I am going swimming today.
I am not going to lie I would rather allow the entire of Munchin City to run over my body stabbing me with mini pitchforks than squeeze myself into my swimsuit and face the socially degrading venture that is the changing room.
It is my personal hell on earth.
I arrive at the local pool and the wave of chlorine evokes memories of the 5 star leisure complex I belonged to pre children. Where the changing rooms had soothing music piped in through the vents, one could dry at ones leisure on the sofa wrapped in a complimentary towel. Then a wave of mouldy feet assaults me and the dried up plaster on the floor next to the rusty radiator reminds me of how far I have come.
We enter the changing room, twin boys voice booms like a megaphone round the tiled room.
“Are you spikey, hairy, or smooth” he bellows much to the amusement of the heavily tattooed grandfather who is re adjusting his speedos.
Face burning I usher the off spring into a “family” changing room which smells distinctly like a recently used toilet. Sweat pools at the base of my neck from the heat pulsating round the three square metres I am caged in. I reach out my hand and confirm my suspicions once again the local council is spending my taxes on heating the changing room in August.
Getting changed in front of the children is like a strip show with questions..
“Why does your tummy still look like a baby is in it?”
“Why does that mole live there?”
“Were you born hairy?”
The paper thin walls and door do little to help my dignity and by the time I emerge ready to swim I am an overheated, dripping mess and the rest of the changing room know more about my body malfunctions than my mother.
As I said, it is my own personal Hell…