Tomorrow is Friday. I’m pretty pleased about it, actually. I’m probably not breaking a lot of new ground here, but pssst: Fridays are the bomb.
On Fridays, I celebrate by hitting the pool first thing in the a.m. Friday being a led-class day and all for Ashtangis, it’s the one weekday (apart from moon days) that I’m not practicing Mysore style in the wee hours.
I just reread that sentence and it made no sense at all. To you, I mean. It makes perfect sense to me. It’s a yoga thing. I’ll explain another day. Today, I’m too tired because Thursdays like to kick me in the gluteus maximus. I am Ã¼ber-grateful for the courses I get to take through my work, but after this one, I’m taking a time out, sending myself to the corner to stop and think about what I’ve done.
Anyway, yeah, the pool. Adam thinks it’s hilarious (maybe more like mildly amusing, but whatever) that I go to the pool and proclaim to love swimming, because I get so annoyed and stressed out by it. The thing is, I’m not annoyed by swimming, I’m annoyed with the morons with whom I have to share the lanes. Because I’m the only one doing any sharing. The rest of these splashers clearly didn’t graduate from kindergarten and were only released because they were dragging down the averages. They certainly didn’t get bumped up for good behaviour.
It is not rocket science. You know what? That’s a stupid phrase.Â What is rocket science, apart from rocket science? That’s like saying “It’s not chocolate,” when it’s labelled vanilla. Gee, you think? Thank you, Captain Obvious.
Begging your pardon: I digress. Allow me to return to the gross indignity of sharing a swimming lane with someone who is being lapped by those wading in the extremely-slower-than-not-moving slow lane. I’m a little worried that these people drive vehicles on the roads I, too, drive upon. Why, you ask? Well, let me tell you: They don’t know which lane they’re in, what “slow” or “moderate” mean, they tailgate and they cut in. They’re RUDE. And there is no excuse. What’s confusing to me is what they would do if I just did what they were doing. I think they’d erupt into a chlorinated, spleen-damaging indignation. They’d be shaking their fins, bug-eyed (okay, that’s probably because of the goggles, but still. Still.) and yelling out, “HEY! I’m swimmin’ heee-yah!” Yes, they are all New Yorkers by this point. Don’t ask me why.
I would like to delve deeper into this worthy topic, providing anecdotes from my countless personal experiences (Just wait until you hear the one about the change room. You’ll need an adult. I sure did.). But, it’s late and I’m tired. I’m likely to mix up my examples and throw in something about the instant IQ hit suffered by anyone except myself at Costco/Walmart/<<insert the name of any store that offers shopping carts>>. “No, really. That’s a great place to leave your cart.”
So, I’ll hit you back on this one soon. Splish splash and all that jazz.