Another Watery Workout in the Lagoon of Perpetual Gossip

         

I am a creature of habit. Which, I must tell you, doesn’t mean I regularly take to the streets garbed in nun’s clothing. (Although, I would admit, the impulse has crossed my mind more than once.) What it means in this case is that every weekday morning, at somewhere near 8:15, I’m staying atop the water, (flotation belt-aided) in the rectangle of deep water occupying one corner of the community center swimming pool.

        There, with my trusty water-weenie (or noodle if you prefer) I conduct a carefully designed set of “core” exercises designed to keep me from becoming any more of a wrinkly, paunchy old man than I already am. I refer to this as my workout. My wife calls it aerobic wallowing. The truth lies somewhere in between.

        Occupying the dead center of this liquid gymnasia are three, occasionally four and on one occasion six full-figured older women, treading water in one place (water weenie-aided) and moving their mouths twice as rapidly as their legs. They use up a lot of watery acreage, making trans-pool crossing challenging.

Now, I don’t want to come across as a chauvinist. It could just as easily be three to half a dozen men hogging the space, talking about, oh, I don’t know, tractor pulls or barbecuing ribs or ammunition, instead of the chatter about uncomfortable brassieres, cock-a-poos or bitchy daughters-in-law that I overhear every time I dolphin kick past the scuttlebutt mongers kvetching mid-lagoon.

Despite wearing ear buds connected to my waterproof mp3 player I can still hear the stream of mindless nattering floating in from the stationary gab fest as I kick past as rapidly as my chubby little legs will churn. Ironically the song thundering from the mp3 player is “Talk Talk” an oldie but goodie from The Music Machine.

“I told her that would happen over my dead body!”

“If I can get him off the couch, maybe he’ll mow the lawn!”

“Nathan’s a good kid, even if he’s a little unsure of his—

Kick kick splash, kick, kick splash. I successfully clear the conversational cloud, only to enter the perfume miasma created by another substantial woman. I’m pretty sure she buys her eau d’ cologne in the handy five-gallon power spritzer at Costco.

Whew! I make it to the far side of the pool, turn around and shove off to begin another lap of stomach-crunching flagellation. I approach the lip-flapping legion again.

“You wouldn’t believe what she puts in the lasagna!”

“You’d think the man would have the decency to draw his curtains. I almost dropped the binoculars when he . . .

“Her hair looks like she was attacked with a weed-eater.”

Whew again! I make it to the near end of the pool and hover there for a moment.

For a mini-moment I regret changing over my exercise plan from swimming laps to my current deep water core regimen. Or aerobic wallowing. What Ev !!! But I got tired of watching middle-aged water nymphs and old guys in speedos (they should know better) zoom past me like I was standing still. Which, to be perfectly honest I nearly was.

        Oh, well, if I’m going to live forever (so far so good) I’m going to have to suck it up and paddle past the tongue-taggling triumvirate treading treacherously thereupon. I start my next lap.

        “That teenage lifeguard looks like a young Brad Pitt.”

        “And if she does that again, I’ll bitch-slap her so hard she’ll have to—"

I turn up the music and redouble my dolphin kick.
“I’m a little red rooster. Please drive me home!” Muddy Waters

moans through my ear buds. Giddyup dolphin!!!

        “You won’t believe who’s sleeping with Mandy Morley.”

        I can’t help myself. I slow down and lean toward the center of the pool. Hold on. Hold the H20 on. This I gotta hear. This could be really juicy. Something I can pass on to Marvin on the other end of the pool.