By Lesa Tanner
They come limping to the pool, a slow draggle of mostly older women, some with canes and walkers, many doing the bad knees/hips waddle. They’re called Shirley, Beverly, Marilyn, Barbara, Donna—names that signal their era. The occasional man joins in, usually accompanying a female partner who convinced him to come.
It’s all so cliché at a glance, a water aerobics class at the local community pool. The music will be oldies, the students will be soft suburban ladies, the instructors will repeat their favorite one liners. There is a class like this everywhere in America, but don’t dismiss this daily spectacle—look closer.
I came to the pool on doctor’s orders. After 40 years of cleaning houses five days a week, sore knees and achy legs were my constant companions. My pain was like a mallet pounding relentlessly on a metal vise, heavy and stiff, clamped tightly on my knee.
When I couldn’t stop crying in the car on my way home from yet another cleaning job, just trying to hold on until I could put up my feet and ice my knees, it was time for a medical intervention.
I started going to water aerobics to prepare for a full knee replacement on my left leg. I was finally able to stop working long enough to have the surgery and recover because my grandma died and left me some money. I went to the pool—a large public pool in Santa Rosa—with low expectations and a bit of reverse snobbery. Surely, I wouldn’t fit in with a bunch of retirees, housewives and other non-working people who could afford to come to play in a pool at 9 am on a weekday.
I bought a beach towel at Costco and packed it in an old canvas bag, along with some sunglasses and a brimmed cap, put on a 5-year-old skirted bathing suit, sprayed myself with sunscreen, covered up with a loose cotton dress, and went to the pool.
The instructor was wearing a long-sleeved top known as a rash guard, and her hat had a sequined dolphin hanging off the back. I noticed other class members also had sequined marine animals hanging from their caps too, in tribal unity. Virtually everyone had a hat of some sort, which, in an activity where people are only seen from their shoulders up, would soon become their defining characteristic. Sunglasses were mandatory to fight the glare from light bouncing off the water, and to provide a bit of privacy as we were often exercising face-to-face.
I hobbled down the ramp to the pool, holding the metal railing that led to the “handicapped” entry, fitting in very well indeed.
When the red-coated young lifeguard blew her whistle, I joined the parade into the water, sitting at the wide cement bench bordering the pool and swinging my legs over the side to the step below.
At a therapeutic 84 degrees, the water was cool, but not at all shocking in comparison to the spring air. I was wearing a float belt so I could do a no-impact workout in the deep water. I slowly walked through the shallow water, where most of the class would work out, and went under the lane line to the welcoming deep end. Past the next lane line were the lap swimmers, a different breed from those of us doing our heads-up workout. The lap swimmers wore tight suits, bathing caps and goggles, and were often slimmer and younger. We didn’t mingle.
“Pretty Woman,” by Roy Orbison, was playing through a speaker at the side of the pool. I leisurely paddled, enjoying weightlessness and the feel of water moving against my skin. I was aware of the music, the sunshine, the scattered conversations happening all around me, the gentle splashes, and the lessening of pain in my joints as I kicked my legs. Oh my god! Have I found nirvana? When was the last time I was in a pool? When was the last time I was comfortable in my body? I fought back tears as the instructor took us through an easy series of movements. Do I love the pool?
Class after class, I paid attention to the other people in the pool as I moved easily through the water. How often are we in such close proximity with strangers, let alone ones with visible bodies? I enjoyed being one of the first people in the water so I could watch people arriving.
I noticed how at ease the women were in their bodies here, how nonchalantly they took off their cover-ups and walked around poolside. I saw their menopause aprons, their bread dough thighs, their bra dented shoulders—all just like mine.
I saw how the water released everyone from the burden of gravity, letting them move with ease and grace. I understood that fat was an asset in the water, giving buoyancy and warmth, and allowing the muscles and bones, grown strong by carrying that weight around, to move freely, pushing against the water with a strength unacknowledged on land.
I witnessed the cliques that formed in the pool. One mean girl group of 80-somethings always walked laps back and forth in tight formation, ignoring the teacher’s directions. Their leader, known for her themed headgear (a bunny hat with floppy ears for Easter, a headband with American flags for Independence Day) would lead the way, a figurehead with a knit vest and shorts over her bathing suit. I once heard her say, “That bitch better not get in my way,” reminding me that age doesn’t always bring benevolence.
There are the matching-hats women, the Giants fans, and the floaters, who are seemingly there just to visit with each other and never work out. Most of us are just a mishmash, chatting occasionally with whomever happens to be beside us, and mostly following the teacher. We have no status, except for that core group of us that shows up even in the wet and cold of winter.
For 6 weeks after my surgery, I couldn’t go in the pool. My mental health suffered and finally returning was a balm to my soul. The pool had become my respite and my main source of happiness. In the pool, I felt unencumbered by my heavy body. For an hour in the water, my pain diminished, and my thoughts quieted. The rhythmic movement accompanied by upbeat music was all that mattered, a meditative focus on the now. I healed with every class.
Three years post-surgery, I am strong and limber. I am still fat, but I look like a swimmer, suntanned and graceful. I move with strength and purpose in the water and feel like an athlete. Out of the pool, my weight is cumbersome, and my remaining bad knee makes me wince, but in the water, I am agile. I can’t imagine running on land, but in the weightless deep of the pool, I can move continuously, quickly, forcefully.
I now work out at Ives Pool, with an entirely different community. The water fitness classes are more focused here, and the music is better. The water is cooler, but the people are warmer. I have found my new workout home, and the five mornings a week I spend here are what keep me going. I enjoy the familiar ritual of entering and leaving the pool each morning while commenting on the transition from air to water, and vice versa, and the communal joy we feel following our beloved instructor together.
This is what I’ve learned. The pool welcomes every body—the water supports everyone. You may live in a vessel that is unable (or unhappy) to work out in harsh gravity, and the gentle water of the pool will free you to move again. No one cares what your body looks like in a bathing suit. Put on a hat and sunglasses you like and get in the water.
Like me, you will love the pool.
These are all such great writers. I love the vicarious feeling of knowing these community members' experiences, familiar and vulnerable in a way never spoken face to face. Thanks for this project.
Great article. I did water aerobics at that pool and had the same initial thoughts, but immediately understood why these women love this activity so much. As a person with no real sense of rhythm and no dominant side I am a terrible dancer. In the pool, I’m Baryshnakov! I truly admire these woman and was so happy to experience the joy they shared with me in the water.