Outside the Comfort Zone

I woke up this morning to the sound of birds singing outside the window. Wishing that the birds had a snooze button, I rolled over, wrapping myself in the smooth coolness of the sheets. I pulled a pillow over my head, but I could still hear one particular bird, calling insistently. It sounded like he was saying “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t do it. Skip it. Skip it. Don’t swim.”

My sign-up-aholic tendencies have taken me strange places before, but this time I have really done it. I have signed up for something that even six month ago would have been not only unthinkable, but possibly a death sentence. I have signed up for a one-mile open water swim race. Let me just highlight those components for emphasis: One-mile. Open Water. SWIM.

Just to be clear, I hate swimming. I don’t even like water that much. My feeling about bodies of water, of any size, is that they are best appreciated from dry land, preferably in a beach chair, ideally with a cocktail.  No, I was not the mom who would play with her kids for hours in the shallow end of the pool, or playfully toss them in the waves at the beach. I was the mom who would sit comfortably in the shade reading a book while they swam, and when my kids would come to check in with me I would say “Can you please stop dripping on me?”

My water aversion is challenging, though, because I love water sports. For windsurfing, I manage to overcome the cold-water obstacle by doing a beach start and then praying – hard – that I don’t fall until I coast back onto the beach again. Water skiing, however, is more difficult. I am too chicken to try a dock start. My dislike of large painful splinters in my backside is greater than my dislike of cold water. So, I water start, whining and complaining the entire time. And, again, I pray hard that I don’t fall until I coast back as close to the beach and/or dock as I can get without risking great bodily harm. Although I love water skiing, I will gladly skip it altogether if the water is too chilly or if I simply don’t feel like getting my hair wet. Yes, I am that much of a baby.

So, how in the world did I sign up for a swim race? What invasion-of-the-body-snatchers kind of force took control of my mind and made me pick up the race flyer and say “Hey, I should do this….” Perhaps it is some undocumented form of psychosis, or perhaps a kind of miracle. In any case, I filled out the registration form and sent in my money, so I am committed. Now I just need someone to shoot that bird outside the window before he talks me out of it. “Don’t do it. Skip it. Skip it.”