Get Well Soon and Swimming Laps
by Julia Sneden
I live in an area
that is one of the loveliest in the world, come spring. It starts
in early February, with crocuses and camellias—if there is not
unruly weather. By March, the jonquils and hyacinths are up, followed
by a riot of dogwood and azalea and tulips in April. Iris and
columbine are next, and when roses and finally rhododendron bloom
in May, spring is coming to a close.
I
wish I could embrace it as wholeheartedly as my gardening friends,
but for me it’s all a bit too much, rather like a flowery “get
well” card that has verses inside written by someone with a tin
ear and no sense of rhythm.
I would love
to get in the spirit of things and lug the porch furniture outside,
but the oak pollen hasn’t finished falling yet, and anyway, who
would want to sit out there with the crawling caterpillars, the
carpenter bees, and air golden with the sneezy stuff?
Those of
us who like to breathe can wait for long, warm summer evenings
when the air has cleared up a bit. Not only will we breathe easier:
We won’t even have to apply sunblock.
Swimming Laps
The
lines and dimples on the bottom of the ancient swimming pool at
our local YWCA are as familiar to me as the lines and dimples
of my own face. My goggles are fairly well scratched from years
of use, so that the edges of things are growing hazy, but I can
still anticipate the blotches that look like Mickey Mouse, or
the slight ‘w’ of cracked paint at the edge of the drain, as I
glide along between the black lane markers. They are the signposts
by which I measure my progress.
Thirty-six
lengths of our 75-foot pool translate into something a little
over half a mile. I have them down to a pattern, so that I don’t
have to count:
Two lengths
crawl
One length
backstroke
One length
breaststroke
Two lengths crawl
One
length backstroke
One
length sidestroke
Three lengths crawl
One length backstroke
Repeat the whole series of 12 lengths, two more times.
It sounds complicated, but when you’re in it, you know just where
you are without having to think.
My father
was also a lap swimmer. He claimed it kept the muscles long and
lean. Well, sure, if you’re six feet tall like him. At five feet
three, muscles are never long. My legs have become cute little
bunchy knots of solid stuff, like two sets of parentheses, one
above another:
( )
( )
My calves are probably
larger in diameter than most women’s thighs. At least nothing
jiggles when I walk. At least not in my calves.
For
me, the appeal of lap swimming is not the conditioning, but the
solitude. When I am face-down in the lane, creaming rhythmically
along, no one can cry: “Teeeecher!” or “MOM”; no telephone rings,
no eager sales pitch can break through my privacy. It is a time
when I am truly alone, just me, the water, and those cracks and
dimples on the bottom. Now, if I can just turn off the tendency
to think about what I need to do next……
