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I like to swim.
It’s the one exercise during which nothing hurts.
And at my age, that’s an enormous plus.
I don’t go as often as I used to, but still try to make it three times a week.
And work hard while I’m there.
It’s a matter of efficiency . . .
I also have a rather distinctive swimming suit. Made it myself.
It’s . . . modest. Something really, really necessary as I age and my body slowly succumbs to gravity and certain parts need more and more control to keep them . . . controlled.
A few days ago, I was working my hardest. Plowing through the water like a determined hippo. (And those things can move! Just FYI.)
I noticed the lifeguard, occasionally. Guarding life.
When I finished and showered, and was donning footwear and packing up in the front foyer, I noticed said lifeguard coming toward me at flank speed.
He obviously had something to say.
To me.
Immediately, my mind leaped to different scenarios: He wanted to hire me to teach swimming. He was so amazed at my prowess that he wanted to sign me up for the upcoming swim meet – senior’s class. He wanted me to take the job as coach and trainer for the local swim team. He . . .
“Um, Ma’am? Are you the one who was wearing the blue-striped swimsuit?”
He wanted me to make him one of my special, discloses nothing, swimsuits! I smiled. “Yes?”
“You have a big hole in the backside of your suit.”
Oh.
Oh.
