Under the Sea

I chose a lane inside today, instead of outside in the Olympic-sized pool. I wasn't feeling my normal Dara Torres-self. Maybe tomorrow. I decided to forgo the fashion show of those who come swimming, but never actually get wet. It's the same old summer scene of teens and tweens in bikinis and board shorts, rotating their lawn chairs with the cycle of the sun; and the latest prodigies of P90X strutting their stuff.

There is a cute guy in the lane next to me, but that's not why I chose it. He looks 30-something. Fit. He kicks with precision and he's not afraid to wear a swim cap. On the opposite side is an older woman. Elderly. Bedecked in full snorkeling regalia. You know, in case she encounters a friendly sea turtle or a school of fish at 4'5" deep. In a swimming pool. This queen of the Sea isn't really swimming. Instead she's doing an interpretive water dance with only a few motions, relocating the water which surrounds her, eventually ending up on the other side of the pool. She has a swim cap the color of a fresh piece of bubble gum halfway on her head. The space between her head and the top of the cap creates a small crown of air that could be used as a body-buoy, if need be. She's happy as a clam over there in her own little lane and her own little world, peering through her mask as she slowly scoots in the opposite direction.

It's while admiring my snorkeling slash synchronize swimming friend's cap that I realize I've forgotten mine, and the lecture my hairdresser gave me a few weeks ago plays in my head. Something about applying a UV and chlorine-protectant serum on my hair, along with the five other $90/bottle products she jotted down on my Next Appointment card. For a moment, I scheme a cap-seizing, (not to be confused with capsizing, though in this situation one could very well lead to the other). Just as I'm ready to put plan into action, I remember there's a cute guy in the lane next to me and, single or not, senior abuse isn't attractive to anyone.

I do a few warm-up laps and stretch along the wall, my legs dangling at 5' deep. Capless, with unprotected bangs flailing in my face, I begin the modified high school swim team workout my sister outlined for me several summers ago, making sure there's an extra oomf in my kick right as cute swimmer and I pass each other in our separate lanes. The Sea queen swishes about, pink cap regally situated a top her head. As she's splashing, beams of light stream through the windows and down into the pool, casting a yellow glow upon the water.