Swimming is not a glamorous activity unless you are Michael Phelps, we all know this. The average person does not radiate beauty and style while clad in a wet bathing suit, skin flushed from being submerged in a whirlpool soup of unknown chemistry. We go swimming for fitness, to relax in a steam room and work out the aches and pains of the week. We do not hope for glamour, but we do hope for something vaguely resembling quiet.

Follow up:

My best friend and I took her daughter with the intention of enjoying ourselves at the local hotel gym and pool where we have memberships. We planned on swimming some laps and indulging in a steam room visit. When we arrived, it all seemed quite calm, but then we opened the doors into the pool area and entered a warzone.

Spherical projectiles arced over the length of the pool, hurled by armies of diminutive warriors screaming war cries. More of these warriors were wrestling each other into the water, flagrantly ignoring the posted signs that warned of dangers to those who ran or roughhoused. The noise was astounding, and even my friend’s daughter fled to the sanctuary of her waterproof mp3 player to drown out the ruckus.

Having assessed the situation, we opted for a strategic retreat to the whirl pool, conspicuously empty of these pygmy terrorists. As we commented to each other about the level of chaos, the lone other occupant of the pool explained to us that there was a boys soccer tournament in town, and what we were seeing were several of the teams celebrating the first day of competition. All I could think was if they had this much energy at 7 pm after playing sports all day, I’m glad I never had children, more specifically, male children.

As we reclined in the hot water my friend noted that there appeared to be several youngsters in the steam room, easily spotted as the door to that room is glass. Beyond the doorway a number of small shapes were moving in the mist, a troublesome thought as we pondered what that much heat and steam would do to these unsupervised simians.

When the steam cycle ended and the door opened, we were amazed to watch the parboiled lads spill back out into the main area. Not two or three, but eight of them had been crammed into that small space. Like clowns spilling out of tiny car, they kept appearing out of the mist, whooping and squealing.

Eventually we braved the pool itself, did our laps and fled, ears ringing and with splitting headaches. As we left we watched the mothers of these young hoodlums sitting by the pool edge, glasses of wine in hand, blithely ignoring their children’s insanity as they nattered to each other. I always pictured soccer moms as harried, mini van driving women with a cooler full of cupcakes and orange drink. These ladies were something quite different, and I can only hope that the pain they inflicted upon others over the weekend will be returned to them three fold. Or maybe it already has, and that’s why they clung to their wine glasses so very tightly while trying to shut out the world.