This morning I dragged my tired, yoga-ed bones out of bed for a nice, long swim.
I was more excited than usual, because I finally bought myself a new bathing suit.
Except that the excitement changed to anxiety rather quickly, as I tried to pull it on.
The bathing suit, although ordered in what I considered my correct swim size (bathing suits have weird sizes, like 30 or 32), seemed to resist fitting my body.
After a horrifying cross between a deep stretch and an interpretive dance, I managed to get it on.
It looked questionable, but it was covering my body, and it wasn’t see through, so I had to consider it a mild improvement.
I headed to the gym, wondering how embarrassing it would be if the suit did something like split down the front while I was doing laps.
I thought this was probably only a slight risk, but it’s important to think through all scenarios when wearing a maybe-too-small Speedo to the Y.
I grabbed a kickboard once I entered to cover me while I walked to my lane.
You can’t be too careful if you’re not sure if your bathing suit is offensive.
I slipped into the pool, trying to be indiscreet so that no one would notice my is-this-how-it’s-supposed-to-fit suit.
I pulled out my swim cap, and went to shove all my hair under it, when it snapped.
The swim cap, chicks, not the suit.
Although I wasn’t sure for a second, and let me tell you, it was a frightening second.
At this point, I realized that I was certainly not getting out of the pool and wriggling out of my suit without even so much as a lap.
But the pool rules clearly state that swim caps are required.
I take pool rules very seriously, chickens.
I compromised, by paddling with the aforementioned kickboard for forty minutes.
My legs will probably never recover.
Not ideal, but better than heading home without really getting wet.
And better than the lycra covering my body snapping in half.
Sometimes you have to call a victory when you see one.