KR gave me five birthday cards this year, which I had to open in a certain order. The second one had on its front a black and white photo of a pair of legs sticking up out of a pool of water. As if someone had been caught mid-dive.
Inside, KR had written a nasty word: Do it. Say 'Fuck it.'
When I was a young kid, my mother signed me up for swimming lessons every year, and every year I resisted learning to swim. Instead, I developed a stifling fear of water. In every class I would splash around, gulping air and water in equal amounts, my eyes clamped shut against the vile chlorinated liquid.
The first day of summer vacation I would wake up with an upset stomach, fearing swimming lessons. Eventually I was a head taller than the rest of the class, splashing and gasping, and begging to be excused from jumping off the diving board.
I don't know how many years this went on, but on the first day of my last swimming class I stood at the edge of the pool with the other kids. They looked so small and young, and confident. And here I was, the biggest ninny in the tristate area. At some point, with my toes gripping the rough pool-edge, I had what I now call a fuck-it moment.
Standing there with those little kids was ridiculous. Going through this every year was ridiculous. My fear was ridiculous. I recognized the ridiculosity of it all, and said to myself something that amounted to "Fuck it." The teacher told us to jump in, and I did. Every day she instructed us to kick-board the length of the pool, or to dive off the diving board, or to swim across the pool. And I did. I jumped, kicked, dived, and swam.
It was easy. And the only difference had been "Fuck it."
I told KR about this experience. Fears still live in my house, but I'm beginning to see their ridiculousness. I think I'm on the verge of another big fuck-it. And that's why KR wrote that in my birthday card.
