A Water Filled Hell
Im going to go ahead and make a statement that I am instantly going to regret making on the internet. I am very easily bullied into things. That being said, I am even more easily persuaded into doing things by my mother. Unfortunately, this instance perfectly demonstrates this issue. I had just walked in our house from a grueling summer away from home filled to the brim of self deprecating poolside jokes as the more physically gifted individuals walked by and a lot of alcohol induced pork nachos that I don’t regret at all. I had thrown my bag on the couch and was about to fire up an episode of The Real Housewives of Some Big City Nobody Cares About, when my mother erupted from the kitchen. She was wearing a flowered swim cap, a wetsuit and uttered the words that would become some of the most terrifying worlds I would ever hear…“I’ve signed us up for water aerobic classes.”
Okay, part of that was a lie. She was wearing her normal Chico’s outfit but the wetsuit would have been a lot funnier. Now, I know exactly what you’re thinking. “Water aerobics is easy. You’re young, Katherine. You’re in your prime. Everyone there is going to be like 80-years-olds. You can do this!” Well thank you guys for that. But unfortunately you are only half right. Yes, everyone is over the age of 75 but they are also a lot more physically fit than I am. Honestly, at first I was feeling pretty cocky when I shoved my body into that Speedo one piece, grabbed that noodle and plunged right into that uncomfortably lukewarm pool. The instructor came out and my cockiness only escalated. Her name was Evelyn and she looked very sweet. I kind of wanted to cuddle up with her and watch Designing Women, maybe talk about my feelings. But Evelyn was not sweet at all. She was what has once been called, a bad bitch. Homegirl was not even a little afraid to get her Reeboks wet and she kicked my ass up and down that YWCA swimming pool. Alarmingly, it wasn’t just Evelyn. It was every senior citizen in the tri-state area and even more alarmingly, my mother was their leader. It was like a water filled concentration camp but instead of a dry wasteland, it was a pain filled body of water set to the beat of “Build Me Up Buttercup.” I didn’t stand a chance. As I slowly drowned during “the rocking horse” I was forced to watch my mother giggle and laugh with her new friends as she showed them better techniques with their “water jog.” I was an outsider. It was like gym class all over again, except this time I couldn’t con my teacher into letting me sit on the stage and gossip with him while everyone else ran laps.
Finally, after an hour of horror it was over. I was out of breath. I was discouraged. I was probably bleeding somewhere. I got out of the death trap, took my pride and I ran to the locker room. I didn’t just run, I sprinted. You would have thought there was a Neiman Marcus semiannual sale in that locker room. I rolled into a little ball and prayed my mom wouldn’t find me. But of course after she got done speaking to her aquatic minions, she waltzed into the locker room like she was Michael Phelps or something. I wanted to push her off her hypothetical throne. I wanted her to feel the pain that I felt. I was thinking of the most hurtful thing I could say. I was ready. But as our eyes met, she beat me to the punch. “Sweetie maybe this just is a bit hard for you.” I guess she was right. Whatever, girlfriend. You may be good at high speed kicking across a lap pool but I challenge you to go against me at Toddlers and Tiaras trivia. I am sure you’re wondering if there is a moral to this story. If I am actually going anywhere with this. Well the answer is I’m not. I’m not actually going anywhere with this at all. I just wanted to tell this story so maybe my one chubby, unathletic, red-headed reader can go to bed tonight knowing she isn’t alone.
With that, I say hats off to you Mabel, Trudy, Evelyn, and Pearl. You ladies are more woman than I’ll ever be.
-Katherine