Visiting the grandparents was like a wonderland of overstimulation, available 24 hours a day, with the press of a button (or like 20, depending on how well you knew the remote). The problem is, there were also shows that, rightfully so, I'd never been exposed to until my parents weren't paying attention to what I was watching. (And in their defense, I waited until they weren't paying attention to watch them - sorry Mom.)
And so we have the back story on why I saw Jaws (even worse, just the last bit where the shark pulls the guy off the boat and eats him) at the tender age of 10.
Between that and Rescue 911, where a girl got her hair stuck in the drain at the bottom of the pool...
|NOPE NOPE NOPE|
The worst part is that I don't think I ever told my mom that, so shortly after that fateful trip to Cali, she put me on the local swim team. The pool at this particular place got super deep at one end, which had me convinced that Jaws lived there and was just waiting for me to slow down long enough to get eaten.
The irony, then, is that I ended up swimming faster so my coach thought I was pretty good...so I got to swim more. It was a vicious cycle...swim more, terrified longer, swim faster, look better, swim more, repeat.
They put me in a meet one weekend, in a pool that was only 3 feet deep and in a lane with no drains in it. I'm fairly certain I came in last and was never invited to compete again. I think they all thought I choked, but really...I just wasn't properly motivated.
|screw you, shark. Screw you.|
I went swimming on Friday. Short, slow, and just enough to get the blood flowing and the rage out of my system for the day. It was wonderful.
However, now that I'm looking at pictures of sharks and drains, I may never go back.
Anyone know a good therapist?