"You're gonna love swimming,"they said.
"You're going to feel liberated once you're able to float," they said.
Instead, I'm sinking like a muthafucking rock and not just any rock--a peridotite. Yeah bih: The shit you find next to diamonds. Don't ask me nothing else about Earth Science because that's as much useless facts that you'll get out of me. Seriously, I don't know what else to do anymore and it's a bit frustrating.
Despite the quiet feeling of failure each week, I'm trying my best to be consistent. Moreso, my male instructor Alex noted that he saw amazing progress from me last week. This week's session was a dub because I attended a function at Leonard's Palazzo in Nassau County. And you know what--missing that damn lesson made me feel guilty as fuck.
Catch me on this new and dope joint podcast, The Long Run w/ Martinus & Latoya
I knew this journey wouldn't be easy and it's the reason why I pushed off learning how to swim for so long. My ultra marathon training has been kicking my ass on such an insane level. Back to back long runs are not working well for me on the weekends. It's almost as if I need to change around the days and I'll be test driving that theory tomorrow morning. My swim classes are on the weekends and since they start in the middle of the day, it's throwing me off my training severely.
January was disastrous thanks to this nasty bug that everyone caught; I'm not going to sound too ungrateful because there's a horrible amount of people who died this year from the flu. Nevertheless, losing a month of training is not only devastating but a hindrance. Sure, you're not starting over from scratch but it sure can feel that way. February threw her panties at me during the concert of my life. Quite recently, I've been featured on several platforms-one of which was Runner's World- and whilst I don't want to sound ungrateful, it can be a bit distracting. Without having a conventional 9 - 5, I find that I'm up at ungodly hours of the night and waking up at the ass crack of dawn trying to coax myself to go to the gym. In ways, my Tampax campaign kept me very honest with my gym sessions.
Dear Sweet Baby Back Jesus,
Whenever Mother Nature isn't on her broom terrorizing the planet, I'm off for a run. And every part of me contemplated running with the 20 mph winds but it wasn't in the cards by 4pm. After completing two of the three looks for my photo shoot in the wind, my husband grew concerned that my bronchitis sounding cough was coming back--I was only outside for a bit over a hour outside. In my heart, I knew he was right but my mind battled with the idea of missing out on my long run. How the hell am I going to manage to learn how to swim around all of this...like literally?
As I type this blog entry, I am reflecting on the progress that my swim instructor Alex noted in my last few sessions:
Here's the thing: If you do not acknowledge your successes, you're doomed to continue failing. At this point in my life, I'm very content with failure. Sure, it sucks like hell knowing that something isn't clicking but my failures are just another lesson that's teaching me how to survive. In this instance, it's practicing how to breathe and not panic in the water. By now, I expected to be proficient enough to try open water swims. Realistically, that's not going to happen for at least another month or two (and that's genuinely okay).
If anything, I'm still battling with my pride when it comes to help. Although several people have sent me more than well wishes (i.e. Giving me a tri suit and offering to come with me to the pool), I worry about being a burden. My internal battles are as wide as the Mississippi River. I have days where I can truly step out of my own way and others where I regress. Perhaps it's the unofficial black woman's 80 manifesto to not asking for shit, not touching shit and not doing shit unless you can pay for it yourself. Wait. I might be confusing that with the parents' rules of engagement when entering A&S or Woolworth's department store when it was still around.
Know that this girl is not going to be scared off THAT easily. I'm too broke to back out now-- to hell with my ambitions and dreams. My pockets cannot afford to put down good dollars on races that I'm too chicken shit or ill prepared to attempt. It doesn't help that over 6 people paid for my first triathlon --pressure but no pressure, right? When I think back to all of the people who provided financial backing to see me shine this July, everyone's message was universal: Do your best, show up and try. I intend on keeping that promise. This goldfish can feel one of her fins operating. I still have hope that I'll get through the NJ State Triathlon--my growth depends on it.