Go ahead, have a fit.
I’m tired, hungry, stressed and don’t want to be social.
It’s Friday night after work. I’m planning on going out—and I will. I just need to throw a good old fashioned tantrum first.
Some people thrown down. Some throw a party. I’m throwing a fit and my local swimming pool is hosting.
Starting my usual warm up, I push off the wall. Instead of stream lining 25 yards ahead to the opposite wall where I usually do a flip and head back the other way, I finish a few strokes, arrive at the 13-foot deep end and start to tread water. My magnificent display of utter flailing foolishness begins.
I’m at the pool but I don’t want to workout. I don’t want to follow the black line at the bottom of the pool. I don’t want to jog from point A to B. I don’t want to bend over or breathe when someone tells me. I don’t want to sit and watch my thoughts. I don’t know what’s for dinner, where it’s going to come from or whom I’m going to eat it with. I need to go to bed.
So, I do what any adult would do—I throw a tantrum.
I kick the water, pound it with my flexed heels, making unladylike splashes. I jerk around and somersault forward tucking my head into my chest, squeezing my eyes shut, giving my core a real good glare. Interrupting my momentum, I arch and open backwards. I’m all staccato. Sharp fists pound the water. My neck snaps side-to-side.
I don’t want to go with the flow. I want to move against it—create my own waves.
I’m already in deep water, in over my head, and here I find the perfect place for an adult to throw a fit.
It’s never packed.
Friday nights at the gym are usually sparsely attended. The chance of having a large audience is minimal. I have a whole lane to myself and only two other swimmers with me in the pool. Space is key.
There’s a built-in lifesaver.
For a $5.50 fee, I’m guarded by a high schooler paid to care about me. Between texts, he will save me from myself. Plus, I can’t break anything. There’s nothing to throw, no walls to dent or people to upset.
It will end.
I’ve had a brooding temper simmer for days before. Tonight, though, there’s a time limit. This production has to end in 30 minutes. The pool closes. I don’t want to be removed kicking and screaming, so the large clock on the wall reminds me—move furiously, stay focused.
I have to breathe.
I can’t hold my breath. I gasp. I welcome the urgency to come up for air, a forced break before the thrashing starts again.
No puffy, teary eyes.
Fill goggles with tears, rinse and repeat. Treading water with goggles on, I can’t rub my eyes. The cool water helps reduce red, swollen, puffy, crying face. No one will ever guess what I’ve been up to.
After my unruly spectacle, I swim back to the wall in high spirits. I’m spent and ready for a shower, a warm transition back into the world.
The elderly gentleman in the lane next to me says, “I saw you out there. Do you swim the medley relay?” Ha! I probably did look I was trying to swim the back, breast, butterfly and free—all at one time. Like my onlooker, I too am trying to make sense of nonsense.
Do you ever fall apart to keep it together?
Editor: Kate Bartolotta
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