I’ve been making good progress on my 40×40 list.
In case you’re keeping tabs, I haven’t consumed a single Mountain Dew of any variety since October 30. Oddly, I also find that I’m now less interested in Nascar and have started questioning the wisdom of allowing cousins to marry.
At this rate, Miss Moneypenny’s brown snaggletooth will practically straighten itself and people won’t think they’re entering West Virginia when they cross my threshold. Might be time to start a meth lab, just to maintain appearances around here.
[I joke, but my sister once lived across the street from a house that functioned as a meth lab and had no idea. The DEA has created a registry of homes that functioned as clandestine labs. Probably worth reviewing if you're hunting for a home. Screwy as it sounds, realtors don't have to disclose a home's illicit history - even if it can make you sick. How was THAT for random?]
Back to my 40×40 list… I’ve been making good progress on my commitment to swim 50 miles this year. I already have 7 miles under my belt, and – aside from the first one, which was UGLY – it’s just like riding a bike. Except without the wheels and handlebars.
I find that my mind wanders when I’m cranking out laps, and I think of the weirdest things. That bike analogy wasn’t even one of them, until I considered what it would be like to swim while wearing a bike helmet.
This weekend I had a lane that is lined with four drains along the bottom. It made me think of childhood, and the oft-repeated warnings to, “Never sit on the pool drain or you will have your intestines pulled out of your ass.” I’m not the only person who heard that line, right?
As I counted my laps and stared at the drains, it struck me as an urban legend. So when I got home, I googled “death by pool drain intestines.” Brace yourself: It is actually a real thing. Wow. Just – terrifying.
On a related note – related to swimming, not intestinal loss – I had a weird experience when I went to the pool on Saturday. All the lanes were occupied, so I sized them up, trying to determine where I’d have the best luck sharing. I felt like Goldilocks as I observed the swimmers: that one’s too fast… that one’s too slow… that one’s too sloppy…
I finally found one who seemed to be, “just right.” Unfortunately, he must not have thought so, because when I approached him and asked to share his lane, he got all huffy and moved to a new lane so he was sharing with someone and I had his old lane to myself. Confused about what happened, I said, “Hey – sorry – didn’t mean to run you out of your lane.”
To which he barked, “We wouldn’t be compatible.”
I was taken aback because I wasn’t sure what he was basing that on. At that point, he hadn’t seen me do anything. I shrugged and started my laps, keeping one eye trained on his workout to see what he had meant.
I was never able to figure it out, so I can only surmise that he thought I was seeking a dick-free lane. And I guess he was right.
Next time, I’ll make sure I’m sporting one of these awesome swim caps from Kiefer.com so I know why he’s judging me: