Protagitron Under Water

Yesterday I had my first swimming lesson. It's been one of the major hush-hush shames of my life that I can't really swim. Sure, stick me in the water and I won't drown. I'll even do a half-hearted doggie paddle, before listing to one side and lurching towards a comfortable sitting rock. But breast stroke? Butterfly? Freestyle? I am fluent in none of those. I managed to get through summer camp by signing up for arts and crafts and drama religiously- you should see the gimp bracelets I can crank out- but I didn't want to get through adulthood without at least knowing how to do the front crawl.

I mean, if the movies are to be believed, and they must be, humanity faces one of two futures. Either we become a flooded wasteland from climate change, or we become a zombie wasteland just because. And since I couldn't take zombie defence classes, I was left with learn-to-swim classes.

These classes are, by the way, a ruse. A clever ruse to get your money. First, there's the explicit costs of the classes themselves. Then you must purchase a swimsuit. Which requires not only money, but a masterful strategy to find not only one that is practical while not boring, but one without a few inches of shirring, hideous floral prints, or, God help me, rhinestones on it. Swimsuit manufacturers of North America, I will kindly provide you with three pieces of useful advice. First, there are some flaws no amount of artfully-applied shirring can hide. Second, no one wants to look like Grandma's sofa. Thirdly... rhinestones? Seriously? But a swimsuit was found.

You're not finished yet, though, The swimsuit requires various hair-removal purchases to be made. I am, genetically, cursed to a sideshow freak level of hairiness. Thank my Ukrainians and Scottish ancestors who probably decided to grow their own clothes. So, you buy a waxing kit, razors, and a depilatory in the hope that one of them will unlock the key to ad-worthy smoothness. The waxing will just unlock the key to a nasty-ass rash. Which means the purchase of some hydrocortisone cream must be made. And more alcohol, if I'm going to brave public viewing looking like this.

By the time I lurch into the gym, out a good chunk of cash and kind of tipsy, I realized I couldn't find my way into the pool. And not because I was that drunk. Because I couldn't find a damn door. I could see into the pool from windows, but all of the doors said "Pool Office," or "Pool Equipment," or "NO ENTRY- Male Swimmers must use locker room entrance." What's a female swimmer to do? Wander around aimlessly for fifteen minutes before going into the "Office" door, naturally.

The class itself went well. I like the water more than my skin likes wax, thankfully. Our instructor also seems like a nice goofy guy. Who is also blessed with a divine torso. As soon as my eyes started to wander south of his head, I would start to dumbly stare at his abdominal muscles, my mouth going all slack jawed. I have turned into a twenty-year old, female lech. This kid is going to turn out to be sixteen or some such nonsense. But until then, I'll do whatever Abdom- Andrew tells me to do.