I hadn’t planned on writing about this but that’s usually how I start my posts and then it spirals out of control and by the end I’ve told everyone that spoiler alert! My bra and underwear don’t match—ever.

This week, we started a new session of underwater torture the adult swimming class I’ve joined.

While the session is offered three days/week, I have committed to going one day per week and I have a grocery list of excuses as to why just the one day works for my schedule including things like various communicable diseases I plan to come down with, funerals I’m expected to deliver eulogies at, ribbon cutting ceremonies, home perms that require setting. You get the idea. One day Lizzy. It’s embroidered on the back of my youth swim cap.

But then someone went and threw a wrench in the plans.

The swim coach, who is either the nicest human on the planet or Gargamel from the Smurfs in human form evilly laughing under his goggles while I drown right before his eyes offered to switch Chloe’s swimming lesson to run at the same time as mine. What does this mean? It means I can now swim two days/week because Chloe is busy blowing bubbles in another part of the pool.

Three strokes, deep breath. I can do this.

It really meant I could do one full hour and then just a half hour the following day because Chloe’s lesson is just thirty minutes.

Here’s where things fell apart at the Speedo:

1) I had never swum two days back to back and really needed that full week to recover/dehydrate from the first class.

2) Chloe’s class finished and Gargamel along with Azriel (Chloe’s instructor) offered to let me continue swimming while Azriel sweetly agreed to play and take care of my three year old. If that doesn’t sound like pure evil, I don’t know what does.

I’m not sure how the rest of the world works but when I mentally prepare for thirty minutes of straight swimming, thirty minutes is what I’m able to do. When someone suggests (at the thirty minute mark) I should give it thirty more, I’m probably going to soil myself and/or begin sobbing uncontrollably and sobbing underwater usually requires a personal lifeguard. I’m already the special project so to have to swim with a buddy affixed to a rope and floatation device is not going to get me to the Olympic trials any faster.

I politely declined the additional thirty minutes trying to use hand gestures to wave to Azriel and give her the “bring my child hither” motion but I couldn’t lift my arms to reach the deck and when I tried, I just sunk.

The coach suggested I do a couple more lengths of breaststroke kick. Or my interpretative dance, drinking chlorinated water while trying to rest my head sideways on a flutter board like a pillow and chanting, “Serenity now.”

When I returned (several minutes later) I tried to shimmy out of the pool but fell back in just in time for the coach to tell me how I could improve what I had just done and encouraged me to give it another try.

Chloe laughing and high fiving her instructor while they talked about water safety was enough to make a person sick.