Swimming and the male gaze – swim meets and pre-race diarrhea – without fail. Every. Time. They must have known – they being the pool designers because there was a washroom in the marshalling area right before the race. Sometimes I would go a few times – as my nerves were so heightened at swim meets.
I always had to be the best – my dad said in an intentionally supportive way – my mom demanded in her silent critical way. If we didn’t do well in sports, it was a waste of their time and money. It felt as though their love was conditional based on how and what we accomplished/achieved – cue over-achiever-adult-who-runs-into-burnout-theme-song. Ding, ding ding!
Honestly, the more memories and stories I draw from my childhood – the more fucked up it seems to be.
I mean – we had a privileged affluent life – but I’m noticing that what I thought were parental ‘quirks’ were actually forms of psychological warfare.
I guess swimming is conflicting for me. As a woman whose bush extends onto her legs – it’s a fucking ordeal to just get to the pool. I have to spend $100 to get sugared – the only thing that lasts long enough to be worth it and that doesn’t leave more red bumps in its wake than hairs before it.
Then I swim – with the mostly old cranky men and super buoyant older women who mostly just get in my way.
Sigh.
When my body is in the pool – she loves it.
Reaching and stretching out as long and tall as she can – controlled breathing – 1, 2, 3, breathe. Forming a dent in the water near my armpit to breathe. Leaving a wake as I carve out the water.
Touching the end and pushing off under the water – gliding until coming up for air.
where rivers are born 