Today is Wednesday. Actually... no. It's Thursday. Great. I'm glad Wednesday is over, because it was definitely a stressful day. Why?
Because I kind of pretty much decided that I'm not going to go out for swimming this year. I've been on the verge of a ultra-spastic freakout breakdown ever since I realized this. Why?
I've been in the water since I was born. I started organized swim lessons when I was 3. I began swimming competitively when I was seven. I swam for summer rec leagues, for the Y, for a club team, on a varsity team all four years of high school, for countless clinics and private lessons and finally for one year on a college varsity team. I've done million of crunches and hundreds of thousands of reps on a weight stack. I can't begin to list all the miles I've run or the calories I've counted and protein shakes I've chugged.
And that's it? I mean, yes, swimming is something I can always do for myself. It's not something I have to be on a team to accomplish. But to turn away from something that is such an integral part of my being? I'm hyperventilating at just the thought. And if mere contemplation is enough to make me lose any semblance of reservation, then there's no way I can just... tell... anybody.
Which is why I've come to you, my humble blog. You, who will accept me regardless of what I durst or durst not commit to. I haven't told my coach, nor my best friend (and fellow swim mate). 1. I don't know how. 2. What am I going to do with myself when I am no longer a swimmer?
I think I'm going to cry.
Who am I?
That, my dear, is the question for a lifetime. And perhaps, just perhaps, the answer does not lie beneath a million gallons of water.
