A hard house remix of Boney M’s Rasputin blares into my ears as I snort chlorinated water. It burns, and my eyes stream as I cough violently. I think to myself the CIA has missed a trick not using this as a way to extract information from terrorists. My daydream of being a warlord is interrupted by a chirpy lady standing poolside throwing a water noodle at me: “Feel the burn.”
You’ll be the first to feel the burn when I stage my coup d’état, I think, as I jog harder.
Twenty minutes into aqua aerobics, I know this is the activity for me. The playlist consists of rave versions of wedding disco songs and by the time Karma Chameleon comes on I am humming along happily as I shadow-box a swimming pool.
I look around as 40 other women and I hold foam dumb-bells over our heads. It is comforting. Gyms scare me slightly. As a fat person you feel like a walking lesson to other gym-goers about the perils of too many cheat days. In water aerobics it’s different. The clientele is older, bigger, they don’t care about the wobbly bit of your arm you hide under a bolero – they’ve seen it all. All they worry about is protecting their feet from fungal infections.
There is a hierarchy within the class. I find that out on my first day as I change into my swimming costume. Behind the locker I hear a gruff blast of “ Is dis da way to Amurilow? Ladidida in my pillow, I’ve been crahing like a willow, sweet Marie may wait for me.”
This shimmering lady rounds the corner. She opens her locker as if she is the Fonz getting a jukebox going. She turns and clocks me struggling to put my leg into my togs while holding a towel in my teeth to protect my modesty. I don’t get her name, but she has an air of “Don’t test me,” so let’s call her Testy.
She sidles up to me. “You’re new?” This doesn’t sound like a question. I feel this lady knows everything that goes down in this class. “It’s great craic. Don’t do your exercises in the right side of the pool: there’s a terrible draught; it cut the neck off me last week.”
She sidles up closer and speaks out of the side of her mouth. “Look, I’ll say it, you’re a bigger-framed girl, don’t splash about in the pool too much. A young one – fierce big, God love her – she threw herself round the pool last week, wetting me hair. I told her to watch herself and she got thick with me, saying: ‘I can’t help it.’ I said [ here she stares straight into my eyes, her face darkening] ‘You can help it.’
I tense up. She tries to keep it breezy. “I’ve been doing it years. Look at me arm.” She shakes her upper arm in front of me – not so much as a ripple. I exhale in awe of this housekeeper cut of prime Irish woman flesh. “Not bad for 60? Eh? Eh?” She throws on her flip-flops and walks away, continuing the rest of her song.
I keep to the front. My eyesight is terrible. The instructor’s enthusiasm rubs off on me. One of my favourite exercises is to run the perimeter of the pool with the rest of the class, creating a giant whirlpool. You turn and run against the man-made tide. I’m good at it. I see Testy in my peripheral vision. She stares at me and tries to outrun me. She wants to outrun a youth, and a very unfit, fat girl is her damaged gazelle. She didn’t bet on my competitiveness. It’s my worst trait. I’ve had to pay for a putter I threw into a lake when I lost a mini golf game to my dad. I’ve lost friends playing Scrabble. I put everything into beating Testy. Her firm arms bounce on the water, slowing. She can’t overtake me. She looks at me with what I feel is respect. I do a small air punch in victory. Testy catches me, respect gone. I pretend I am trying to squeeze in an extra bit of exercise by shadow-boxing.
She turns her attention to the instructor. She knows his name. She seems to know everything about him. She gently ribs him about the exercises he has chosen, and he blushes.
It feels as though she owns this pool, owns us all. I know I have found my preferred mode of exercise and, people, aqua aerobics is the new . . . Well, it’s the new whatever you’re having yourself.