Big Fish In a Little Pond

I've always loved the water, but, as someone living in an urban city, swimming was a treat saved for holidays and church BBQs at one of the deacons' homes. The best my brother, friends and I could do was to "swim" in our wading pool, a glorified tub constructed of plastic and vinyl, the bottom of which would often tear when we drug it across our concrete porch.

We would splash and see how long each of us could hold our breaths under the water. And, when my brother would run off with his friends, my best friend and I would lounge in the pool, pretending to be lost mermaids stranded on some desert island, or scuba divers in search of lost treasure.

When I was about 13, my mom signed us (my brother and I) up for swimming lessons at the Y. It was her first attempt at assimilating her children into normal "American" extracurricular activities. My brother fit right in with all the other little kids, I, however, was keenly aware of the fact that I was a big fish in a little pond. Literally.

I swam my way up the food chain from Guppy to Minnow to Fish, eventually reaching the pinnacle of the YMCA chain, Dolphin, when I had to take a week off for summer camp. When I returned my previous instructor, a strong woman who resembled Martina Navratilova, had been replaced by a strapping young man. I was in like with him.

It wasn't until he'd come into the picture that I'd become conscious of my body. I always knew I was a little chubby because my family was sure to remind me of that fact on an almost constant basis. But I had never been so self-conscious of the way I appeared in my swimsuit until he came along in all his handsomeness. It was the first time I worried about my thighs being too big or my tummy a little paunchy, of my legs and armpits being freshly shaven or my hair in a perfect ponytail instead of the usual wet mop of octopus-like tendrils. I wanted so badly to impress him, but a week's absence and my nervousness of being underwater and face-up in the pool (I had almost drowned like that the year prior) prevented me from doing so. Instead, while the other (much smaller) kids dove and did their pretend water rescues, ring recoveries, flipturns and butterflies, I clung to the edge of the pool, holding on for dear life. I was traumatized and feeling inferior.

Swimming has lost a bit of its appeal since then. I lost a lot of my stamina (a lot!), and the self-confidence of my youth has been replaced by the self-consciousness that only comes with growing into your own skin.

But, tonight, inspired by Michael Phelps and Dara Torres, I will brave the waters once more. That is, after I buy myself a new pair of goggles and possibly some black spray paint to cover the fishbowl windows that overlook the pool at the gym.