You think you’ve got the hang of it. You think you’re getting somewhere. You can begin to see the wood for the trees. So many other similes encapsulate your mood.
It’s really beginning to happen. You’re beginning to swim. You’re learning to relax and go with it.
Then from nowhere someone kicks you in the teeth (or slaps you in the face). You’re stunned. It came from out of the blue, or out of the sun. Either way, you never saw it coming. Suddenly the once safe environment of the teaching pool becomes shark-invested waters. You cannot trust anyone. You dare not.
And if you react or lash out, you only make it worse. Your wounds only serve to feed their appetite. Their lust for blood and pain apparently takes many forms. You’re supposed to lie there and take it and let the sharks feed.
Well maybe I will, or maybe I should just get out of the pool. After all, there’s a different one in every town.
Everything has conspired to stop me from enjoying swimming this week. Pool closures due to mechanical problems, work hours, the constant stress of trying to count lengths and finally tonight some bloke trying to chat me up. Er clue: I was ogling the 18-year-old cute lifeguard girl – the one with long dark hair and even longer legs.
No, swimming has this week, ceased to be a pleasure.
Words Of Little Relevance 