February FAIL Syndrome

I don't trust New Year's resolutions.

Whenever January rolls around I remember the harsh smell of chlorine. I can almost hear the muddled roar of yells and splashes echoing over the indoor pool where, as a teenager, I used to practice with a small swim team. Most of us complained about the workouts, the battle to finish just one more grueling butterfly set, the bathwater temperature of the pool and (for the girls, anyway) the way it made our hair take on a greenish tinge. Solemnly, Coach B. would assure us his heart was bleeding in sympathy for our pain. Then he would tell us to swim another 200 fly.

Really, though, most of us loved practice. What we really hated was the annual invasion of Resolutioners who were sure that this year, this year, they were finally going to lose twenty pounds, get six-pack abs, run a five-minute mile. We Flying Fish met at the YMCA every Tuesday, Thursday, and often Saturday to swim for two hours. Many of us cross-trained with the treadmills and weight machines, too, pushing our bodies week after week. And now, in January, suddenly we had to crowd into two tiny lanes of the pool. Getting a decent workout in the weightroom was almost impossible.

Kicking one another, waiting ten minutes for a turn in the pool, was wretched. The only reason we didn't go crazy was that we knew February was only a few weeks away. And then we would have room to breathe again; by March, everything would be back to normal. We would have all the space we wanted, we could go back to complaining about pushups and sprint sets and the other teams.

We just had to wait until February.