My heart didn't beat. It pounded. My mind didn't think. It raced. Time didn't tic. Nor did it toc. It thrummed like an ominous countdown. Ten, nine, eight... three, two, one.
OK, I'm being an ass. It wasn't that dramatic but my first ocean swim training session really did freak me out and here's why:
I've become boring.
Yep. It's true. I'm approaching 40. I've been married over a decade. I've got three kids and inadvertently have become a soccer mom, classroom mom, and carpool mom—all identities I swore would strip me of my sexuality (even though my husband claims otherwise). I've got a small business. I go out only if it means my neighbors want to hang and I walk out my door 10-20 steps toward their house. Elastic waistbands and one size fits all (even when it's a headband) seem awesome, and not because I'm overweight but because I'm overly prone to comfort. I drive a Buick Enclave. I worry about flossing (shouldn't once a day be enough?), being kind to others, and if I walked my dog sufficiently.
In short, every day is about maintaining "Becc-anity" (Becca+sanity).
As Miho, an accomplished/inspirational swimmer, introduced herself and helped me put on my borrowed wet suit, I decided I was bored with Becc-anity. I was bored with being boring. Sure, I was nervous about my open swim but I was more terrified about becoming a complacent person.
It was at that moment I envisioned myself not just going through one finish line, but many—literally and symbolically.