Swim Membership

The thing about running is, except when you’re packed in with other racers at a start line, it’s not really an activity that puts you in close contact with other people.  Since I’ve been on my little running hiatus, I’ve been spending more time at the pool.  On the worst days it can be a literal stew of human beings, and as to be expected from a lower-end gym, it’s usually filled with the wrong kind of people.

Even when I’m able to run, I try to swim at least once a week.  I’ve been to this pool enough to know the regulars.  There are a scant few who I don’t mind.  Ironically, the best of them all is a guy I call Hitler ‘Stache, and it’s not because of his big cow eyes.  Other than questionable facial hair and a propensity to stay in the pool too long while others are waiting, I like him because he is friendly but reserved, mostly keeps to his side of the lane, and doesn’t suffer fools who don’t follow common sense pool etiquette.  I fancy myself to be of his ilk, but miscreants tend to be more affected by his fascist glare than by my five-foot tall girl pout.  Even in a speedo, nobody messes with Hitler ‘Stache.

Then there are the others, here listed in descending order of offensiveness.

There’s the slow-going pregnant woman, a medical marvel who’s seemingly managed to be in her third trimester for almost two years.

There’s the gregarious Texan, a massive man who loves to talk about how he’s rehabbing a broken bone with aquatic barre exercises against the wall.  The only thing that appears broken is the drawstring on his swim trunks since I’m routinely treated to six inches of plumber’s crack as I go by.

You’ve got the wannabe free-diver who camps out with a timer at the bottom of the deep end, a whole five feet down.  There’s the man who lap swims for hours in full snorkel gear, never breaking the surface to see if anyone might be waiting to get in.  And of course there has to be the standard old man with unsolicited advice.  Yes, I know the butterfly requires a “kick and a half” per stroke, but thanks for stopping me mid-lap to make sure I’m doing it right.

There’s the old woman in full make-up who walks the shallow half of the lane or uses a kickboard so as not to submerge her head.  In truth, there are probably a few of these old women because some of them wear shoes, sometimes they stink of perfume more than others, and often they change ethnicity, but they all count as the same old woman to me.

Then you have the annoying jock with tribal tattoos who thinks he invented the concept of circling like we’re on a swim team and can’t understand how that won’t work when half the people involved are doing water ballet or the pregnancy crawl.

Then we come to the mail order bride who is always accompanied by a crusty old man with a white ponytail who takes poolside video of her swimming on a handheld camcorder.  It could be some kind of coach/athlete relationship, but the way they interact really makes it seem like he bought her out of a catalog.  She once cornered me in the locker room whilst I was in an uncomfortable state of undress and asked me my name.  Now every time she sees me, she excitedly waves and screams “Hi, [ExposedTanLines]!” for all to hear, thus ruining my illusion that I can remain somewhat anonymous amidst this collection of weirdoes.

But in truth, I know that I, too, am a dunce in this confederacy.  I can only imagine what they think of me, the scowling girl in the red swim cap who impatiently taps her foot until someone vacates a lane, who flares her nostrils at people who hang out at the wall and block her flip turn, who flaunts the “Shower Before Entering” rule because damn it, she knows she’s clean so what’s the point.

The fact is, we are all in this cesspool together.  If I don’t like it, well, there’s always the empty expensive gym down the street.