Confessions of a broken sphere

I would prefer to call myself a swimmer when having to choose a description for myself, in one of those surveys employers hand out to potential employees. One would assume that it should be an accomplishment in one’s life, an award-winning spelling-bee contestant – for example – number one in the country perhaps? In short, you’d be a “speller”, or a “good speller”, for those who wish to be finicky, and that seems to be less interesting than stoking the water with your palms and having your body glide until your next reach and clasp of water.

However, despite the several years that I’ve been swimming, I’ve decided to slightly alter my choice of exercise. I have signed up for a month long of running, stretching, touching other sweaty women (no, that’s not as glamorous as it sounds), and losing the ability to float effortlessly across the water surface in laziness. A slight alteration indeed.

Alas, enough typing. Time to dive into the sweaty blades of grass that await.