used to
It's always the little things, isn't it? Outside the tribulations of buying the swimsuit that I hated the least, going for a swim wasn't supposed to be that big a deal. But it wasn't until I'd put the swimsuit on, padded my way out on the deck, and put my feet in the pool that I realized how enormous this was. That, and holy Hannah, the water was cold.
What was I doing here?
I used to swim all the time. I took swimming lessons off and on for years, lived for beaches and pools, and basically craved any excuse to wear my swimsuit (or, in the pre-teen years, a swimsuit with a shirt over it). When my aunt and uncle B moved into the house with the pool, I was over there as often as they'd have me. And to this day, I lament the fact that there was once a grand pool right under my apartment, long since destroyed either by nature or rowdy tenants on their last night here. Not that I was a great swimmer or anything--I just liked being in the water.
And then, I stopped. Once I got fitted with a bag, I pretty much had to. Sure, some ostomates can go swimming with nary a problem--but this is me we're talking about here. It was hard enough finding a bag and paste combo that would stick to my Teflon body--but finding apparatus that could brave chemically-treated water and constant motion? That would have taken a season or two, for sure. And I was tired of experimenting with ostomy products.
Now, I had no obstacles. The bag was gone. The suit was on. And it was just me and the water. After I acclimatized to the water, I started to swim. My arms were doing it, but my legs were dead weight. Strange, because I never stopped using those. I quickly ran through the highlights of my swimming lessons--the parts I could remember, anyway--and soon found my chlorine legs. Sure, I wouldn't be swimming in the lanes anytime this evening, but that wasn't an issue. I was just here for heat relief and a good time. I floated, kicked, swam, and turned forward and reverse sommersaults until halos formed around the ceiling lights and my fingers and toes pruned--and beyond. It felt amazing.
By the time I got out, the outside world had cooled down--or maybe I was completely refreshed. As I walked down the boulevard, I was relaxed and happy. I hadn't felt either way in a while. It was like everything was perfect.
And then I had to get on the bus and go home and ruin it, bit by bit. Sigh.
What was I doing here?
I used to swim all the time. I took swimming lessons off and on for years, lived for beaches and pools, and basically craved any excuse to wear my swimsuit (or, in the pre-teen years, a swimsuit with a shirt over it). When my aunt and uncle B moved into the house with the pool, I was over there as often as they'd have me. And to this day, I lament the fact that there was once a grand pool right under my apartment, long since destroyed either by nature or rowdy tenants on their last night here. Not that I was a great swimmer or anything--I just liked being in the water.
And then, I stopped. Once I got fitted with a bag, I pretty much had to. Sure, some ostomates can go swimming with nary a problem--but this is me we're talking about here. It was hard enough finding a bag and paste combo that would stick to my Teflon body--but finding apparatus that could brave chemically-treated water and constant motion? That would have taken a season or two, for sure. And I was tired of experimenting with ostomy products.
Now, I had no obstacles. The bag was gone. The suit was on. And it was just me and the water. After I acclimatized to the water, I started to swim. My arms were doing it, but my legs were dead weight. Strange, because I never stopped using those. I quickly ran through the highlights of my swimming lessons--the parts I could remember, anyway--and soon found my chlorine legs. Sure, I wouldn't be swimming in the lanes anytime this evening, but that wasn't an issue. I was just here for heat relief and a good time. I floated, kicked, swam, and turned forward and reverse sommersaults until halos formed around the ceiling lights and my fingers and toes pruned--and beyond. It felt amazing.
By the time I got out, the outside world had cooled down--or maybe I was completely refreshed. As I walked down the boulevard, I was relaxed and happy. I hadn't felt either way in a while. It was like everything was perfect.
And then I had to get on the bus and go home and ruin it, bit by bit. Sigh.