I wanted to go. I didn’t want to go. I figured I might, but probably wouldn’t, yet just in case, I tossed the bathing suit and towel in the car. It was too cold, I was too tired, and my brain played an endless parade of excuses. So it was no wonder that after getting some groceries, I aimed the car south toward home. The battle in my head got louder, and although “going home” had announced its victory over “going swimming,” some things aren’t over when they seem to be over. I suddenly aimed the car west and drove to the pool, totally out of my way and after extensive justification about why it was better to sit in a comfy chair at home with a blanket and a cup of tea.
After I parked and pushed myself through the hard wind and stinging snow, I continued my barrage of reasons why I needn’t do this, but now, since I’m here already, I might as well swim a few laps. Having not swam much since my medical adventure and still being anemic enough to nap twice most days, it seemed prudent to expect little and settle for less.
Once I lowered myself into the water, all bets were off. It felt, like always, so luxuriously refreshing and silky, so energizing and balancing, so much like home. I swam while singing songs and chants in my head as usual, occasionally playing over that little rants until they dissolved away. I aimed for six laps, then figured I’d do 12. I upped my expectation to 15, and since that was so close to my usual 18 laps, I kept going, stopping to sip from my water bottle on one end, glancing at the clock at the other, and in between falling back in love with the water.
In the end, I pulled myself out, happily worn out a bit and wound up more, after 40 minutes (I swim slow) and headed toward the dressing room. Within a few minutes, I was back outside, the wind, snow and wild bluster even more intense, but it bothered me less. I got to the refuge of the car, turned on the heat and exhaled. I might whine all the way to the pool, but I’m clear-headed and joyful all the way home.