Water fodder

If there is one thing I learned from the two-plus weeks I spent in the pool, it is that swimmers are not a very chatty bunch. I mean, why would they be? In the world of swimming, there is no such thing as “conversational pace” (for obvious reasons).

As I went about my daily pool running routine—which usually included a slow warm-up, an interval workout and a short cool-down—I noticed that I was often on the receiving end of some very confused looks.

None of my fellow pool-goers, however, dared to express their curiosity in spoken-word form. Luckily, I am well practiced in the art of decoding non-verbal communication. By that, I mean that one of my favorite pastimes is putting words in the mouths of unsuspecting strangers based on their actions and facial expressions.

So, in response to the slew of silent commentary I collected during my short stint in the water, I have crafted the following document.

An open letter to swimmers:

I know we will probably never understand each other. I never meant to invade your turf. (Or should I say surf? OK, lame joke, but I just had to.)

But alas—unfortunate circumstances have caused our paths to cross.

Over the last several days, I have kept a mental record of observations I would like to share with you.

First off: I know how to swim. But I am not a swimmer. No offense, but I would never voluntarily wake up at 6:30 a.m. to bust out 50 laps in a cement pit full of chlorine, bodily fluids and detached Band-Aids.

I am here because I have to be—because there are no other workout options available to me at this juncture, and I am pathetically addicted to my own endorphins.

Also, I realize that I’m not actually swimming—that’s the point. I’m not interested in learning the backstroke, or the breaststroke, or any other combination of bodily regions and strokes—I just want to have a shot at coming off of this injury in decent shape. Running shape.

I know this is a difficult concept for you to wrap your rubber-cap-covered head around, but it’s really quite simple. Instead of propelling myself forward in a horizontal, arm-driven motion, I move in a vertical, leg-driven fashion that resembles running.

So please stop looking at me like I’m some idiot who accidentally ended up in the pool on her way to the cardio room, even though that is basically what I am.

Yes, it looks strange. Yes, I am moving so slow that the old man with the snorkel in the lane next to mine looks like Michael Freaking Phelps on his way to another world record. And yes, I am breathing really, really hard.

Don’t toss me a pair of water wings, or a life vest, or even a noodle. I see your eyes nervously darting back and forth between me and the shelves full of flotation devices. I promise you I will not drown in this five-foot-deep, quarter-Olympic-size pool.

As for my workout attire—I do, in fact, own a bathing suit. It features purple bows and polka dots and is totally inappropriate for serious exercise. Therefore, I decided that this black sports bra and matching spandex shorts would be a much more comfortable, less wardrobe-malfunction-prone option. If you have a problem with it, check out what the pro swimmers are wearing these days.

Finally, I am fully aware that Aquacise starts at nine, so don’t get your Speedo in a bunch. I’ll be toweling off in the locker room before the instructor even hits play on the first Beach Boys song.