It finally reached the day that I knew was coming. Finally, my fall semester 8:30 AM water aerobics class is decidedly not fun anymore. Oh sure, I knew this would be coming, but as with everything I do, it seemed like a fine idea at the time. Such ideas come when registering for classes in 90 degree weather. ‘Ah, swimming,’ one thinks, ‘Seems like a swell idea, old chap. Sign me up for that.’
But I had other initial goals as well: get off my butt (AKA No sleeping ‘til noon) and to just perhaps get a bit more svelte.
*pinches arm jiggle* The physical results depends on the current level of daily meter o’ self-appreciation. Some days I prance around after class feeling fit and wear snugger clothing, other days I just mull around reeking of chlorine and wear the baggiest clothing in my inventory.
But as I awoke this morning, snug in my blankets and head planted into my pillow, the last thing I wanted to do in roughly a half hour was to go dive into a cold pool. Now, I admit this is not the east coast. The last time I saw snow, which I had to climb specifically in elevation to see, I was ecstatic. Hell,
Germany probably deems this a nice summer day I’m sure. But to me, who’s lost all ability to create body heat, I would prefer to lounge around on hot cement. With a cookie or a nice piece of cake. (And while I’m at this lovely daydream, I would like to have a puppy too.)
Alas, to the pool. My usual ensemble of pre-pool wear consists of blurry eyes, a mop of hair that I (maybe) ran water through, my mother’s cast off and fuzzed high water sweatpants, bright white socks with sandals (*gasp* Tre faux pas!), and topped off with my infamous and ancient, blue, three-dollar Wal-Mart sweater. Feminine glory at its finest.
I really have enjoyed this class in general though. As with today, where we got to…well, I got to…use the kickboards as WMD’s because we were told to stand on it in order to balance our core. Everyone else stands serenely on their board, swish-swishing with their arms to just wade or spinning to “engage the core more, since standing alone is too simple.” I, on the other hand, plant one of my massive feet on the kickboard, move to put my other foot on, slip, whereby the kickboard becomes vertical instantly and repelled by the water becomes a yellow missile shooting out of the water. My classmates shriek and leap aside as my board bolts from the water and sprays them with water. I splash after it. Rinse, lather, repeat.
“Is there a fool proof way to do this?” I yell.
The teacher looks at me, slightly frowns, then perks up with, “In theory, the fact that your exerting that much effort to stand on the kickboard means you’re really doing more work than the rest of us.”
Fabulous, that means I can have more cookies later.