Phelps

A momentous thing happened to me the other day, or more likely, I finally allowed myself to happen to it.

During a conversation with my coach, I declared a date upon which I will dive into my big goals. Of course, Some wading into the shallows and investigation as to what lies beneath the water's surface will happen in preparation but on this date, I will dive in head first, body shaped into a gentle curve.

I will enter the waters of my goal with the precision of Michael Phelps and not a splash will break the surface. I will have the essence of a tiny otter as I swim down and explore the depths in which I will find my new home.

And then, in due time, I will gently surface with a handful of carefully selected beautiful shells as my lung capacity is also that of a tiny otter.

My blonde hair will fall like a smooth wet blanket over my shoulders and my eyes will not be red, but as clear as the waters I just came out of.

Except, there are few problems with this scenario. First of all, I can’t swim. Well, I kind of can. I have mastered the doggy paddle but have an aversion to water with depths greater than five feet.

Also, I can’t dive. I have the abdominal strength of a toddler and find myself crumbling into a lumpy ball that creates a large splash when met with the water's surface.

My lung capacity, it’s non-existent. During pranayama practice with my teachers in India, I would inconspicuously breathe through my nose during moments we were meant to hold the air out of our bodies.

My hair tangles into massive knots when met with water due to a lifetime of bleach and toner.

And, when my eyes find saltwater they turn a shade of red that could easily be mistaken as the result of a three-day cocaine-fueled bender.

I know this is what will happen when I dive into my big goal. Things will be very hard and scary and some days finding air will be a struggle.

I will hit the water hard cannonball style filling my ears mouth and nose with stinking saltwater. I will forget which is up and eventually break the surface gasping for air and flailing. I will doggy paddle until I find a solid surface to stand upon and then as a result of my plunge, my eyes will be red for days.

I anticipate all of these things but I am going for my goal anyway. Why would I wish this watery hell upon myself, you ask? Because, I can doggy paddle with the best of them and though pathetic, it is still considered swimming. I need to learn to hold my breath eventually and I will twist my hair into a smooth knot before jumping to avoid the tangles.

And, if there is a single trace of pollen in the air my eyes will be red anyways.

I assume at one point in Michael Phelps’s life he too could only doggy paddle. Unless he was one of those freaky babies who was taught to keep its large head above water and to swim in small circles before even being able to walk.

The more I think about this that is actually a more likely scenario.