It’s hot. It’s at least 95 degrees with 100 percent humidity and no breeze. The air covers me like a wet blanket, clingy and persistent. I know my hair has reached new extremes in the frizz department making me look the equivalent of a fluffy red troll doll. No, you cannot rub my tummy for a wish. People pay good money to sit in the heat and let the sweat roll from their skin. It’s healthy, they say. It’s good for the skin, they say. It purges the body of toxins, they say.
The second I can leave I’m getting a Coke.
“They” probably aren’t at an indoor pool for an hour and a half wrestling a one year old while the other two children are learning not to drown. While they call these swimming lessons, we are still at the “how to keep alive” stage. I suppose in time they might learn how to propel themselves through the water but for now, first things first.
There’s no amount of explaining that helps a youngster realize that these lessons are for their own good. In their eyes the teacher is doing her best to kill them. She pushes them into deep water where they can’t touch bottom, forces them to flail to stay afloat, and calls the exercise “treading water.” Then she holds them by their heads and insists they can float on their backs. All they can think about is that their breathing bits are mere inches from going under and the only thing keeping them afloat is the same gal that pushed them into the deep water.
I have seen improvement in my kids not drowning skills, so it’s all worth it. As for me nothing sounds better than heading home.