Dear Sir...

On mansplaining and meltdowns

Photo by Marcelo Uva on Unsplash

I’ve been thinking about what happened last week in the pool, and I wanted to explain why I got so angry.

Not that you really deserve my explanation, but you should hear it.

So, I woke up that morning feeling pretty down, which is not so unusual for me. Most days, my first waking moments tend to be pretty bleak. Often, I have to actively remind myself that I have a good life and plenty to be happy about. This isn’t just since the layoff—I’ve always been that way. I love sleep, and TBH, waking up is hard to do (Come-a come-a down dooby doo down down).

I took the dog to the park, as usual, and got the kids organized for school, all the while thinking that I would just get to the pool and feel better after. I didn’t actually *want* to swim that morning, but I knew it would clear my mind and give me some energy for the day.

Don’t get me wrong, I do like to swim. I’m just not a fan of exercising on purpose, and especially not on dry land. I know how important it is for my body and mind, so over the years, I’ve kept up with swimming. I’m no super-star, but I was on the team in high school, and swimming works for me. It’s nice and cool, so you’re not thinking about how hot you are, and it’s like meditation—counting strokes, tallying lengths of the pool, timing inhales and exhales.

I also choose swimming so I can be alone. If I were a billionaire, I’d have an estate with a lap pool, but I’m not. For a long time, I had access to a pool because I was working or studying on a college campus. Now, I just try to find a YMCA that’s not to crowded and intense.

When I got into your lane, I already had earplugs in, so I couldn’t hear anything you said. I nodded a greeting, and made the gesture for let’s split the lane since there are only two of us. You agreed, and strangely, put up your hand for a high 5. It made me really uncomfortable, but people would think it was weird or rude or whatever if I didn’t high 5 back, right? Good, people-pleasing girl, that I am, I slapped your hand and immediately swam away, hoping the chlorine would take care of any germs.

After maybe 10-15 laps, you flagged me down in the shallow end of the pool. You were making a gesture with your arm, imitating the backstroke, and I could hear some of what you were saying—something about me keeping my arm too straight and how “the movement should come from here” with a gesture to your lateral back muscles.

I don’t have time for this shit, I thought. If I don’t power through this swim, my whole day is going to be harder. I need to get on with it so that I can feel better and clear my head.

I put up both of my hands in a “stop” gesture, shook my head no, and said, “no thanks.” Dove back in and continued with my swim.

By the time I had gone another length and returned to the shallow end, I saw that you and Blue Cap Guy (who I usually split a lane with) were standing at the wall, both pantomiming the back stroke. I like Blue Cap Guy—we share well together, and I would have joined his lane like I normally do, but there was already someone there when I arrived. Now, I see that she has also stopped and is looking over towards me and the two of them.

I stand up to see what’s going on, worried that something is wrong, and I hear her say something like “he’s trying to tell you…” She’s talking about you, Sir. She’s trying to explain to me that you want me to stop my swim and listen to you. But I’ve already told you that I’m not interested. I already made a back-off gesture and said “no thanks.” I guess that wasn’t enough.

I point to my earplugs and say that I can’t hear anyone, and then I turn to you, shaking with rage, starting to cry. I probably shouted because of the earplugs—or maybe I whispered because of them. Either way, my anger was palpable. I said something about how you couldn’t possibly know what it took for me to get there that morning and that I didn’t need your advice. I swam away, admittedly with a dramatic, toddler-style temper tantrum of angry strokes.

Here’s what I didn’t say:

1. Why are you watching me swim? It can feel pretty vulnerable to be in public in a bathing suit, and I’m not here to be watched, or judged, or taught. Not even to be admired if that was what this was all about (insert epic eyeroll here). I was there trying to stay sane and somewhat fit, both of which are pretty fucking hard for me.

2. Who the fuck are you to tell me how to swim? I’ve been doing it this way for decades. Literally. So my form isn’t perfect? Who gives a shit? Am I training for the olympics? Also, I’m double jointed so this nonsense about my arm being too straight might just be what my weird twistable elbows look like when I try to keep them “straight.” Feh.

3. As if it’s not bad enough that you decided I need a lesson from you, you also involved two other people in your plan to improve me? What the actual fuck??

Long story short, I didn’t swim as long as I wanted to because I was upset. I’m embarrassed at my tantrum, so now I’ve got even more anxiety about going back next week. You really do owe me a major apology, but I know I’ll never get it.

That’s why I’m writing about this stupid incident here. It’s not going to stop me, but it sure did ruin my day. Some people will read this and think, “what’s the big deal? He was just being friendly, just trying to help.”

Dollars to donuts, that’s what you went away thinking, Sir. But here’s the thing: you put me in a position where I had no choice. You didn’t listen to my attempts to be kind and say no, to turn away and continue with my workout. Instead, you enlisted two other people to prove that you were right, to side with you. You ignored my training, treated me like a child, and made me a spectacle.

All of that felt exactly like the years of bullying I experienced at WPU, so I got triggered. That’s how PTSD works, as far as I understand it. And, no, of course there was no way for you to know how your behavior would trigger me. But the whole thing could have been avoided if you had paid attention to what I was so clearly telling you. But you needed to make your point, and my job was supposed to be to make nice and say thank you, sir, for explaining something to me that I’ve already known for most of my life.

Next time I see you, I’ll try to come up with something you need to be taught and see if I can enlist a few other people to help me force you to listen. How does that sound?

Sincerely,

That grown-ass woman who already knows how to swim, thank you very much.