Thank You Michael Phelps

I haven't really missed competitive swimming since my last year in the pool in my early teens. Self-consciousness about my body started catching up to me and honestly, the sport had turned into a lot of work instead of the fun it had been in the beginning. My mom had taken over the coaching job after a previous coach moved away and none of the other parents wanted the responsibility. Around that same time the public pool in the county where I lived was condemned and we were forced to drive to other counties for practice. At times we had to make due with the nearly quarter-mile-long pond at my parents' house for practice. Luckily the pond was kept up, free of weeds or algae, and no hidden obstacles to worry about, but it was definitely a little embarrassing to be training for competitions by swimming laps with the catfish.

My athletically gifted sister remained gung-ho about swimming for a few years longer; she even attended a swim camp held by an Olympic medalist, but that was my last year in the pool. Actually that was the last time I even set foot in a pool on a regular basis. It's quite possible that I managed to go through my entire high school and college years without ever even putting on a swimsuit. I'm probably forgetting a few instances, but they were few and far enough between that they only serve to support my point. I had to buy a bathing suit to even go on my honeymoon because I didn't have one that fit anymore and K didn't share my disdain of the pool.

Despite my burnout, which may have had as much to do with the low-level rebellion and depression of my early teens as it did with the actual training, I owe a lot to the swim team. When I joined in second or third grade I could barely swim. I was terrified of putting my face in the water, which my mom claims is the cause of my near death from drowning in mucus just days after I was born and some jerk throwing me in the pool when I was a toddler. I realized that this was an unnatural fear and asked to join the local swim team in order to force myself to swim right. I was a bit obstinate at first, but by the time the first meet came around that first summer, I had mastered a couple of strokes and was able to compete. I continued to get better throughout my time on the team.

That's not to say that I was ever good. I never brought home a lot of ribbons or medals for placing. I usually came in with the middle of the pack, good enough to not embarrass myself but not good enough to shine. I was perfectly satisfied to see my times get faster throughout the season. I've never been a competitive person, so losing didn't bother me and was never the reason I quit. It's possible that if I had been good and won frequently that I may have stuck with it longer, but I somehow doubt it. Winning has never been a driving need in my life.

I haven't really regretted quitting the team until this week while watching Michael Phelps breeze through the competition and admiring his form. Actually regret is the wrong word. I regret quitting football before the ninth-grade. I regret it because I quit because I was afraid of the older kids and by quitting I never got to see just how good I could have been at football. I had peaked at swimming by the time I quit. I was still coming into my abilities as a football player. I guess nostalgic is the better word. I watch Phelps, Lochte, Cseh, and others and wish that I had a place to get back in the pool and refresh my skills. Swimming is great exercise, something I could use more of. The only problem is that the only pool big enough to keep from having to turn every two strokes is the outdoor public pool, and I have no desire to have to wade my way through peeing children to get in my laps.

I also have no desire to return to my roots stroking my way down the length of my parents' pond.

In other words, thanks for making me care about swimming again, Mr. Phelps.

And today is actually the ten-year anniversary of K's and my first date. It was Friday, August 15, 1998 that we went out to dinner for our first outing alone together and came home to watch The Tonight Show. It apparently meant more to me than it did to K though. When I suggested going out to dinner and a movie tonight and letting my sister babysit, K shrugged it off.

Oh well. At least I have Michael Phelps for another couple of days.