Recently I reluctantly joined a local gym. I haven't been on the treadmill nor the cross trainer, yet. I haven't even picked up a weight. I went to one yoga class, decided it was too "grunty" and then booked a session in the pool. I went for a swim one day and that, as they say, was it. I found my new happy place.
For the purpose of context, I have always had a love-hate relationship with exercise. I don't come from a sporty family and as a child I was hopeless at PE. I am so uncoordinated I didn't know how to throw a ball properly until I met my (naturally sporty) husband, Chris, when I was nearly 30. He would argue I still don't. I'm a real catch, if you'll excuse the pun.
Over the years, I've done pilates classes purely for the promise of something more fun afterwards (bottomless brunch, anyone?), taken swimming lessons "as an adult" for a magazine article and gone to the gym just so I can watch daytime TV in my lunch hour. True story.
Naturally things changed when we moved to LA - and not just because I suddenly felt like I was surrounded by Gen-Z whippersnappers (is that a word people still use?) three dress sizes smaller than me.
I knew I needed to exercise for my mind as well as my body when we were struggling with infertility and so I got very into podcasts started running. You know, like Forest Gump. I was hooked. I was doing 10Ks on the regular! And while I may have been in a codependent relationship with Crime Junkie as a result (IYKYK) I have never felt more proud of myself than when someone in our neighbourhood said to Chris: "I've met your wife - she's a runner?"
Without this newsletter post becoming a 'my life in exercise' completely (zzzz), suffice to say, the running didn't last, and after Maggie was born it made more sense to join a moms' fitness group. I loved those workouts but had to stop after an injury, you know THAT injury. And so it's taken me a few months to figure out exactly what my new exercise should be. Enter: the pool.
As soon as I dipped my toes in, I just knew. Submerging my whole body in the water wasn't merely refreshing, it felt healing. Since starting my home organizing business and doing more physical work (and the subsequent shoulder impingement) I've been a lot more mindful of my whole body - from my muscles to my bones - and how to move it safely. Swimming is a no-brainer.
But while the water's lovely, and swimming, it transpires, is like riding a bike, the pool itself is taking some getting used to.
Boring but necessary detail: There are only three lanes in this pool. And two people are technically allowed in each lane. But you have to book a slot. And you don't know until you get in the pool whether you'll have the lane to yourself or have to share.
One morning last week I realised I was sharing an (extremely narrow) lane with another swimmer. Not only that, this woman is charging towards me, full on Butterfly (basically taking up the entire lane and splashing everyone in the pool). I cower awkwardly to one side and once she has passed at the speed of lightning, I start swimming again.
Now I'm a slow and steady breaststroke girl, myself, so if you're picturing the tortoise and the hare, you're not far off. Anyway, she's charging along like she owns the lane and I'm lagging behind her and then she has the audacity to tell me to "stay in my lane!"
I'd probably be more annoyed if I wasn't so impressed. This woman is far from a Gen-Z whippersnapper - she's in her 70s. And it turns out she's training for some utterly hideous sounding open water swim in Alcatraz next month. I know this because one of the pool's other regulars, Sarah - who I’d put in her late 70s, at least - told me. She swims everyday at the same time, uses paraphernalia I wouldn’t know what to do with (flippers, snorkels, the lot) and works off a training schedule on a clipboard.
Sarah says hello to me every time I go to the pool now but she didn't start out so friendly. I wasn't wearing a swim cap, when I first got in the water, you see. Thirty seconds later, I heard a voice bellow: "Where is your swim cap? You need a swim cap! They sell them upstairs!" Er, ok, Karen.
So you see, there’s quite a gang of us at the pool. And I am the youngest by at least 30 years.
Before I joined the gym, I remember watching an episode of Bluey with Maggie where the characters wrap scarves over their heads and call themselves 'Rita' and 'Janet,' pretending to be ‘grannies’, and suddenly I had this thought. When was the last time I saw an 'old' person? Where are all the 'old' people in LA?
In that moment I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that in LA, that archetype doesn't exist. In a city seemingly sponsored by botox, it can be hard to tell a 51-year-old from a 71-year-old because everyone looks the same. And it made me feel a bit sad.
But I guess I know where the 'old' people of LA are, now. They're all swimming. And shouting. And making a splash. And long shall they live.
Runner here with knee injury. Mad as hell.
Signed up for adult swimming and bought the paraphernalia. Shitballs.