epsiode 27

The Swimming pull

Despite being a single girl, there are places that I really don't want to get chatted up. For example; the chiropodist's waiting room. I mean, I guess at least he's doing something about it, but you don't want to think about his bad feet before you've even been on a date. (Please note that I have never been in the above situation). And personally I don't like the idea of being chatted up in the gym, which is why I belong to a female only gym. My friend calls it the lesbian gym but, as no woman has tried to chat me up, I have my doubts. The list runs and runs: first thing in the morning when I go to get my coffee (normally still wearing my pajamas and definitely no make-up), in a fast food place (normally teenagers and that has happened to me) and also when I'm on a bus. Don't know why with that one, it's just something I really don't relish. But if I have to make a decision on the worst place to be chatted up, then it would be my local swimming pool.
There are lots of reasons for this. I swim almost constantly for an hour, it's an exercise thing and I actually enjoy it. I go to a leisure centre pool and it's perfectly nice but it isn't a swimming pool attached to a five star hotel in the South of France (wouldn't mind being chatted up there, actually wouldn't mind being there), or the rooftop pool at the new Shoreditch House in London. It's a pool for serious swimming, and nothing else.
I don't think I look wonderful in a swimming costume, for starters but that's not the reason you see. Or that I can't wear make-up, despite the fact I try to keep my head out of the water as much as possible, wearing make-up just isn't possible. It's not that my hair looks all ratty, although swimming plays havoc with it. I did try to wear a floral swimming cap once for the sake of my hair but I couldn't stand being pointed at and laughed at by everyone, especially as the cap was too big for me and I ended up looking like a cross between an entry for best hanging basket and one of the Coneheads. Anyway, I still shudder at the memory. Especially as my one attempt to bring floral swimming caps into fashion failed so spectacularly.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, so it's not about how I look you see, and it's not about how the men look either. I don't need to tell you how Speedos are rarely a good idea. And it's normally nice to have a couple of dinners before you ask yourself, 'does he stuff a sock down there?' And poor men with excess hair, especially on their backs don't stand a chance where as they would if they were sat in a bar with you and a shirt on. So, no, perhaps unless you're an Adonis, or a Baywatch beauty the swimming pool doesn't make any of us look that good.
However, my main reason for never ever wanting (or expecting) to be chatted up in the swimming pool is the way I swim. As other serious swimmers will be aware, when swimming you choose a lane. There's the fast lane where I swear the swimmers are either being fast-forwarded or bionic, or on steroids. Then there's the medium lane, and even there, watching them thunder past makes me dizzy. Then there's the slow lane. My lane. In fact the only reason it is my lane is because there is no extra-slow one.
I am the slowest swimmer ever. And in my lane I even get overtaken by OAPS. It's humiliating really, although my love for swimming means I endure it. So there's the reason for me not wanting to be chatted up, because my lane is like being in an old people's home, and as much as I respect my elders, I certainly don't want to date them. (And please don't get me started on old men in Speedos).
On this particular swimming occasion, however I noticed all was not as it should be. There were two young men in the slow lane. 'What is going on?' I asked Betty, the woman who just over took me and she giggled and tried to flick her hair flirtatiously at them. Honestly, she should have known better at her age, she nearly drowned. So, back to the men. They were both standing at the shallow end of the slow lane, talking to each other. One was holding a pair of goggles, and so I assumed they must be about to go into one of the other lanes. They smiled at me as I reached the end; I smiled back. Then I set off for another lap. Anyway, one of the men started swimming, the other stood. When I reached the end again, he said, 'hello.' I said, 'hello,' back. The next time round I needed a small rest and he asked how I was. Confused, I nearly said, but instead of asking him why he wasn't swimming at all, I smiled and said 'fine.' His friend had proved me right by now and was in another lane. Was this guy partaking in stationery swimming? Is there such a thing?
As I slowly breast-stroked my way up and down the pool I wondered if he was injured or something but he looked healthy enough as we exchanged words every time I went back to where he stood. But of course, this exchange had upset my equilibrium. I normally didn't think about anything when I swam, I kind of meditate or daydream depending on my mood. But here I was, thinking about a man. In the swimming pool. I felt affronted at the idea he had invaded my man-free zone. And also, when I reached him, I couldn't give him the wrong idea by having a rest so I had to keep swimming and was getting really tired. Although of course exercise wise, it was probably a good thing, but I wasn't happy. I was far from happy.
Eventually, and luckily as I was probably about to pass out, his friend gestured for him to get out of the pool. He waited until I got back to where he stood (still hadn't swam at all, perhaps he can't?)
'I'm getting out now,' he said. I nodded.
'We're going to get a drink in the bar if you fancy it.' I nodded again. Still, totally taken aback by the situation and vying between feeling flattered, annoyed, and exhausted, I finally got to take a rest. It was the first time I'd been chatted up at the pool, if that's what had happened and I wondered, maybe I should go for a drink, at least I could finally ask him why he stood there for over half an hour. But as I regained my breath and he got out of the pool I realised I couldn't go anywhere near the bar. He had a hairy back. And then he turned to face me, smiling. He'd also forgotten to stuff socks in his Speedos.