I am all of those things, but here I am buoyant and unencumbered. At the abyss separating the weighted and the weightless, I choose the latter and dive in, swim off the shock of cold, skim along the water like a tropical fish. I regard the water with a similar reluctance to the one I felt outside of St. Unlike at church, my attendance at the pool requires a reservation.Īt the edge of the pool, I shiver, adjust the leg bands of my swimsuit. Like mass on Sundays, adult lap swim at the Northwestern Connecticut YMCA is rigidly scheduled. Today, I enter another temple at 9:00 a.m. “Let us proclaim the mystery of faith,” the pastor commanded. I knew the purpose of my presence was to feel small, earthly, and sinful. On the church’s brick steps, I dreaded the misery that awaited me on the pew, granite-hard under my scrawny child’s body. Sunday mass was a habit for most Boston Catholics, but one she, and I, would eventually shed.
