Aqua Babes

I was not the sporty type at school, yet my height lent itself to netball, hockey, and running long distances around the track, like a carthorse, apparently. Now, I much prefer ambling along, savouring nature as I go and taking photographs when nature takes my breath away. There is one indisputable fact, though, and that is the layers of weight that have accumulated over the years. Over time, I have bent myself to the task of trying to reduce my size and simply ended up adding to it. Ten years ago, I decided on a different approach and joined a local gym. This has many benefits, not the least of which was weight reduction, also, an increase in my general fitness and a place to go when loneliness crept in.

I undertook the general induction and picked the machines I wanted to try out, whilst setting myself a target for the time I wanted to allocate each week. After a very short spell of a few weeks, I made several discoveries. I got bored, I didn’t enjoy it, I was a magnet for people telling me their upsetting stories, and it wasn’t a two-way street, even if I had been inclined to share. I lost the will to go at all. Undaunted, I had a look at the classes that were running along the gym, which brings me neatly to my foray into the yoga class. I hadn’t done yoga properly since I was eighteen years old.

I sat on a yoga mat one morning, chatting to others nearby, as we waited for class to start. A receptionist popped her head in and said that our teacher was unable to come in and a replacement teacher was being sent. This ought to have given me pause for concern, but it didn’t. Our replacement teacher arrived and, because she was running late, jumped straight into the first pose. Within seconds, I was in trouble and struggled to do anything that was being ably demonstrated at the front of the class. I paused and dropped my head onto the mat to try and gather myself. A voice at my side said:

“Are you injured, my dear?”

I turned my head to see our teacher kneeling beside me.

‘No,’ I replied, ‘I am unfit and have not done yoga for many years. Please don’t take it personally, but I am leaving.’ Tears filled my eyes as I gathered my stuff and slunk away. I was too vulnerable to handle it any other way.

At home, I studied the class lists and saw that there was a pool next door to the gym. I have always loved being in water, and as I pondered on the classes, a memory floated up. It was a few years earlier, and I had just arrived in the area, so looking to make new friends and start new things, I went along to an aqua aerobics class. The ladies in the pool were friendly, and we all bobbed about as class started. Our teacher asked each of us to introduce ourselves, and then she started taking us through the exercises. It took me a few minutes to realise that my accent had pegged me as ‘different’. She singled me out, and an uncomfortable forty-five minutes followed. Her attitude was remarked on by several of the other ladies, so I was left in no doubt that I wasn’t being oversensitive, but I had inadvertently rubbed her up the wrong way. I stuck with the class, and at the end, as we all left the pool, I approached her gently.

‘Thank you for your time and taking the class.’ My eyes locked onto hers. ‘I won’t be coming back.’

I made some enquiries at the pool reception, and eyebrows were raised when I asked for a physical description of the Aqua Zumba teacher. They gave it, and I was reassured that it wasn’t the Aqua Aerobics instructor, so I booked onto the next class, without explaining why I was asking.

It turned out to be a great choice. Without exception, the souls who bobbed in the water beside me were accepting. We sang, laughed and danced our way through the water and in between routines, we talked and shared. There were all sorts of reasons for us to be in the water, and a supportive network enfolded anyone new, which included me.

Joy shone out from us all, and the lifeguards used to dance on the edge of the pool, so they felt included.

There was a pivotal moment one evening after class, when a voice carried across the changing room’s walls:

‘How are you, Jane?’ and I knew in an instant that she meant it, so I answered her.

‘I am good, thanks. It takes courage to come here, but I am so glad I do. Every time I feel better.’

‘I knew you were a heart sister.’ She replied.

That sparked a bond that continues to this day. Life has flowed along with changes, and we’re not together in the pool anymore, yet we’re in touch and meet up when we can. We are grateful that our men get along well, and there have been many hilarious moments over shared meals and celebrations.

I glance back at the emotionally bereft state I was in when I first joined those classes, and how being among like-minded souls in the water flowed healing. I managed to lose weight, too.

There is an abiding memory from that time. It was summer, and the heat was stifling. I would walk along the promenade to the pool, rather than get back into a hot car, and I know the others were suffering too. Ordinarily, we would walk gently into the pool from the shallow end, swapping news and sharing and calling greetings out to the lifeguards. One evening, my heart sister and I paused at the edge of the deep end and looked at each other. Without a word, we turned away from the others walking towards the shallow end, clasped hands, yelled to the rafters and hurled ourselves into the deep end. We surfaced spluttering and laughing out loud, to a round of applause from our buddies. It goes without saying that we carried on doing this right through the heatwave, with one valuable lesson learned. Stop talking before you hit the water, as an open mouth takes in a surprising amount of liquid.

Here’s to fresh pondering on a new form of exercise….. 🩷