His apology caught me by surprise.
“I’m so sorry,” the lifeguard said, as if he’d mortally
wounded me. “I’m so, so, sorry.” I stared at him, perplexed. What insult had he
thrown at me that I'd missed?
“I’m so sorry, but may I ask your age?”
Was that all?
Clearly, he was going to express his shock when I revealed my age. He was going
to say that to watch me swim, he could have sworn I was half my age. That not
even the teenagers he coaches on the community swim team swim as smoothly, as
fast. Clearly he was going to say that to look at my trim body and muscular
arms, he would have guessed me to be at least 20 years younger.
“Oh,” he said with a hint of shame, when I said, “I’m 55.”
“Oh,” he repeated, shifting in his chair. “I was going to
mention that in the mornings, we have a swim session for seniors. It’s less
crowded then.”
The frame froze then. My mouth dropped and hung open for a
few seconds. My eyes lost focus, probably because tears were filling them. I
swallowed. I reminded myself to breathe.
He’s a kid, I told
myself. He doesn’t know. What does he
know? To his young eyes, 40 looks like 50 looks like 60. Shake it off.
“Not yet,” I heard myself say, forcing a chuckle. “I’m not
there yet.”
Our smiles were awkward. There wasn’t anything more to say.
I turned and walked into the locker room, then into the first shower stall, and
closed the curtain tight.
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