rooster that needs to be shot and made into chicken fingers. 

Other days, after understanding a decent amount of a Bollywood film or after making chai with the best of them, I feel like I was made for this and I glow like a new mother. 

To live from swim to swim is exhausting. One day, I am nearly drowning, while the next, I am almost as confident as the boy in the Speedo. I don’t want to waste time with lies of my own making or have to wait for sunny days to feel okay. 

Is there a lane to swim in that’s somewhere in between? Or maybe I need the two extremes to show me it’s not about me at all. These ever-changing feelings of security to desperation teach me what an uneventful swim might not. 

Even during my glorious swim, with all that sunlight, it still ended with me dodging a wart pad that bobbed like some diseased tug boat down my lane. That’s enough to shake off the romantic thought that life can always be electric.