I hate the idea of swimming.

Not swimming itself.

Just every single step required to get there.

It begins long before anyone reaches a pool.
There is preparation.

The sort of preparation people who enjoy swimming rarely mention.

The shaving.
The leg shaving.
The other shaving.
The standing awkwardly in a shower wondering how much effort is socially required before entering public water.

Then comes the outfit.

I wear a tankini.
Not because I am particularly fashionable.
Because I like shorts.

And because years of endometriosis have given me a complicated relationship with my stomach.

Some days my belly and I are friends.
Other days it resembles a hostile inflatable device.

A flowing top feels safer.
Kinder somehow.

Then comes the changing room.

The floor is wet.
Everything is wet.
The benches are wet.
The cubicles are wet.
Your feet are wet.

You haven’t even reached the pool yet and already you’re wetter than you intended to be.

Then, finally, you enter the water.

And everything changes.

The aches disappear.
The pains disappear.
Gravity loosens its grip.

For a little while, my body feels lighter.

Kinder.

More forgiving.

The water holds me in a way the world doesn’t.

It is wonderful.

For approximately thirty seconds.

Then I remember the water is freezing.

Not technically freezing.
Swimming pool freezing.

The special kind of cold where your brain immediately questions every life choice that brought you to this moment.

Eventually, though, you adjust.

You float. (Taught to me by my eldest daughter)
You move.
You relax.

And for a little while you understand why people love swimming.

Then it is time to get out.

This is where the betrayal begins.

After spending time suspended in water, gravity returns with enthusiasm.

My legs forget their responsibilities.

My joints remember all their complaints.

Every ache that kindly disappeared ten minutes earlier suddenly submits a written report.

There is often a brief moment where I am unsure whether I am walking or negotiating.

Then comes the shower.

A necessary step because chlorine feels terrible.

It sits on your skin.
It clings to your hair.
It follows you home.

The chlorine must be removed.

Unfortunately, removing the chlorine creates a new problem.

Now you are wet again.
Very wet.

And it is time to get dressed.

Anyone who claims it is easy to put clothes on a damp body is either lying or made of different materials to me.

Everything sticks.
Everything twists.
Everything refuses to cooperate.

The changing room has become humid.

The floor remains suspicious.

And I am trying to wrestle fabric onto skin that appears determined to remain damp forever.

Meanwhile the swimming pool continues making swimming pool noises.

Echoes.
Splashes.
Shouting.
Children.

The sound of pool noodles colliding with innocent bystanders.

At some point, a foam object inevitably flies in my direction.

I never know what I am supposed to do with this information.

Catch it?
Throw it back?
Declare ownership?

Usually I just stare at it until somebody retrieves it.

And yet.
Despite all of this.
Despite the wet floors.
The shaving.
The chlorine.
The damp changing rooms.
The sensory overload.
The gravity.
The pool noodles.

I still love being in the water.

I love the weightlessness.
I love the relief.
I love the feeling of my body getting a short holiday from itself.

So perhaps I don’t hate swimming after all.

I hate everything that happens before and after swimming.

The actual swimming is lovely.

Just don’t splash me.
Because I will squeal.
And everybody will hear it.
Swimming pools are very echoey.

— Frost ❄️