When I was little, I put swimming pools in the same category as tiaras and castles. Pretty, but completely unattainable. And whenever I saw a TV show where the kids had a pool at school, forget it — that was as fictional as Charlie’s Chocolate Factory.
The only pool I knew was at the Huber Heights YMCA, a dangerous bike ride away from where I lived. The pool was so thick with kids and crumpled Funyuns packages, you could barely see the water. Lusty, greasy teenagers humped against the metal bars that lined the stairs. The smell of urine overwhelmed the chlorine.
My parents sacrificed a lot to get me a summer membership, so I went, albeit reluctantly. It’s not that I didn’t like to swim. I just didn’t like to swim there.
So now I consider it the ultimate luxury to live in a place with a swimming pool — clean and hump-free! — where I can cannonball, dive and doggy paddle 365 days a year.
It is not my swimming pool, but it feels like it is. Nobody in the complex really uses it. Maybe for people who grew up with sunshine and swimming pools, the shockingly teal ribbon has faded into the background. Maybe it seems too boring and familiar. Maybe they don’t remember the sheer joy that comes from floating on your back, drifting, watching the palm trees.
For me, it’s a baptism. The pool is my River Jordan. It’s like getting a slippery new skin.
The Husband doesn’t understand. He doesn’t like doing laps. He doesn’t like splashing around. He doesn’t even like floating. Whenever I coerce him into the pool, he just stands there and looks at me expectantly, like “Now what?” Until I hit him over the head with a pool noodle.
Today, after packing and hauling boxes over to the new apartment, just when I thought I couldn’t move another muscle, I jumped into the pool and was instantly reborn.
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