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Yes, it is time to leave the pool.

07/29/10

"The real story of the [YMCA Championships] is that it’s the final age group swim meet for many high school seniors.... This is their final meet ever."  -Swimnetwork.com

"Expressive writing can be integral to coping with a traumatic event." -Some Internet Blog

5:45am. Woke up. Alarm. It is August. I am 18 years-old, and my alarm is blaring at 5:45am. Time for morning practice.

5:46am. Wait. There is no morning practice. There will never be another morning practice. I am retired. Officially retired.

5:47am. (Smiling, weirdly.)

6:00am: But maybe I should head to the pool. To see what it's up to? Maybe say hi. Pool won't mind. Pool loves me. Pool needs me. Pool wants me.

6:10am: Lap swim starts at 11am? I need laps now. I'll call Coach. Yeah. Coach'll have the keys to the pool. He'll let me in. He'll make it better again. Yes. I'll call him. Over, and over, and over.

6:18am: "You OK?" says my coach over the phone. "I miss the pool," I say. "There are other things in life besides swimming," he says. Click, I say.

7:25am: Find something else to do. Fill the void... I should be swimming. But I'm not. Why are there no good TV shows on Sunday Morning that aren't called "Sunday Morning"? Why isn't Matt Lauer on TV all the time? Why isn't there a Matt Lauer channel where he can talk to the camera about whatever he's thinking? Is the lack of Sunday Morning Matt the reason people sleep in on Sundays? Am I going to be like that Mike Gustafson guy who gets fat and lays around and doesn't do anything with his pre-6:45am day because t's almost 7:30 and I haven't already burned 3,000 calories and swam miles and gotten my threashold times and --

7:30am: [Panic.]

9:15am: Lat muscles already sloppy from non-use. Side-breathing around-the-house in situations that do not require nor warrant side-breathing. "What the hell is the matter with you?" my non-swimming sister asks.

Noon: My mother doesn't understand my goggle-locket necklace.

1pm: My father doesn't understand my chlorine-hair doll.

2pm: "We're worried about you," my family says. "You've been in your room swimming on your carpet. You have rug burns on your face and you have lined your room with open bottles of liquid chlorine. And you continue to shave your head – there’s no meet coming up." I stare at them through my favorite Swedish Reds. I get up to run, but trip on my flippers. "We're going to take you to see some help," they say.

3pm: The doctor hands me a flier: "So You've Retired From Swimming..." with a list of various activities some teenagers and peers of mine have pursued, most illegal. He smiles at me, like he's been there before. "I was a swimmer before. But then I went to college, and became a doctor --"

3:15pm: I am running.

6:30pm: Inside the pool, I stare at the water. Today was supposed to be happy. "The rest of my life," so they say. "It's only a sport," so they say. There is no real replacement, that watery union of heart, body, and soul. But I do realize that this marriage can't go on. Exams require studying, partying requires hangovers, my new life requires at least some balance for life to go swimmingly.

11pm: I change my morning alarm two hours later, from 5:45am to 7:45am. I will sleep in. I will force myself to enjoy my sleep. Then, around 9am tomorrow, I will find something else to do with the rest of my life. I will. Honest. Right after tomorrow’s Masters’ morning swim practice, I’ll find something else to do. I swear.