You probably think that swimming is sexy. That swimming means teeny bikinis and speedy sleek bodies and sporty race faces and perfect tans. But you’re wrong. Swimming is not sexy at all.
Squeezing my butt into a race suit that feels eighteen sizes too small (I am assured it is supposed to feel like that) is not sexy. I am so very glad there was no witness to the twenty minute suit-donning ordeal, which required a panting, sweating rest halfway until I could muster up the energy to tuck, shove, heave and wiggle the rest of my body into the remainder of it. It made doing up your new skinny jeans look like a picnic. Let’s not talk about it ever again.
The pink scabs on my collarbone and neck where either my togs or my own shoulder squishing into my neck (I haven’t worked out which) have rubbed me raw in the salt water are not sexy.
The welts on my arms from the thousand jellyfish I swam through this morning are not sexy. (On a side note, did you know that the collective noun for a group of jellyfish is a FLUTHER? How excellent. Finding that out just now almost made the stings ok.)
My truly heinous swimming cap tan is probably the most deeply unsexy thing going round: the top half of my forehead is white and the bottom half is brown. As pointed out by our accounts manager today, kind of like top deck chocolate. Lovely.
The red circular marks under my arms where I insert my glucose sensor are from my skin getting irritated being constantly damp and covered with the gnarliest adhesive known to man. Someone actually asked me if I had ringworm last week! Ringworm!!! I nearly packed it in then and there.
Arriving on a date after training and squinting at said date through bleary red peepers which you have unsuccessfully tried to disguise with mascara that smudges onto the squished-up goggle dents around your eyes is not sexy. Not at all.
Even sleep is not safe. Somehow my bed gets sand in it despite conscientious rinsing after beach swims. A crunchy bed is not sexy.
Nor is the uncontrolled drippy nose thing that happens, usually over dinner, after my usual practice of inhaling half a litre of ocean during training.
Or that moment when I’m falling asleep and hear a soft ‘pop’ as the water that has been trapped in my ear half the day trickles warmly out onto my pillow…
Why didn’t I pick ballet?
Kilometres this week: 26