I’m not sure about including both these anecdotes today. The second is not really about motherhood or being married to an East European. It is simply horrifically revealing about me, personally, and the sad thoughts I have and the pathetic ways in which I entertain myself. I fear some readers will be embarrassed for me as they digest it. But there does seem to be something in the air – all these near-choking episodes are quite a coincidence. So – gulp – here goes.
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A dear friend nearly lost her life on a fishbone a few days ago. Not a very original way to choke, but that is exactly what happened. Sadly, her son (Babe's Best Friend) had to watch her other half pounding her on the back to dislodge said fish bone, and became distraught, convinced that his dad was assaulting her, and hasn’t yet fully recovered . So I should at least be grateful that my ear-plug choking episode took place when Babe was safely out of sight.
The other choking episode this entry relates to unfortunately once again involves me:
Other Half and I pay an extortionate monthly fee to belong to a gym. And our sole reason for belonging is that the only exercise I can tolerate is swimming, but where some people are afraid of snakes or spiders, one of my day-mares is the thought of slithering around on a dirty changing room floor. Ugh! I’m getting shivers down my spine just thinking about it. All those bits of soggy loo roll and matted hair, and I slip and fall and get all mushed up in it… AGH! AGH! AGH! Hold that thought!
So, we belong to this very expensive gym because the swimming pool changing rooms are clean. And I love it. I’m a different person around water. Calmer, more relaxed, full of joie de vivre etc. And at our gym, they turn the lights down at 9pm, so people going for a late night swim benefit from underwater lighting, which is perfect for floating, or pretending to be a gentle but sylph-like dolphin. Or whatever.
Now, I am not what you’d call a flirt, and I’m obviously not on the pull, but neither am I an idiot and I can see that some gym members use the pool to eye up potential life partners (or shags, or animal counterparts, or whatever), and sometimes it’s hard not to get inadvertently drawn into this. No matter how hard you try not to make eye contact – easier to avoid when you’re wearing goggles but mine are a bit tight so I only put them on for underwater stunts – you find that you do occasionally. And once you’ve accidentally caught the eye of someone a couple of times, before you know it, you both think there’s a bit of a potential thing going on, even when there quite definitely isn’t… This can be really annoying if the person in question is the wrong gender/type/swimming too close up behind you with goggles on, etc, but can be flattering if not.
Last week, I accidentally caught the eye of someone. He’s a bit of a hunk (although much too hairy and tall. I like my men about my height and quite compact. When I say compact, of course I don’t mean, OK, WHATEVER – the Ed) and I wasn’t too annoyed about it. And when I went back last night he was there again.
Apart from the fact that I still look five months pregnant in my swimsuit, my hair was down and though I say so myself I was looking kind of cute. I definitely caught him checking me out as I slid into the pool as elegantly as I could. And I continued to bask in the attention as I executed a few dolphin lengths, did a few more sitting on a float and moving in a backwards direction (which is great for the arm muscles but probably looks a bit weird and definitely annoys other swimmers) and I stared pointedly at the ceiling whenever we passed, so that I was in no danger of giving him the come-on.
Gradually the pool emptied itself of swimmers and it was just him and me left. I felt it was time to leave, as I didn’t want to get myself into a situation, but I didn’t want him to see how big my bottom is as I pulled myself out of the water. Plus I really wanted to have the place to myself. It’s like a blue, if oblong, lagoon. And fun :). So I hung in there, did a few more kicking lengths with the float, and he bailed first. Hooray! But joined two other men in the poolside jacuzzi. Not so hooray – as I still had to work out how to leave elegantly. Still, I was pretty sure he was still looking at me, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to show off a bit. I had a captive audience, as there isn’t really anywhere to look, other than into the pool, when you’re sat there in the bubbles.
After a few lengths of different strokes with the float, I decided it was time to impress with what I like to refer to as my ‘shark-slice one-breath’. I went to a very good (utterly dull, but good) girls’ school, which means there is nothing I can’t do reasonably well, and this includes swimming. Well, it used to include swimming. These days, I’ve still got the strokes but somewhere along the way I forgot the breathing techniques, which is how and why my shark-stroke developed. It involves stunningly good, fast front-crawl, in which I slice through the water in a very straight line, but also necessitates doing the entire length on one breath, because I can’t for the life of me re-capture that ‘turning your head to the side’ breathing thing. So my fitness level (poor) means that I can only do a few of these each session.
I did a few casual stretches, put on my goggles, and off I went. Slice! Slice! Slice! (Thirty-nine slices is what it takes) and then I was there. Yes! I knew that had looked bloody good. The trick at this point is not to reveal that your lungs are about to burst. I flicked off my goggles, did a few quick pretend-stretches, grabbed a float and then headed back up the pool, kicking like mad to disguise the heavy breathing. I could feel this guy’s eyes upon me, and imagined him saying to me at the bar later on (although of course we never would meet at the bar later on) something like, ‘Viola, you were mesmerising in the pool tonight. Truly captivating.’
At this point I should have left the pool. Cut my losses while the odds were high, or whatever the expression is. But my shark-side needed nurturing, and I couldn’t resist the temptation to unleash it a second time. Even as I pulled my goggles over my eyes I knew it was a mistake, but before I knew it I was taking a deep breath and had lurched into the water. Slice! Slice! Slice! Uh-oh! I was losing speed – too many strokes in, and I’d only got as far as the club logo, located on the floor of the pool at the half-way mark. Several more strokes, and I knew I wasn’t going to make it to the end. Several more, and my shark was lost to a jellyfish. I slooped towards the surface, desperate for breath, and took a deep intake of air…just before I reached it.
Bugger! The coughing fit that followed had all three men staring at me in concern. And through streaming eyes I observed that Hairy Man had been joined by a gorgeous, slim blonde. One of the other two (skinny, ugly, prawn-to-my-dolphin) left the jacuzzi and ran around the pool towards me.
‘Are you alright?’ he asked.
I nodded, choking and spluttering.
‘Are you sure?’ he said, jumping in beside me.
I nodded, still coughing. He passed me a float and stood there until I’d caught my breath. About seven minutes.‘You had us worried,’ he added.
‘Sorry,’ I muttered. And swam carefully to the corner of the pool furthest from the changing rooms, and climbed the stairs slowly on purpose, as penance, and to remind myself not to play silly games.
Does everyone, I wonder, have an over-active imagination, like me? Should I be analysing the shark/dolphin imagery? Be deleting all this and researching world development issues? I wish it was Friday tomorrow and that it could be the weekend for ever. I need time for relaxation and recuperation.
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