The Hyperion Chronicles
“Call me Moby H”
#328 Reverse Pool Vultures
Long-time readers know I’ve been going to a chiropractor for awhile because—basically—I’m a 70 year old man. The chief concerns have been my back and my ankles, which make it very difficult to do conventional exercise (or walk, or for that matter, even stand).
Finally the doctor hit on the solution of swimming. “It’s virtually no impact, so it won’t hurt your ankles that much, while the water will provide resistance, which will help you rebuild muscle.”
That didn’t sound so bad. The doctor cautioned me not to go more than 20 minutes the first few times, but—as I was fond of telling anyone who would listen—I was a killer water polo player in high school. This is something I excel at. Good health: here I come!
Well, not quite yet. First I had to find a swim-suit, which proved to be as difficult as it is to procure all my clothes (owing to the fact that I have my own gravitational field). Plus I’m looking for a suit in November, in
I finally found a place that sold clothes “for the bigger butted man.” Unfortunately, the suits sucked. However, the suits were nothing compared to the changing room.
To call it a “room” is an insult to rooms everywhere. The privacy door had huge slats and ended about three feet from the ground; only going up to my shoulders. I felt like I was in an old saloon. Then they put the one changing room in the corner of the store, right in the middles of the bra and panty section, so every time I wanted to try on a suit I had to make that walk of shame, listening to tightwad obtuse mothers trying to convince their mortified 14 year old daughters that “32AA is more than ample.” (I am not kidding: this actually happened.)
I felt for the girls (felt FOR them, you pervs). I also felt for me, who had to change clothes just a few feet away from raging piles of P.M.S., with a door-that’s-not-a-door, in a room that I can hardly turn around in, let alone change. (Remember: at this point I’m using a cane to walk, so hopping around isn’t that much fun.)
On top of all that, there is a sign that reads DO NOT TRY ON SWIMSUITS OR UNDERWEAR NEXT TO SKIN. Isn’t that where you wear this stuff? How am I supposed to know if it fits? I want to ignore the sign, to make sure the suit fits and I don’t have to come back, but I’m suspicious that they might be watching me, so I pass.
Eventually I get the suit and get to the pool, hobbling into the changing room. (There are three doors: MEN, WOMEN, and FAMILY. I have serious doubts that they actually mean FAMILIES, but I’ve yet to get to the bottom of this.)
The pool’s not that big but looks okay. They have lanes set up, and I step into the “Slow” lane, figuring I’d do a couple of warm-up laps, and then move over to the “Fast” lane and wow the crowd.
About halfway into my first lap I realize there is something very wrong: me. When last in a pool, I was a lean sleek shark knifing through the water. Now I am this glass-bottomed boat with a whole bunch of people crowding the bottom looking for exotic fish. The result of all of this is added stress to my back, which is one thing I don’t really need.
Here’s another thing I had forgotten about: I can’t breathe out under water. I never learned the trick of breathing in through my mouth and then expelling the air through my nose while swimming around. This is why I played water polo instead of actually swimming. Plus I have a cold.
The end result is: I naturally try to keep my head out of the water as I swim. This in turn puts stress on my neck and my back. Again: not all that helpful when I’m here expressly to help those areas.
So swimming was not the slam dunk I’d hoped it to be. I quickly reassessed my ability to “swim for hours” like I used to. The doctor’s “20-30 minutes” was looking more and more like a pipe-dream.
I tried switching to back-stroke. I kept looking backward to see how close I was to the other side. I swear: several times I was actually losing ground to the pool current!
Through all of this I had to look like a drowning polar bear, and this concerned the life-guards to no end. When they first saw me come in I know they thought, “This joker can’t swim.” I was so looking forward to putting them in their places, for after all, I was once a champion water polo player.
Ten minutes later I just hoping they are well-trained. For their part, they seem—what’s the word?—terrified that I’m going to go down. I’m like the Titanic: I go the bottom, they ain’t bringing me back up.
At first just one life-guard just keeps an eye on me. Before long I have their undivided attention. Unsupervised kids are running along the wet surfaces with scissors in their hands! Okay, I made up the scissors part, but the rest is true. Anyone who’s ever been to a pool knows running is verboten, but the guards are paying zero attention to the kids. They’re worried about Moby Hyperion.
The next time I look over at the guards they have two ropes and a big hook on hand, I suppose hoping to fish me out before I drown. Good luck.
There is a huge Jacuzzi on the other side of the pool, and while at this point I doubt my ability to walk over there, I now have a goal in mind: If I can just swim/walk/keep moving/not die for 15 more minutes, I can go sit in that fountain of the gods. With renewed energy I press on.
The life-guards aren’t buying it. They keep watch over me with sharp beady eyes. They remind me of vultures, who wait with anticipation for animals to die so they can pick the carcasses clean. The life-guards are anticipating me going down for the count, except they are not relishing it (I hope), but are more transfixed in horror. They are like Reverse Pool Vultures!
And I’ll be damned if they’re going to get the best of me!
Somehow—in a span of time that includes praying to every major, minor, and fringe deity available—I make it through the allotted time. I stumble out of the pool like a beached walrus and crawl over to the Jacuzzi. This is going to be so sweet!
I climb in, and it takes me a minute to figure out the jets aren’t on because at first I’m just ecstatic to be in hot water. Soon, though, I begin to crave those powerful jets. I ask a woman about it, and she tells me she doesn’t want them on because the jets scare her little boy (the same little one who is flitting around the Jacuzzi in water wings splashing everyone like he owns the place).
This is so not good. I worked too hard to stay alive just for this moment, only to have it ruined by an inconsiderate woman and her spoiled brat. I look around to the other adults, but in typically Canadian fashion, nobody wants to cause a scene.
A lesser man would just admit defeat. But, if you’ve ever seen me (or tried to pick me up) you know that I am not a lesser man. I have to bring out the big guns.
I turn to the guy next to me and start loudly telling a story of the monster that lives under the bed. I’m not proud of it, but sometimes you do what you have to. At first the guy is poleaxed, but he quickly realizes the jape and goes along with it. The Nazi woman listens for about a minute and then demands that I quit telling scary stories around her child.
I apologize and say I will stick to more real-life events. Then, with a smile as cold as the snow outside, I launch into the tale of how a 12-year old Hyperion first found out what a yeast infection was (written about in #81 Adventures in Cleaning).
It’s a great story, but the woman didn’t stick around to hear it. With a huff she yanked her child out of the pool and stomped away. One of the others switched on the jets, and everyone gave me three cheers. (They also wanted to hear the rest of the story.) I may have been near death, but I’m still a hero.
After that it was back in the locker-room for that fun game of “Changing clothes and try to ignore everyone who is pretending not to look but really is.” Luckily, Hyperion does much better in this arena than he did in the pool, so I’m sure I made up a few points. Still, that part’s always annoying.
Then came the pain, but I’ve been back there several times since, and it gets a little easier. I can still smell fear on the life-guards like cheap whiskey on a wino whenever I enter the pool, but they’ll get over it.
And if they don’t, I have a couple of great stories I can tell them.
Until we meet again,
Hyperion
Motto Explanation
The Beginning of Moby Dick goes “Call me Ishmael.”
Credits
Thanks to AnRen and Stimpy for Editing
Thanks to Ella. Sorry the Incubus section got cut
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