When I was in middle school, I was part of the swim team. This meant sacrificing a couple Saturdays a month to the swim team gods—aka the Midtown Marlins. (It also entailed sacrificing a portion of your brain to the team cheers, because I will remember “WHO rocks the house, I said the MARLINS rock the house and when the MARLINS rock the house they rock it all the way down!” until the day I finally succumb to dementia, and even then I’m not entirely sure it’ll be gone.) Instead of getting to watch Saturday morning cartoons, we’d get up ridiculously early, drive to some random pool, unpack our stuff and wither away in the sun until our events came up. It was ridiculously boring, except for that one time that one boy brought the Haunted Mansion version of Clue and let me play.
The Marlins had their own blue and black bathing suit, but like with all swim teams, accessorizing was permitted, which basically meant that you were allowed to wear whatever goggles and swim cap you wanted. Though, at eleven, a swim cap wasn’t that big a deal and I hated the way it felt, so I never wore one. However, I had these absolutely fabulous rainbow goggles with one big thick strap in the back. They were red, yellow, and pink—they looked like someone had taken a tropical Starburst pack and melted them together into stripes. They were my absolute favorite goggles. Mom had also gotten me this super fancy bathrobe—it was purple with pink dogs on it. So yeah, basically I was the epitome of cool.
But now, I must prepare you, reader, for my greatest tragedy. Whenever someone asks me, “What is your greatest failure?,” I tell them the following story:
I was eleven. This swim meet in particular was a big deal, because I had gotten a swimming promotion. It wasn’t one that I particularly wanted, but when you’re eleven years old and your mom carts you to swim team and Coach Savannah is kind of a hard-ass, you do what you’re told. Instead of swimming the usual 25 meters—one length of the pool—I was going to swim the 50 freestyle, which meant I had to go there and back. This. Was. Huge. One of my friends, who was a much better swimmer than I was, had already done this a few meets before, and she was excited about getting to swim it. See, in my friend’s case, she was excited. I dreaded it. I was freaking out.
Once, one of my friends mistakenly thought it was time, so she dragged me by the sleeve of my purple bathrobe with pink dogs on it over to the lane monitors, who kindly informed both my friend and I that I had to wait a few more heats. My nerves were shot—I was a basket-case. I was gonna cry if we couldn’t get this damn race over with. (Of course, I wasn’t allowed to say “damn” when I was eleven.)
Finally, at long last, I was guided to my lane. I shed my purple bathrobe with the pink dogs on it and gave it to my mother. I pulled my Starburst-colored goggles over my eyes. I curled my toes around the edge of the pool and pointed my skinny arms into a little point, just like a pencil. (I wasn’t on the diving blocks because I sucked at diving, and I also have harrowing memories of diving clinics.) The buzzer that every swimmer has come to fear in their heart of hearts sounded. I jumped into the pool and began kicking like my life depended on it.
Just so everyone knows, the freestyle is supposedly the most efficient stroke. I was zipping along, but I wasn’t in the center lane. If you watch Olympic sports, usually the swimmers with the best times make it to lanes four and five, which means they can keep track of everyone else. Even though I wasn’t in the middle, I had a good feeling about this race once I had started to swim. I was 90% sure I was ahead of everyone else. Victory was in my grasp. Maybe this stupid race wasn’t so bad after all! I brushed the wall with my fingertips so the lane monitor could stop my clock. I said out loud in my little, shivering, jubilant, eleven-year-old voice, “I think I won.” I’d have to turn around to see my times and to ask the lane monitor, of course. I pulled myself up out of the pool and turned.
My heart, which was in my throat because it was beating so fast, sank into the pit of my stomach.
I screwed up. I screwed up so, so badly. Everyone else had turned at the wall, because this stupid race was two lengths of the pool. I internally wailed in anguish as I threw myself back into the water and raced to play catch-up.
I didn’t come in last. I got sixth place out of eighth.
It didn’t matter. I still felt like the world had collapsed. I was sobbing, I was inconsolable, I felt like I should have been disqualified. (I should have been. I had gotten out of the pool before the end of the race; there’s no way that’s not against the rules.) Once the race was over, my mom placed my purple bathrobe with the pink dogs on it around my dripping body as I cried into my Starburst-colored goggles. I pulled them up off my face so I wouldn’t get tears in them and sadly walked over to the little table to collect the little stiff sixth place ribbon, which lost its stiffness as soon as it was placed in my little wet hands. I’m pretty sure I threw that ribbon out—no need to have a stain like that on my record. I was so embarrassed; if the world could have spontaneously swallowed me whole it would have been a welcome experience. In my memories, my mother didn’t do the best job of consoling me, because she was laughing at the whole thing. (She’ll probably deny it, but honestly what’s a little more trauma at this point.)
I sat miserable in my purple bathrobe with the pink dogs on it as mom drove home. Mom informed me that it wasn’t a big deal and that I still did well, and if I did the event again I would probably win it.
It didn’t help at all.
But do you want to know the worst part? The absolute worst part of this whole thing? Of course you do. You’re sadistic.
This race: it’s on home video. It cuts off when I start to pull myself out of the pool.