Aug
10
This weekend I went to a triathlon training class and as I mentioned before I had some apprehensions ahead of time about the open water part. Well, I had “some” apprehensions until I read Jenny’s comment and when I got to this: “My swimming in open water fear is that I am going to brush limbs with a corpse that someone has murdered and dumped into the water and that my motions will cause it to look at me . . .” I think it’s safe to say I had a “massive amount” of apprehension, like a Do They Make a Swim Diaper For Adults level of apprehension, because holy jesus, I can imagine that scenario with HIGH DEFINITION CLARITY. Like that scene in the Abyss where they’re exploring that sunken submarine and that one dead body sort of floats into view and a goddamned crab crawls out of his open dead mouth BLAAAAAHHHHRRGGH.
Anyway, it turns out that the section of Lake Washington off Madrona Park we were swimming in contained no sharks, submerged watercraft, or softly rotting corpses, but there was an awful lot of what everyone referred to as “milfoil”, which is, as far as I’m concerned, a fancy name for “creepy-ass seaweed”. I don’t know what it is about underwater plant life, but I am not a fan. I don’t like touching it, I don’t like seeing it, I don’t like knowing it’s sitting down there all slimy and swaying back and forth and just . . . lurking, possibly hiding things like fish and zombies and who knows what all.
The worst was when we swam out around the dock and the milfoil was visible below but the water was deeper, so looking down through my goggles I could see a forest of it several feet below me. REACHING UP OH MY GOD. Or maybe the worst was when we were swimming in the more shallow areas and it actually tangled in my arms like it was trying to pull me down and digest me, I’m not sure.
I kind of got over the Plant Fear once they had us do a simulated race start, because I was far too distracted by the unique experience of trying to swim in a group of a hundred or so people. I can barely swim as is, and it was definitely scary to be in a thrashing environment of waves, kicking legs, and flailing arms. I instantly inhaled half the lake up my nose and forgot everything I’ve learned about form and breathing, and we were all supposed to swim about 350 yards out to a buoy and back and oh my god it looked SO FAR. The clinic had loaner wetsuits and I was wearing one with full sleeves, which helped with my buoyancy, but it was really hard to move my arms and I felt panicked and exhausted almost immediately. I kept alternating between a weak freestyle and a frantic dog paddle, my goggles got all fogged up and gave me a claustrophobic feeling, and for most of the swim I could not regulate my breathing and more than once I flipped onto my back just to hyperventilate and try to calm down. Towards the last 50 yards or so I managed to get my shit back together and stop behaving like a harpooned seal and stroke my way back to shore, and at that point I was thrilled to see that stupid milfoil because it meant I was almost there, thank GOD.
Not my finest moment, but I’m glad I did it, because 1) I have a better idea of what to expect in the triathlon now, and 2) I may have felt like a complete clusterfuck out there but I didn’t give up and turn around (even though I wanted to so, so bad) and I finished somewhere in the middle or final third of the crowd. My goal for this race is simply to finish it in one piece, not beat some particular time, but no one wants to be last, you know?
I was also happy to see that I’m not the only one wigged out by the swimming component of the race. During one of the presentations a trainer asked the crowd if there were any reasons we could think of that could cause panic during the swim, and I murmured, “Is there any reason NOT to panic?” and several nearby women chuckled appreciatively and then we had a lively discussion about seaweed zombies.
Every week, lately, I’ve been doing something that scares me: swimming, running after biking, signing up for intimidating-sounding classes, wearing sausage-tight clothing that displays every detail of the topography of my ass. I keep thinking how this race has grown to represent something much bigger to me than the sum of its parts. How five years ago, I would never have been able to believe my life today. And where I want to be, in five more years.
Aug
6
The thing I mostly remember about sex during pregnancy is how spectacularly unfair it seemed that while I was in the midst of this uncomfortable, ungainly, and totally selfless physical endeavor; this mammalian blimpfest that was all about the gift of life, which, by the way, was not exactly a gift for ME in the sense of, say, a nice new pair of earrings or shoes or something; this slow expansion that I had to carry out all by myself while my husband merrily walked around unfettered by distorted belly and wobbling upper arms and humiliatingly inflamed tissue erupting from his pooping region; I would also be expected to give it up.
Out of all the stacks of maternity books littering every surface of our house at that time (I read them obsessively during my first pregnancy with a dry-mouthed nervous fervor, positive I’d eventually discover the chapter that discussed how sometimes babies would simply explode in utero and that the first sign of such an unspeakable catastrophe was an inexplicable craving for liverwurst) which JB delicately ignored, the one piece of so-called “information” he somehow managed to retain was that after the gaggy exhaustion of the first trimester, pregnant women got really horny.
“Not necessarily true,” I told him.
“But—”
“No.”
“I bet you just—”
“No.”
“But the book said—” he’d start, and I’d wildly flap a hand around my body, both to indicate that he observe and recognize my general state of disrepair, and also to dissipate the odor of my most recent bodily emission. Liverwurst, jesus.
Between the aching boobs, overtaxed bladder, digestive issues, unpleasantly-located skin tags, creepily visible blue veins, puffy cankles, and sinuses that essentially sealed completely shut for eight straight months and forced me to breathe through my mouth with tongue slightly extended, I didn’t exactly feel as though my body was a wonderland. A loaf of Wonderbread, maybe. I couldn’t identify with the soft-focus gently-smiling women in the maternity books (inevitably sporting, it must be said, a protuberant mass of retro-styled pubic hair) who cradled their ripe bellies and were probably up for some meaningful side-position spousal action whenever their loving husbands so much as lowered an eyelid in their direction.
I also had vague concerns about the collateral damage the baby might sustain during a vigorous bout of lovemaking on our parts. I realized the absurdity of my thinking, yet I couldn’t help picturing our future child and the permanent indentation in his skull. Perfect for holding a small handful of M&Ms, but difficult to explain, this malformation would draw stares from the other children and grow unpleasantly moist during rainy days—all because Mom and Dad were watching True Blood one night and got carried away by all the smutty vampire scenes.
“That’s . . . uh, flattering,” said JB when I confessed my fear of Fetal Battering Ram Syndrome. “Also, insane. But if you’re really worried about it, I have a perfect solution.”
“This isn’t the thing where you offer to take my temperature, is it?” I said.
“Of course not, honey,” he soothed. “I was just going to say that I know you’re tired and I know how much work this is, and I want you to know that I’m here for you.” He reached out and held my hand, stroking my fingers.
A hormonal surge welled up inside me, and I sniffled in gratitude. “Thanks.”
“I want you to know,” he said, staring deeply into my eyes while I basked in the purity of the moment, feeling our newfound bond as partners and soon-to-be-parents. My lover, my best friend, the father of my child. “That a blow job is always a welcome option.”
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