Every minute of my days (and evenings) is accounted for—the
overwhelming juggle of writing, swimming, taking care of my children, laundry,
work-work, Love Lettering Project work, etc. etc. Every tiny window is spoken
for, filled up. It’s why I love swimming. When I’m swimming, swimming is the
only thing I can do. No getting distracted by an email, or a kid who wants
socks on her hands, or a to-do list that has grown onto two pages. It is a
45-minute window painstakingly carved out in a day. My window. I love that
window.
But one weekend earlier this year, I was gifted a swim
retreat weekend. A whole weekend to just swim. And sleep. And write. And read.
And swim some more.
I’d had one before – a swim weekend – a couple years ago
when I was 4-ish months pregnant (maybe 5?). Back then I was so nauseous I
could barely stand up without the world spinning. (I kept waiting for the
nausea to ebb, but there it was, my constant, unwelcome companion for 7
straight months). The only time I wasn’t nauseous was when I was swimming, but
I rarely made it to the 12-1pm lane swim window. I was usually dry heaving in
front of the fridge, trying to figure out what I could eat without vomiting, or
napping literally anywhere thanks to the anti-nausea pills that induced a
Benadryl-like coma. That swim weekend, where I could sleep and swim and didn’t
have to do anything but, was so glorious, even with the ever-present nausea.
BUT this time around, I was not pregnant or nauseous. I also
swim regularly at a nearby pool that is open from 5am-11pm and usually have a
lane it to myself. Even with these overall day-to-day life improvements, my weekend away in my “swimming hotel” was
still totally magical.
It was strange and wonderful not to have a single obligation
for 36 hours. No dinner plans. No bruch plans. Literally nothing. I was floating
through this huge expanse of time, swimming, writing, reading, sleeping, buying
new lipstick (RED!), walking, happy hour-ing, sauna-ing, Netflix-ing, knitting.
I didn’t even know how long I did things for. I did them until I didn’t. Time
didn’t matter. There were no windows to fill, I just floated.
I
only swam three times. Once a day. It didn’t have the manic
must-swim-all-the-time energy of the last swim retreat I had, but I got to
float for 36 hours straight and it was positively glorious.
And I wasn’t nauseous.
