continuing story -- now someone needs to wrap it up. Any takers? (I'd love to see how it ends!)
I started a class.
Taking it, that is.
(Or is it taking me?)
I thought it would be an easy way to fight the guilt I felt in my gut. Actually, I thought it would be an easy way to fight my gut. (10 lbs. increase in two months = not okay.)
I mean – if I was the only person under 75 years old – how “aerobic” could “water aerobics” be?
I was not prepared for the level of condescendingness. (See? I had to create a new word to even describe it.)
Women half my height and twice my age said things to me like, “Hello little girl. Are you sure you can handle this?”
Ten minutes into the class they said things like, “Are you drowning? Blow bubbles if you need to.” (In the words of Dave Barry, “I am not making this up”.)
And the sad part is… I needed to. Blow bubbles, that is.
It's been six weeks and the old ladies and I have come to an arrangement… they don’t bother me, and I get the spot in two feet of water (which sounds so much less condescending than the words “kiddie pool”. And yes – I was making that last sentence up.)
Seriously, though, if I keep drowning at this rate the ladies will just offer me the puddle by the side of the pool to exercise in.
I say all this to make a point – things aren’t always as easy as they seem at first glance.
Several years ago I contacted an editor about a piece I really wanted to publish with his magazine. When we talked his answers were short and almost annoyed – to the point of rude. He showed no interest in my pitch.
I was put out. Polite. But silently angry.
A few weeks later I found out the editor's mom was dying. The day we talked.
Major jerk alert... and I'm not talking about the editor.
So guys, it's true. You never know what someone's going through. Whether it's in the publishing world or every-day life...
I’d rather be blowing bubbles in the deep end of grace than standing in the puddle of unforgiveness any day.