Life In The Fast Lane

On Saturday, I started a new activity. Swimming (or, as I like to call it, "it's not swimming, it's drowning with style!").

I packed a bag with my new costume and goggles. I was excited! For years I’d hated swimming, I’d wanted to avoid it at all costs, but now I was looking forward to it. The Trinity Bellwoods Recreation Centre is a building that sits at the side of Trinity Bellwoods Park, about half an hour walk from my flat. Soon I was snapping my goggles on and standing at the side of the pool. Hey! I’ve made it this far! It seemed like such an achievement for a girl who had spent years avoiding swimming at all costs, any excuse not to get into a bathing suit. There are several reasons why I disliked swimming for so long:

• Not liking the way I looked in a swimming costume or bikini
• Not liking the bodily maintenance involved with regularly wearing a swimming costume (YOU try shaving your legs on a daily basis and see how long it takes for you to get bored of it, too)
• I’m kind of not really very good at swimming (think fish out of water... in the water)

But here I was. I surveyed the three lanes in the pool and tried to decide where I should slot in. For some reason all the old people were clogging up one lane, the other one on the far side looked just as busy, so I went for the middle lane, where there was only about three people. That would do me. I got in the water and bobbed over to the middle of the pool, where I pushed off and started with breaststroke, the only stroke I really felt comfortable with doing (front crawl has me in a slight panic over air supply and backstroke has me idly milling down the pool in a diagonal fashion, involving much casualty). Being in the water felt lovely — it was relaxing and invigorating at the same time. I reached the end of one length and turned and kicked off again. As my head bobbed above the water with each stroke, I started to notice a sign that was placed at the end of my lane. It had only one word on it: FAST. Suddenly I realised why I was in the quietest lane. Shit shit shit shit shit, I thought, trying not to imagine the professionals who were probably all jammed up behind me, thinking who let this numpty into the pool? I can only imagine what the lifeguard saw, as I went from old lady pace to Crazy Frog in nought to two seconds. I frantically frogged it down the lane, before bobbing under the divider and putting myself safely in the confines of the slow old people water, where I belonged.

I didn’t do many laps but I was happy with what I did. I grabbed my towel as I got out of the pool and walked to the showers. There weren’t private showers — hey, community pool! — and there was one old woman vigorously scrubbing herself, absolutely starkers. I kept my costume on and started to run the water on my shower head. Just as I was shampooing, old lady and I were joined by another old woman, who now was naked as well and did not give it a second thought. As I rinsed my hair I decided that I had to join them. I mean, come on: first of all, how was I going to awkwardly administer shower gel to myself through a swimming costume, and secondly, I had the best damn body in this shower room (that wasn’t too difficult to achieve). So I took of my costume, and now I was one of the naked shower ladies! Being in my birthday suit with these other women who I did not know at all was somewhat liberating. Here I was, totally naked in a (somewhat) public place, and nobody cared! Woohoo!

Fresh from my dip at the pool, I spent the rest of the afternoon watching anime and fretting over what I was going to wear that night — our flat was hosting a party. One of my flatmates had invited his friends’ band to come over and play, so at eight o’clock a white van rolled up to our front door, and in trooped several cool dude rockers, including one guy who I swear to god was seven feet, straight outta the Seventies. A couple of hours later, we had them blasting sounds reminiscent of Guns ’n’ Roses, for all (and I mean all of Parkdale) to hear. Anxious to not incite a noise complaint, after the band's set we moved the party out to a bar down the road. I chatted away to a sharply dressed man and he told me I was “aesthetically pleasing,” which I took as the best compliment I’d received about my appearance, like, ever. I also tried to teach one guy the Doric phrase, “foos yer doos?” I explained to him that it literally translated to “how are your doves” but is used to ask how things are going. “So… it’s like, how are your doves hanging?” he asked. I put my palm to my face and laughed.

At one point I was standing by the bar’s piano, atmospherically decorated with a line of small tea lights. I was talking to Mr. Swipey, and very proud of my appearance — hey, I was aesthetically pleasing — wearing a hot pink bubble skirt and my hair swept into a high ponytail. I was catching up with him and nattering away when all of a sudden he just pulled me towards him and started pawing my head, like an angry cat would a laser point on a wall. I didn’t know if it was some kind of peculiar affectionate gesture or what, but after a few drinks my equilibrium wasn’t really up for getting batted about this vigorously, and I tried to find my feet. “What the hell was that for!?” I asked, slightly miffed as I recovered from a slight stumble. “Your hair was on fire,” Mr. Swipey replied.

My hair was on fire!?!?

Apparently I’d leaned a little too far back on to the piano and my ponytail was the perfect taper for the flame of one little tealight. Thankfully, I wasn’t that bothered about it at the time. I shrugged it off and got back to the conversation, completely oblivious to the patrons at the bar who were tilting their noses to the air and complaining about the stench of burnt hair.

It was much later when Mr. Swipey and I were walking back from the bar. He put his arm round my shoulder and I slung my hand round to grab his waist as we walked. “It’s been aaaages since I last saw you!” I said. It had only been about ten days, but it felt longer. He agreed: “Yeah I guess it has. But I’ve thought about you.” I smiled, I didn't necessarily know what that meant, but it was good enough for me at the time. “I’ve thought about you too!” I replied.

At my door he took back his scarf that I'd been wearing half the evening. As he walked off I wished that he would just turn around and stay a little while longer. I turned to the group of guys who were standing outside my apartment, having just left the party. My cloudy mind concocted a plan. “That guy’s stolen my scarf! Go get it back!” I ordered them. They shrugged and one of them attempted to call after Swipey, but did little else. “Who is that guy? Do you know him?” one of them asked. “Yeah he’s my best friend!” I yelped enthusiastically. They saw that there was no need to recover the scarf, so turned and walked off.

The next morning I woke up, the room still spinning. I recalled the events of the previous night, and then remembered that I should probably cut the singed bits out of my hair.