Swimming….

I took swimming lessons every summer at an outdoor pool when I was a kid. My lessons included the old version of CPR, the one where you actually made mouth on mouth contact with your drowning victim. I can’t remember at what age they stopped forcing kids to blow up each other’s lungs in the name of a red crest to be sewn on some macrameed banner hung from a piece of dowling through a nail but I’m glad they did.

I can’t recall how far along I made it towards full lifesaving/lifeguard status but I know I learned some basic strokes, never ever able to figure out the accurate breathing for front crawl without cranking my head completely to one side and taking several breaths as opposed to just the one out of half of my mouth the instructors always encouraged. For that reason, it’s hard to be disappointed in my kids for hearing the same constructive criticism from their leaders. Perhaps it’s genetic.  Our necks are just built to crank an extra 45 degrees. Maybe instead of shaming us, we should be studied like the misunderstood common owl. Maybe I had used up all of my breath forcing air into some stranger’s lungs.

The breathing technique got in the way of a friendly wager Greg & I had while on vacation with our friends “Team Cat Balls” a couple of years ago in Cuba. The bet was to determine which husband/wife team could swim underwater the furthest. I can’t remember what the trophy was but I’m sure it involved a big hunk of cheese and a fresh loaf of bread with a tray of miniature, paper, resort cups filled with beer.

We lost by at least a pool length and not for lack of trying. My husband could have beaten them handily if it hadn’t been for me anticipating that sweeping, owl-like motion of fresh air.

Yesterday, I noticed when flipping through the guide on our t.v., several stations were broadcasting “Swimming” specifically, “Women’s final 3M.”

Three metres—finally a race for the breathing impaired.

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