Morning Practice

I’m in my living room with Christina Aguilera. We are very good friends and about to perform for the mass of people chanting our names on the front lawn of my house. We are going over the final details and my glam team is putting the finishing touches on my hair and mak—

4:45 glows in red. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

I slam the button on the clock. Just two minutes. Two more minutes. It’s so warm, warm like I’m in a papoose, a papoose made of soft fur, like a puppy, I’m petting a pup—

4:48. No. Nooooooooooooooooooo. Just one more minute. One. One. Won. I won. I won a prize. A clown is handing me a prize. The prize is–

4:51. Shit. I have to get up. I have to. I cry a little bit. 3…2…

Comforter flies off and I jump up before I can change my mind, blindly grab a suit hanging on the doorknob, half feel to make sure it isn’t on inside out, then back into my sweats that are still warm from bed. One Ugg. Two. Hoodie over suit. Hood up. Grab school backpack and swim bag. Stumble to bathroom. Pee. Brush my teeth. The lights are torture. “I’m getting in the car!” I hear my mother yell from the kitchen.

I hate my life. I hate it so much.

The minivan is idling in the driveway. White exhaust rises in the black. The stars are still out. It’s 35 degrees. I hate everyone.

The car is warm. It smells like my mother’s vanilla flavored coffee, which is comforting. I reach over to turn on the radio. “NO too early,” from my mother.

We ride in silence down the deserted streets. I look out the window, all the empty stores, the dark houses. The quiet and the bumps of the car and the smell of the coffee and the warm air coming from the heater is soothing. I shimmy down into my sweatshirt and close my eyes, let that warmth envelope me, pretend like I will stay this in this warm, cozy pocket forever, that it will never end.

The familiar, gentle turns of the windy roads that begin at the entrance of the university tickle my subconscious. A small pit of anxiety in my stomach. The end is near.

I don’t want to do this.

We drive into the mostly empty parking lot and pull up in line next to the familiar car of a childhood friend. I glance over. The green and blue lights of the dashboard glow in the neighboring car. The black Acura isn’t there yet. I look at the clock. 5:11. Please, God. Please let his alarm not go off this morning. Please God let today be the day we all get to go back home and climb into bed.

5:13 the Acura comes careening around the corner and screeches to a halt in a parking spot. A mane of hair emerges from the driver’s side and begins crankily marching towards the pool entrance. Shit.

“Have a good day,” my mother says unenthusiastically as I rest my hand on the handle of the car door, willing myself to open it. I don’t even know if I respond. It takes every ounce of emotional and physical strength to pull that handle and push open the door. Cold air cuts into the cocoon, I begrudgingly step outside and slam the door behind me.

“Hey.” “Hmph.” “Hey.” “Hi”. We emerge one by one, weighed down by multiple bags for the coming day. An army of parkas and hoods, hands shoved deep into pockets. We congregate in a pack at the bottom of the stairs as he unlocks the chain on the chain link fence lined with dark green mesh. It opens. We shuffle in.

Outdoor pools in the dark are beautiful. So vivid, so bright. The clean lines, the stillness, the symmetry of the ripples when a breeze blows across the surface. Steam rises from the water, almost inviting you in.

Almost.

There is a low rumble of chatter as we halfheartedly start swinging our arms to “warm up”. Mild gossip about what’s happening at school, who is making out with who, our enthusiasm tempered by what we know is coming next.

“THREE MINUTES! IF EVERYONE ISN’T IS IN THREE MINUTES NO WARMUP!”

Uuuuuuugggghhhhhhhhhh. A few truly devoted disciples chirpily jump in within 30 seconds. May they die a thousand horrible deaths.

The rest of us huddle on deck, eyes on the ground, removing clothing as slowly as possible, piece by piece, avoiding the inevitable, the thought of exposing our bare skin to the wind and water unbearable.

“TWO MINUTES! EVERYONE NEEDS TO BE IN THE WATER IN TWO MINUTES!”

We move a little faster. Caps on. Pants off. Shoes are always the last thing to go because the frozen ground is just so goddamn cold.

“THIRTY SECONDS!”

Shit gets real. We frantically start ripping off clothing and stuffing things into bags.

“TEN…NINE…”

Out of the frying pan, into the fire we hop. One by one. There are yelps and screams. The air is freezing. The deck is freezing. And your only hope for relief is to jump in water.

“THREE…TWO…”

One kid is left on deck. Everyone is swimming with their heads out of the water, looking up at the single kid in a speedo hopping from foot to foot, fiddling with something.

“My goggles! They broke!” he yells. “WE DON’T CARE JUST GET IN THE GODDAMN POOL!” we scream back from the middle of the lane.

“ONE!”

He falls into the pool, goggles still in hand, but it’s too late. The man counting down is apoplectic.

“THAT’S IT! EVERYONE ON THE WALL!”

“Jesus Christ, Travis, what the fuck,” we all murmur, slowly making our way to the wall to face our collective reckoning.

The rest of the hour and a half passes relatively quickly. The stars begin to fade, the sky begins to lighten, we begin the first round of moderate physical pain and mild verbal abuse that we will endure this day.

As the sky turns pink we are dismissed. The deck, covered in some sort of Astroturf, has been soaked over the course of the workout and is now blanketed with tiny ice crystals, sparkling at us. With menace.

We sit in the steaming pool, fully submerged except for the tops of our heads and fingers grasping the wall, peering over the edge, dreading the next step: getting to the locker room. Bare feet, bare skin, wet hair, 37 degree air, and a frozen deck makes what should be a simple walk to the locker room a true death march.

Out of the water, grab your things, and run. 75 meters wet and barefoot along the frozen astroturf with your school bag, towel, swim bag, shoes, and clothing that, in the rush to get in the water, you didn’t fully pack. Praying you don’t drop anything on the wet ground, down the frozen cement stairs (feet are on fire), along the cement walkway (searing is the only word), onto the hard, slippery floor of the locker room where you are FORCED to walk if you don’t want to end up sprawled across the wet, hard tiles covered in long, dark, mysterious hairs. Drop your bag, grab your shampoo, and head into the showers where the hot water makes your feet….burn even worse than they did when you were outside. Particularly your toes, which had mercifully gone numb 30 seconds earlier. Just one more tribulation in the string of indignities you will suffer throughout the day.

But once the blood returns to your extremities the warm shower is the best thing in the world. We spend the next 10 minutes in a warm fog of coconut scented shampoo and Herbal Essences. There is simply no place better. Nobody’s morning shower at home could ever feel this good.

Eventually you peel yourself away from the shower, take about 5 seconds to reject the jeans you packed the previous night to wear to school for the sweats you wore to practice (which you may or may not have been the same sweats you slept in), slather yourself in Bath n Bodyworks cucumber melon lotion in a completely futile attempt to mask the chlorine, grab your backpack…

…and head out to face the day.