I Don't Want To Be A Swimmer

"I don't want to be a swimmer! I don't want to be a swimmer!"

This was my declaration in my most recent nightmare. Two nights ago, I dreamt I was floating out in the middle of the ocean in San Diego somewhere, yelling at the top of my lungs in horror, cursing my last option for workout. Sadly, when I woke up, it was true. As my feet hit the floor at 4 am for the long run, I was stopped abruptly in my tracks, frozen in agony. I am defeated and dismayed to admit I have to be a swimmer for the weeks (months?) to come. Plantar fasciitis has completely derailed my training and I am out for any upcoming marathon. To say that I am disappointed does not even touch what I am feeling right now. I think it would be more appropriate to say "identity crisis" if running is out of the equation.

I saw Dr. George in the office last week and after handling my sad and pathetic feet, he confirmed the diagnosis. I knew he would, but the pain has become so unbearable, I simply cannot ignore or run through it anymore. Walking has become no small feat, and standing around I am forced to shift weight off my heel. Even flip turning in the pool has become a challenge when the pain rips through my heel. After prescribing the dreaded boot and cataflam, George suggested I try to cut back on running. And though I had no intention of following this advice, I knew I had no other choice when the following day a 21 mile long run left me crippled.

I don't want to be a swimmer because I despise pretending to be someone I am not. I am merely a pool slut, picking up any random passerby who will talk to me out there. So desperate for company am I at 5:30 in the morning, I have befriended even all the old guys out there floating down the lanes, just so that I might avoid having to swim extra, unnecessary laps (I still log it as a workout). The pool is so lonely, staring at that black tiled line, endless lap after lap. Maybe that is why I worship them: swimmers have some kind of superior inner strength and independence. They need no one to talk to while turning over their arms and thrashing their legs. They care nothing about what others think of them in a small piece of Lycra as they smugly flaunt it all down the deck. They appeal to me even in their geeky goggles and hideous swim caps. Maybe I am jealous of that? Maybe I missed the boat getting in on that sport when I was young and capable?

I don't want to be a swimmer. I just want to admire them from a distance.