These two types of Swim Lessons (ridiculously expensive vs. free) divide the public into two groups: people that wear deodorant and those that can’t afford it. Being that I am a stay at home mom, I am currently on line for the free ones. Registration opens at 7 PM, but people have been waiting since two. I arrived late: hence my Number, 173, that’s me.  Once they tell you your number, they write it on your arm and you must take your place in line. Next, we are herded into a large room that is about 110 degrees. Seeing that I am originally of Jewish origin, I can’t help but to think that this is what the Jews of the holocaust must of felt like only with a much more pleasant odor. There are four big fans, one in each corner, but not one of the lifeguards in charge makes any effort to turn them on.  I tell myself they are trying to save money on electricity as the lessons are actually free. Tempted to do the job myself, I decide against it when I spot a Hasidic family, consisting of eight kids, eyeing my spot in line.

Finally, we are given a seat. The metal folding chairs are set up in rows and pushed together so the sides are touching. Each time the woman beside me moves her elbow she jabs me in the breast.  After three minutes of sitting, her and her two children, pull out a picnic of McDonald’s, which consists of Fish Fillet sandwiches for all. It must be a treat for these three because by the smell of things I am certain they spend every other meal of their lives eating something soaked in curry.

I pretend to massage my own neck, stick my nose in my armpit and inhale. By now my sweat drenched, long sleeve laden pit smells like a fresh summer breeze compared to every other inch of the room. It’s 5:15PM, only one hour and forty-five minutes to go.

I realize, as I go through every stage of this strange ritual, which every other person seems to be familiar with, that being number 173 sucks ass.  By the time it’s actually my turn to hand in my form all the spaces will be filled and I’ll have to go home and tell my seven-year-old daughter that she won’t be taking swim lessons.

At the thought of this heart wrenching possibility, panic sets in and a couple of droplets of sweat begin to fall from my hair line and roll into my eyes. I must get in! And you know the old cliché: Desperate times…Desperate measures! I dig into my purse, apply some lip gloss and begin to smile at a few of the young male life guards in charge; hoping that one of them will think I’m pretty, feel sorry for me and in the end accept my application no matter what. But it seems my plan isn’t working and they all start looking at me with a mix of shock and fear. Aside from the fact that at a closer glance they are all under 18 (I need bi-focals, but am in denial and have yet to go to an eye doctor) and I clearly resemble their mother; when I inspect myself in my small compact mirror, I realize the sweat that rolled into my eyes made my mascara run  and a sizable piece of lettuce from the salad I ate for lunch is stuck between my two front teeth.

At 6:00 PM they pass around the forms we need to fill out. Once I complete this task, my stomach begins to churn as I’ve chosen today of all days to do a veggie cleanse and along with my lunchtime salad; drank a wheat grass, kale and spinach juice. Its magical abilities are beginning to kick in. If only I’d eaten McDonald's, like Mrs. Currystein and her family, I’d be constipated for days.

What will I do? How will I get to the bathroom without losing my blessed chair? Once I get up, anyone of the one hundred people behind me in line can easily rush over, sit down and use a marker to write my number on their arm. I’m in it for the long haul, impending bowel mishap and all.

Just settling into my trashy novel, the busty female lifeguard running the show, blows her large Silver Whistle and announces that if we have any questions we must ask them now because once we are called up to the registration desk we are not allowed to speak. She assures us that the lifeguards will be walking around to answer any concerns. Between the whistle and her round, sturdy physique I feel intimidated.  I look around for one of the lifeguards walking about (all male by the way), just so I can verify what level my daughter should be signed up for, but seeing that they are still afraid from my earlier advances, none of them will look at me or walk my way. As I worry that my daughter may end up in Senior Aquarobics, Mrs. Currystein sees my look of concern and shares her brochure, which explains the various levels. Her kindness is making me feel ashamed of my earlier judgments. However, once we begin conversating the stench of fish fillet lingers on her breath, filling the small space between our faces. Smiling, I clench my still churning stomach and almost have an aneurysm as I try not to gag.

7:00 PM finally prances along, laughing at the whole lot of us. The numbers are being called: 11-20 then 21-30 and so on. As each row stands, the people walk to the desk, the whole procedure resembling the Eucharist line in church except here we are not even allowed to utter an Amen. Silver whistle paces by the registration area ensuring rules are followed.

At 7:10 our numbers are called. Mrs. Currystein turns to me and says, “Here we go,” a kind smile on her lips.

Her kids look up and ask, “Is she your friend?”

She looks down at them and says, “Now she is.”

Again, ashamed!

Once at the desk, all goes smooth, I get the level I need on the day I want and I feel like kissing Silver Whistle, but I’m sure she would pummel me to the ground. Just as I am about to turn and walk out of the room, Currystein is beside me, inquiring if I got what I needed. Excitedly, I nod and say, “Yes, and you?”

She says, “Yes,” takes my hands and we are suddenly jumping up and down together. I think about asking her for her phone number, but something deep inside tells me it would never work out.

While I walk out of the room, down the hall and into the brisk night air, passing one hundred other people waiting on line, I realize, that this is the first time in a while that I’m not Dying of Boredom in the Burbs.   

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