Big Mermaid, Small Pond

As much as I complain about my fellow pool patrons, I do love my pool. I adore the regulars I have befriended over the last year. I enjoy the asylum escapees who captivate me with their antics. And the pool has done wonders for my ego; nearly every day someone tells me I have beautiful strokes. I thought I was immune to the powers of flattery, but some of the most irritating swimmers have softened me with admiration of my abilities. Being a big fish in a little pond has its moments.

This morning, after a tough month involving, in no particularly order – moving twice, being homeless for two weeks, needing to call the police, and being rejected from several jobs – my favorite lifeguard stops me on my way out of the pool.

“You know what we call you?” he flirtatiously queries.

“No, what?” I ask slightly embarrassed and mildly afraid I have developed a terrible but accurate nickname after asking so many patrons to leave the fast lane. (For the record, I never ask anyone to leave if the pool is crowded; only when the medium and slow lanes are less crowded than the fast lane and only when the swimmer is clearly impeding the pace of the lane or is unable to swim in any recognizable manner. If that makes me a bitch, so be it.)

He grins “The Mermaid.”

“Really?” I break into a broad smile. “Who calls me that?”

“All the lifeguards, you are the fastest swimmer here.”

Thanks lifeguard. Day = made.

If You Can’t Beat ‘Em, Complain About ‘Em

The pool is packed today and who do I see in the fastest-fast lane but my old buddies Sam the Eagle and Silver Cap Guy. I decide to avoid that lane altogether and cruise in the slow-fast lane. I am a genius.

I am blissfully unaware of the fight that starts to break out, but I see Silver Cap Guy talking to my favorite lifeguard and Sam the Eagle talking to someone who also manages the pool, both visibly upset. They are emphatically gesturing at some guy who is pulling in the lane. Unfortunately, my skill at nicknames is failing me because there was not one remarkable thing about this man. He had no cap on with dark hair, a dark blue suit and that’s it. I really don’t remember him except that he was the cause of so much agitation for Sam and Silver. We will call him The Guy.

The next thing I see is the lifeguard leaning over the lane to stop the man and asking him to get out of the water. On the pool deck is Sam, Silver, the lifeguard, and three VERY large men who, from their shirts, appear to be security guards at the gym. Of course I linger on the wall ‘stretching’ so I can catch the drama first-hand.

Apparently, The Guy was not very nice to swim with. First, Silver Cap Guy accuses him of scratching his feet (hmm, sounds familiar). The Guy defends himself by saying that Silver was really slow and he was just indicating to him that he was passing him. This is a fair point because lap swim etiquette dictates that you should tap a person on the foot before you pass them so they are aware you are there. Of course, no one at this pool has any sense of etiquette (see ALL previous posts).

Silver Cap continues to insist that The Guy scratched him. Sam the Eagle jumps in and complains that The Guy ran him over when he was passing him. As a person who has been a victim of Sam’s flailing arms I find this statement hard to believe. Plus, Sam busted a blood vessel in a previous incident and today he looks like he is about to cry. What is going on?

The Guy continues to argue that they were too slow and should not have been in the fastest-fast lane (he’s got you there guys) and that he did nothing wrong. The fight deteriorates into all three guys yelling at each other and the security guards preventing a fist fight merely by their presence.

At this point, I decide to take advantage of the fastest-fast lane which is now empty (and apparently cursed because no one else will venture in) and enjoy a peaceful ten minutes alone while the pissing contest wraps up.

Whether The Guy was asked to leave or was fed up with the whole situation, I don’t know, but he storms off the pool deck. Sam the Eagle slides into the slow-fast lane and resumes his imitation of freestyle. Silver Cap Guy is on the wall in the fastest-fast lane when I come in. He leans over to me and says ‘When are you going to give the rest of us stroke lessons?”

‘Anytime,” I respond.

“Just don’t scratch his feet,” the lifeguard interjects. I glance up at him with a smirk and see him rolling his eyes. Whatever they are paying him, I know it’s not enough.

Don’t Hassle the Hoff, Don’t Wake the Lifeguard

Another fabulous tale from the cesspool courtesy of Stroke of Fury.

****

Life guard.  Life. Guard.  The word means exactly what it reads.  On the golden California coast, being a lifeguard REALLY means something.  If you are conjuring images of Baywatch, tanned muscled bodies in tip top shape, you are 100% accurately reflecting the type of athleticism required to do the job.  In the public pools of NYC, however, the people being paid to whittle away hours as a lifeguard bring less than their tanned best to the table.

Take for example, Pumpin’ Iron.  PI is a doughy, beer-bellied, pasty man in his forties.  Either lifeguard exams only require the skill to float, or PI passed them when he was in his tanned twenties.  So now you’re thinking, “Man, this Strokes is really judgmental!”  Yes, yes I am.  Look, we all have a jiggly bit here and a saggy bit there we wish was firmer and perkier, but I expect that the person who is going to sprint off the lifeguard chair to save a drowning child or elderly swimmer have the physical capacity to do so without getting winded.  It’s like saying you’d let a surgeon operate on you even if he’s a little dumb.

PI receives his handle because he is always pumping a 40lb dumbbell while in his lifeguard chair…the lifeguard chair that sits immediately over the edge of the pool.  If PI’s arm gets wobbly or if his hands are left greasy by mountains of fried food he must eat, that 40lb dumbbell is going to inevitably come crashing into the water landing on the head of someone at the wall.  When I reported him to the pool manager, I was told, “Is he doing that again?! I told him last year that he needed to stop that.”  The pool manager said that she would warn him again, but her ability to hire/fire was limited – I needed to call the City Parks office.  Are lifeguards in such short supply in NYC that you can endanger the lives of the people you are to guard and be welcomed back? Seriously.  And how can you keep a job protecting people’s lives if you have a record of endangering them?

PI is not the only lump of a lifeguard. The other morning, while lap swimming, I noticed that a female lifeguard on one end of the pool had not moved for a while.  Perhaps HER life needed guarding?  I swam closer and realized that she thought she was beating the system.  She had big sunglasses on at 7AM on a CLOUDY MORNING, was leaned to the side of her chair with her hands in her lap…sleeping.  SLEEPING!  As a lifeguard, your number one job is to keep your damn eyes open so you can detect people in distress.  Incensed, I swam to the other end of the pool to alert the other lifeguard…only…you guessed it…he was sleeping too.  This one was full on, chin to chest, mouth open, sleeping…also. He didn’t even bother to wear sunglasses!

We can’t all be David Hasslehoff, but I expect my lifeguards to be awake, alert, and able to save lives. Is that too much to ask? Maybe I should update my CPR certification and I will definitely avoid the lane PI sits above. I definitely don’t need a barbell to the head.

How to Crush an Ego in One Lap or Less, Little Lady Style

I know you have all been waiting by the computer for my latest tale of madness from the local cesspool, but sadly, no fights have broken out recently. I believe this is mostly due to the piles of snow keeping all but the hardiest of swimmers at bay. I cannot complain too much about the subdued atmosphere, I have been getting my own lane most days.

Fortunately, our guest blogger, Strokes of Fury, attracts the cray-cray, too.

******************

I am very good at splitting lanes.

So good, in fact, that Life In The Lap Lane, has to constantly remind me to swim down the middle during races.

Today is my third session lap swimming at a community college pool which shall remain nameless.  In the time that I’ve been here, I’ve absorbed the swim culture and general practice of the people who frequent the pool and found, more or less, that they are in line with mainstream swim etiquette. So I’m at the pool this morning and there is only one lane left with one person in it.  All other lanes are splitting.

I approach the lane and the lifeguard suggests that I stand with my toes over the edge of the wall to give the swimmer a heads-up that I’ll be joining him.  I do so and wave at the guy as he does open turns at my end of the pool TWICE.  Then I wait until he was almost at the end of the lane to jump in, figuring he’ll see me as he swims back.  Now, there is NO way this guy didn’t see me.  He is swimming down the middle of the lane.  Although I’m up against the lane line and he has to at least have noticed that another person is in the lane with him.  A lap later, I end up passing him even though he is still swimming down the middle of the lane.  When I stop to stretch, he stops as well and addresses me.

EgoMan: You know, you really should give me some notice when you get in the pool.  How about waiting until I swim by and say, “Hi, would you like to share the lane?” That’s pool etiquette.  We need to learn pool ettiquette don’t we?

AAHHHHHHHH!

FIRST. I followed all the rules of swimming and I don’t need to ask for permission to share a lane with you.

SECOND. DO NOT talk to me like I am a child.

THIRD.  DO NOT use that manipulative language with me.  The kind where you narrow the spectrum of my responses by asking a yes or no question that was strategically designed so I respond the way you want me to.

Me: Actually, I waved at you a few times and I waited for you to get to the other end of the lane before I jumped in so you would see me on your way back.

EgoMan: Well, I’m doing my own thing and I can’t see you and you can’t expect me to.

OH. I see.  Way to take responsibility, Asshole.

EgoMan: Now, I’m trying to be respectful.  Why would you disrespect me by cutting me off? I just don’t understand that. Why would you disrespect me like that?

Now I am understanding.  Maybe he didn’t know I was in his lane, maybe he did.  It didn’t matter.  That fact was secondary – his little patronizing “I own the pool and you must ask for permission” act was brought on by the fact that this big bad man had his ego crushed when a five foot tall woman passed him.

Me: I appreciate that you are expressing your feelings about this to me, but I think it would be more helpful if you would express yourself in a less condescending way.

EgoMan starts hemming and hawing about how I could have injured him and that he’s not being condescending and that I’m practicing dangerous swimming etiquette.  It was all I could do not to rip his eyeballs out.  In the end, he says, “OK, so we don’t have to agree, but why don’t we just enjoy our swims?”  like he’s taking the high road.  I refrain from removing any of his appendages or vital organs by force and say, “Agreed.  Enjoy your swim,” and push off.

When I swam with a team, I got passed ALL THE time because my freestyle sucks and REAL swimmers are faster than me.  It’s not a big deal and I just tried not to get in the way when my toes were touched or stopped at the wall for someone to pass. For some reason, non-REAL swimmers seem to take terrible offense to being passed. Especially if they are men.

Dude, it’s SO not personal.

I’m just faster than you.

 

Sign of the Times

My first day back at the pool and all around the locker room is the following sign:

“No spitting or washing shoes in the sink.”

Somebody important must be reading my blog. Now what is the plan for hairballs?

Swimming Pool Gross-Out

Apparently my fellow patrons at the swimming pool seem to forget they are in PUBLIC. Their behavior is baffling, bizarre, and down-right gross. Below is my growing list of non-fight-related grossness I witness at the pool:

1. Ladies sitting on the locker room benches sans undergarments of any sort. As far as I know, this is not a nudist colony, but perhaps I missed a memo.

2. People hocking huge lugies and spitting them in the middle of the shower. Aim for the drain, or better yet don’t spit at all!

3. Hairballs the size of my head. Lifeguards, the pool is not going to clean itself.

4. People washing dishes in the locker room sink. Why are people bringing dishes to the gym, why!?!.

5. People washing their shoes in the sink. Really people, this is why the drains get plugged.

6. People washing their hair in the sink. I guess I could understand (not really) if they didn’t want to change their clothes but these people are naked at the sink washing their hair. And they leave clumps of hair in the sink.

7. Schools of bandaids floating by.

8. Anyone with a see-through swimsuit. Sam the Eagle, I’m talking to you.

No doubt this list will continue to grow. Anyone else have gross gym/pool stories they care to share? Comment away my friends!

The Politics of Lanes

My morning is going swimmingly until Lady Marmalade in her orange suit decides to break the calm. I do not witness what starts the tirade, but here is what I deduce from a few moments of eavesdropping.

Lady Marmalade is in the second medium lane, the one not along the wall. There are four other swimmers in the lane and two swimmers in the medium lane against the wall. My favorite lifeguard, he’s my favorite because he always makes really slow people move out of my lane, I mean out of the fast lane, it’s not my lane per se, no one wrote my name on it or put a plaque in multiple language designating it as my lane (hint hint) but I like him because he actually manages the pool and moves people around to make the lanes run as smoothly as possible. So back to what I was saying, my favorite lifeguard tells her to move to medium lane #1 because she is really slow and is holding up the pace of medium lane #2. Apparently, LM does not take orders.

“I’m not moving lanes and you can’t make me.” Side note: Lady Marmalade is approximately 45 years old, not 4 years old as you would expect from a person making statements like that.

I cannot hear the lifeguard very well but I think he says something to the effect of “You are too slow and you are holding up the lane.”

“No! You let that guy stay in here. I am not swimming along the wall.”

I kick into the wall and pretend to stretch so I can hear the rest of their debate.

“He is swimming faster than you are. Why don’t you just move into this lane?” He gestures to lane #1.

“I refuse to swim by the wall. I don’t like that lane.”

“Okay, well this lane is getting crowded. Move to the slow lane on the other side.”

“Fine, you want me to move to the slow lane. I will MOVE to the slow lane, but I will not swim against the wall.”

“That’s fine.” I don’t think Lady Marmalade realizes that the lifeguard doesn’t actually care about her, he is just trying to keep the lanes moving with minimal fighting.

LM jumps out of the water, storms over to the slow lane and hops into the pool. I resume my swimming, mildly dismayed that no hair pulling or kickboard throwing is involved. A few minutes later I see LM storm off into the locker room. It is only 8:30am.

A moment later, Lady Marmalade is back on the pool deck with the head of the gym in tow. I’m too far away to hear what is happening, but there are lots of hand gestures, aggressive pointing, and veins popping. After several minutes of what can only be described as ranting and raving, Lady Marmalade finally leaves the pool deck. I have yet to see her back at the pool. What was she mad about? Was it ego, someone told her she was slow? Was she having a bad day, it was only 8:30am? Is she an angry person in general? If so, I strongly recommend against swimming because this cesspool seems to breed anger and aggression.

I clearly have been coming to this pool for too long, I am getting used to the craziness and I’m disappointed the fight isn’t more exciting. Lady Marmalade only rates a 4 on my Pool Crazy-O-Meter. The levels are as follows:

10 = Kicking or punching + name calling

9 = Kicking or punching only

8 = Pushing + name calling

7 = Pushing only

6 = Scratching feet, with or without name calling

5 = Ranting and raving + name calling

4 = Ranting and raving but no name calling

3 = Name calling but no ranting and raving

2 = Spitting or splashing, both aggressively and passive-aggressively

1 = Dirty looks

Lucky for us, up next week we have a 6!

The Lesser of the Two Crazies

“It’s assault! Should I call the police!?!”

Well good morning to you, too, sir. I stroll out on to the pool deck for my daily constitutional and what do I find but another verbal brawl.

Silver Cap is yelling at the lifeguard that he has been assaulted. Captain Useless claims, as usual, “I didn’t see it.” Honestly, is the man blind because I’m all for hiring the visually impaired but not when the sense of sight is an essential element to saving lives, or preventing fist fights.

So Silver Cap is screaming and Captain Useless is trying, and failing, to placate him.  “But he assaulted me and you are doing nothing about it.”

“I didn’t see it. I can’t kick him out if I don’t see it. Just swim in different lanes and stay out of each others’ way.” Finally, Silver Cap pushes off and resumes what vaguely resembles freestyle.

“So…….what’s up?” I casually ask the lifeguard. I don’t really care what happened because as I have previously determined everyone at this pool is CRAY-CRAY (that’s a fancy-pants way of saying certifiably insane). Without even witnesses the cause of the fight I would be willing to bet my life that both parties are at fault. Really, I just want to know which of the parties involved is less crazy so I can jump in that lane. This is the same selection process I use when voting.

Captain Useless relays the details. Silver Cap pushed off right in front of Pink Cap and cut him off. Pink Cap got really mad and swam on Silver Cap’s tail, allegedly scratching Silver Cap’s feet and legs with each stroke. Silver Cap retaliated by pushing Pink Cap. Awkward semi-naked fight among 50-year-old men ensured. Why does this story sound so familiar? Hm. I don’t. Oh wait. Yep, this happens pretty much every day at the pool.

I’m not really sure who the lesser of the two evils are at this point. I mean Silver Cap did cut off Pink Cap and as a victim of the same crime I have to say it is extremely annoying. But Pink Cap did not need to scratch Silver Cap. But Silver Cap did push Pink Cap. I vote we kick them both out. Anyone else feel that same way? Let’s see a show of hands. Anyone? Anyone? Bueller?

Apparently I don’t have the power to kick people out of the pool, or even the fast lane, which I learned during the Barbie debacle. Instead, I hesitantly decide to swim with Pink Cap. I manage to make it through the workout unscathed but that may have more to do with his inability to catch me rather than him acting like a normal person.

Pink Cap finishes his workout and makes a quick exit to the locker room. Silver Cap jumps out shortly afterward to resume his ‘conversation’ with Captain Useless, emphatically pointing out the scratch marks on his legs. Oh Pink Cap! Never leave a mark that can be used against you in a court of law. Have you learned nothing from Law & Order, Law & Order: SVU, Law & Order: Criminal Intent, and Law & Order: Trial By Jury.

I honestly don’t know what to say about these people anymore. I have taught a lot of children how to swim over the years, some of them complete monsters, and not one could hold a candle to the despicable behavior I have witness among the patrons at the local pool (who, with the exception of Breaststroke Barbie, have all be over the age of 40). Shame on you all! Except for you, A., you are a sweetheart. I love chatting with you at the pool. You may continue swimming.

Breaststroke Barbie: The Legend of the Pink Bikini

I am a simple person. On a scorching hot summer day I love nothing more than a peaceful swim in the pool. I freely admit I do enjoy the drama of my fellow swimmers. As one of the 2% of Americans who manages without a television I have to get my entertainment somewhere, but I prefer the role of casual observer. I merely collect stories with which to regale my friends. Little did I know what the pool had in store for me one fateful day….

I awake to another scorching day in an oppressive summer and make my way to the pool. Much to my surprise the fast lane lacks the normal crowd. Thank goodness for small favors. I slip into my usual lane accompanied only by one man in an arrestingly neon Speedo. The other lanes bulge with four or five swimmers but mercifully they stay away rather than seeking the extra space in our lane. Halfway through my workout I am resting on the wall and glance up as a figure looms overhead. Even with her hair tucked into her cap, the woman is stunningly beautiful. Her face is the angular features I often see in Eastern European models. She is thin but toned with olive skin. Her breasts, though clearly fake, are impressively perky and fit her frame well. And her entire body is displayed in one of the tiniest pink bikinis I have seen outside of Brazil, the kind of bikini that only women of her ilk can pull off with aplomb.

If she was at the beach.

In the dank recesses of the local pool her bikini is bizarre and jarring among my elderly and out-of-shape companions. She reeks of desperation. As I absorb the total effect of the woman only one thought rolls through my mind.

“Shit, this is going to be a problem.”

Barbie jumps into the lane and starts swimming breaststroke. She is a relatively decent swimmer, relative to the person aqua-jogging in the slow lane and the guy floating on his back down the medium lane. Nevertheless, I pass her nearly every 50, along with Mr. Neon, doing my best to avoid them both.

I put my paddles on to start my backstroke set. Although I am usually adept at passing swimmers without bumping into them, breaststrokers are more challenging for two reasons. First, the rhythm of their kicks precludes any splash. I sometimes get closer than I intend when swimming backstroke before I sense they are in front of me. And second, the width of the breaststroke kick makes these swimmers more difficult to circumvent. I admit that I tap Breaststroke Barbie a few times on the feet as I pass her, not realizing the seriousness of such a transgression.

A few laps later I am approaching Mr. Neon and I start to pass him as we head into the wall. I do not see that Barbie is just in front of him turning for her next lap. I maneuver around Mr. Neon as Barbie is pushing off the wall and we are destined for a head-on collision. I stop short in the water to avoid such an accident.

Breaststroke Barbie lashes out. “What are you doing? You are in the way. You should move to a different lane. You are too fast!”

Um, what? “I’m in the fast lane,” I respond, “Where should I go?” And believe me, honey, if I could swim somewhere else without the likes of you I would, but poor grad students can’t be choosers.

“You’re in the way causing problems. Go swim somewhere else.”

At the point, I snap. I have bit my tongue through every other bizarre behavior I have seen at the pool, but this is too much. “Why don’t you get out of the fast lane, you aren’t even supposed to be doing breaststroke in here. You’re the one holding up the lane,” I yell at Barbie turning around to swim away before she can hurl another word in my direction.

At this point, I am completely annoyed and refuse to make any concessions to Little Miss Funbags. I keep swimming backstroke and make zero effort to avoid touching her feet. On the next lap I tap her feet again and as I am swimming past her she splashes my face. A few laps later I pass her again and she punches me in the arm. I can hardly believe it.

Okay, granted, I have tapped her feet a few times but it is nothing more than what happens naturally when swimming in a pool with someone else. A punch in the arm is totally undeserved. A few laps later I catch her again, tap her feet and flip over onto my stomach to freestyle past her. She is on my right and as I breathe to that side I see her lift and turn her head in my direction, grimacing at me. As I raise my right arm out of the water I see her wind up and release a powerful kick directed at my head. I recoil from the impending blow and bring my arm across my face to block her foot. She nails me right where my neck meets my shoulder and stop me dead in my tracks.

“Are you crazy!” I yell, “You just kicked me in the head!”

“I told you to go to a different lane, you’re the one who keeps passing me.”

“You are a menace,”I yell over my shoulder as I swim back to the wall calling for the lifeguard.

“Lifeguard, you need to banish her from the pool, she just kicked me in the head.” Breaststroke Barbie comes into the wall behind me.

“You are dangerous,” she says. Turning to the lifeguard, “She is dangerous, kick her out.”

“I’m dangerous!?!” I exclaim incredulous. “You’re the one who kicked me in the head.”

The lifeguard, who will henceforth be known as Captain Useless, says “I didn’t see it.”

Breaststroke Barbie turns back to me, “You’re the one who keeps hitting me.”

“I’m not hitting you on purpose. I tapped you accidentally on the feet when I pass you. That is normal in swimming. You’re the one who PURPOSELY kicked me in the head.”

“You think because you’re faster than everyone you can do whatever you want,” she counters.

She’s got me there. Or does she?

“This is the fast lane, what don’t you understand about that. You aren’t even supposed to do breaststroke in here because it holds up the lane. I don’t care if you’re in here, but don’t kick me in the head for being faster than you.”

“You just think because you’re wearing those things on your hands you can do whatever you want,” she snaps back.

“They are called paddles and I don’t think that. I’m just swimming and you keep getting in my way.” Okay, now I’m getting snarky. This woman clearly knows how to bring out my best.

At this point Captain Useless intervenes and says because he didn’t see it he can either kick both of us out or we can both keep swimming. Another pool patron jumps into the fray by trying to explain to Barbie how lap swim etiquette works. Captain Useless tries to calm me down to no avail. Eventhough I am mostly done with my workout I decide to swim the last set again until my heartrate drops below a murderous level. Barbie swims a few more laps too, then exits the pool. I finish my workout and before I leave Mr. Neon asks “Who won?”

“No one. That was an ugly moment for both of us.”

“I don’t think she understands that this is the fast lane,” he offers as an explanation.

“No, clearly not.”

Before I leave I talk to the lifeguard who tells me he asked Breaststroke Barbie if she kicked me in the head. “She didn’t deny it,” he says, “So I know she did kick you. I think that’s why she left so quickly, she knew she was wrong.”

I recount for him our escalations from verbal to splashing to punching and finally kicking. “Next time tell me earlier so I can watch her,” he instructs.

“Honestly, I didn’t think someone would kick me in the head. Bumping into other people is a natural parts of swimming, but I don’t think anyone has ever purposely kicked me.”

A few days pass and I see Breaststroke Barbie in the showers. Our eyes lock for a minute as we realize who the other person is and we both look away quickly. I wonder to myself, what is someone so beautiful doing at the public pool? With that bikini she must be able to land a sugar daddy who will buy her a membership to a much fancier natatorium. One of my friends suggests that she may have spent all her money on her breasts so all she can afford is our little watering hole. But let’s open up the comments, any thoughts from the peanut gallery?

The Early Bird Gets the Bitch

I arrive at the pool an hour into morning lap swim, hoping the lanes are less crowded than the afternoon swim. I have never been much of a morning person but I am willing to drag myself out of bed two hours past the crack of dawn for an open lane (hey, I live in NYC, the sun rises early in the summer, don’t judge me).

The locker room is crowded with wet old ladies changing back into their flower or paisley print shirts and baggy cropped pants, the uniform de rigueur for my local grannies. In addition to myself, there are seven or eight other women in various states of undress. Three women are in a spirited conversation, though I am ignorant to the topic from our language barrier. And by spirited I mean these women are shrieking in uncomfortably loud voices, peppering my fragile eardrums with a stream of verbal explosions. Apparently, I am not the only person feeling verbally assaulted this morning. Next to me, a woman calmly asks the alpha female of the screeching trio if she wouldn’t mind keeping it down.

“What!?!” The leader screams in the face of the woman who dares to speak to her. “You want me to keep it down?” Turning back to her friends she yells in a mix of English and another language. I will leave you to postulate what might have been said in the other language. “She wants me to keep it down, I’m too loud! I’m not going to keep it down! I’m not at the library. I’m not at the movies. I’m not at a funeral! I don’t need to keep it down!!!”

True.

But. We are also not at a bar, or a rock concert, or even out-of-doors.

We are in a teeny-tiny locker room with tiles floors, banks of metal lockers, and an oppressively low ceiling. Anything and everything bounces off the surfaces, particularly loud voices, but also the rush of water in the showers, the splash of the swimmers from the pool just outside the door, and the cries of victory and defeat from the ping-pong players in the next room. Frankly, I am surprised their vocal chords can sustain such strain to eclipse the cacophony of sounds.

Not to mention that it is 8:23 in the AM and I strongly believe that people should not speak before 10am. Putting my fantasy aside, the real issue comes to me later when the ringing in my ears subsides and I convince myself I suffered no permanent damage from the morning’s auditory torture. These women are shouting in a confined space while standing less than five feet apart with nary a concern for the hearing of their fellow swimmers. And when one woman, in what is honestly a pleasant and respectful tone, asks for a little consideration through the lowering of one’s voice the alpha female snaps the verbal equivalent of a slap in the face. I have to wonder, if they chose to speak in English would they reach such ear-splitting decibels or do they think their use of another tongue excuses them from common courtesy?

I slip out of the locker room and into the pool where the water muffles the voices and splashes of the other swimmers. I approach 10am without hearing another verbal exchange, but shortly before the hour a man stops me on the wall to tell me I have beautiful strokes. I decide there are exceptions to every rule and thank him.