I decided to take the swimming for fitness class, one hour three times a week, in the hopes of sprouting some impressive biceps to show my friends back home. I hope you all appreciate the Olympic-size swimming pool that you have here at Wesleyan. One width here is just under one length in our pool in Ireland. And what about the lane size? That’s equivalent to about three lanes at home. You have to queue in the lane and wait until the person has come back before you can go. That is, unless you come across some artichoke that decides to speedboat their way through you, as you casually undertake the backstroke. Last year I got a few fingers (yes, the plural) to the retina (don’t worry, I swam-stalked her for about twenty minutes and she fatigued). So in the Wesleyan pool I can swim happily along, free from the worry of bashing my head against the end-wall or dolphin kicking somebody in the face.
But the ecstasy of the swimming pool quickly faded when I decided to get a locker. Here I was handed a lock, a code and, to my amazement, instructions. What was in the mind of the lock manufacturer that thought it was OK to have a lock so complicated, that it required step-by-step instructions to use? Not common sense, that’s for sure. Rotate left here, pull down, right turn, pull down, no-no two full turns…or should that be rotate left first. ARGH! Ten minutes later and you’ve forgotten your number. God bless the ever-faithful lock and key back home. I understand that this ‘key’ concept is difficult to master so I suggest a voice recognition locker, ‘Open locker,’ ‘Supply towel,’ ‘Replenish water bottle,’ ‘Poach salmon steaks,’ ‘Close locker.’ It could work…
Oh, but the locker room is so masterfully laid out. Rows upon rows of sinks, toilets, showers, and lockers line the walls. So many to choose from, so little time (especially if still grappling with the lock). But the true glory of Wesleyan is in the showers. Something I haven’t witnessed in shower rooms across the thirty-two counties of Ireland. Behold: a self-activated shower control. No more impressing the round knob to supply you with one minute’s water flow, rigid at its semi-tepid degrees. No more ‘start-stop-start showering,’ as I like to call it. Ahh, endless amounts of water flow at your personal choice of temperatures. Even the soap is impressive, a soothing and seemingly endless supply of baby pink love, that oozes at the gentlest of touches. Gojo soap, a soap you can truly believe in.
A transatlantic annoyance of mine are those tight swimming caps. I purchased one in the equipment room. A few expletives later, the cap affixed itself to my head like Harry’s tongue to that ski lift. Not one hair lay exposed to the curse of the chlorine. So after a pleasant dip, I eased the cap from my head in a swishing motion similar to Jessica Biel, anticipating the locks falling around my shoulders, because I, too, am worth it. Instead, a matted sag of hair clunked onto my back. Seriously, if it’s that tight, the least it could do is keep your hair dry.
As I was enjoying one of my no-limit showers and happily dreaming to myself, I was abruptly awakened by a low almost growling din. ‘What could this unexpected disturbance be?’ I wondered, and with some remarkable towel manuevering I found myself in front of one of human kind’s greatest feats: The Suitmate Water Extractor, an incredible contraption capable of an amazing act called ‘hydro-pillaging.’ With no heat source, it can dry your swimsuit in a few seconds without causing rust or mildew to the locker room. Ingenious. Priced at about $1320 a pop, this may prove very lucrative for me when I return to Ireland. We call swimsuits ‘togs’ so a bit of name changing could open up the market. Next time you are standing with your hand pressed against the lid waiting for your swimsuit to be dried, stop and take a moment to think about the rest of the world, with no option other than to carry their wet belongings home.
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