It was OK.
I didn't have goggles, earplugs or a swim cap, so my eyes were all burny and rainbow-halo-y and my hair got in my face and I got that water-in-the-ear effect that felt like a mondo-ginormous beetle was clawing at my brain every time I bent over to pick something up afterward.
I stuck with the breast stroke mostly, because a) it was my best stroke the last time I swam competitively (I was 11); and b) the front crawl dumped WAAAAAYYY too much water in my un-plugged ears to be considered decent. HOW can an ear canal hold THAT MUCH water??
I climbed out of the pool after 15 laps that took more than a half-hour to accomplish and went on with my night feeling OK. Not I-just-busted-my-ass torn down, but not I-just-walked-around-the-block vigorous, either. Just a good kind of tired.
When I woke up on Christmas Eve, though, it was excruciating just to reach up to scratch my nose or to do other normal things, like gesture to people about how sorry they should feel for me.
It. Hurt. A. Lot.
Today, because I'm a glutton for punishment, I dragged my unemployed ass over to Sports Authority and bought goggles (pink), earplugs and a swim cap (black) before dragging my aforementioned unemployed ass back to the Rec Center, where I swam again.
For EVEN LONGER.
For EVEN MORE LAPS.
I'm typing this post now, in case I can't move tomorrow. That's called planning ahead.
My assessment:
- Getting back in the water seemed to help my arms forget that they were pissed off at me, and they swam just fine. My legs on the other hand ...
- The front crawl tried to kill me a half-dozen times, as swallowing the gallons of pool water deposited in my mouth with each breath was occasionally too much.
- My back stroke game, once a gem in my adolescent competitive swimming career, needs help. Like ... Serious. Major. Help. I ran into the wall on one side. I ran into the lane divider on the other side. I ran into the wall — like, ran into the wall WITH MY HEAD. Because I lost count of my strokes or because my strokes became Michael Phelps' strokes and I just didn't need as many to get across the pool. Whatever. I ran into the damn wall with my damn head. More than once.
- My anxiety that people are watching (and harshly judging) me while I perform any kind of physical exertion extends to the water, where I spent all 20 laps worrying that the lifeguards — who must be champion swimmers — were critiquing my form, my speed and my pool-swallowing abilities. I worried that they were going to blow their whistles and say enough is enough, stop trying to drown yourself and let someone competent use your lane — but I wouldn't hear them because of my awesome Speedo ear plugs. These thoughts plagued me with each crooked, water-guzzling stroke of each leg-exhausting (yes! LEGS! Exhausted!) lap, for all 40-ish minutes that I hogged that swim lane. This is why I walk at night, why I used to run at night. I can't see the people who may be (but probably aren't) judging me, my form, my clothes, my fat roll and my very purple face.
- Out of 20 laps, 12 were breast-stroke laps. I gave the front crawl a solid five-lap attempt before I genuinely tired of drinking the pool, and I decided the back stroke might kill me (or the swimmer one lane over) if I pushed it.
- My legs. Seriously. I need to find the Secret Kickboard Stash so I can work on those tired puppies. Yeesh.
I'm hoping this will be the low-impact solution to Not Being Able to Run Because of A Bum Lower Back Disc. We'll see.
In the meantime, please don't laugh if you see me flailing my way across the pool. I'm trying to not drown.
