irina, the pool nazi

Belonging to a gym in New York City is like belonging to a country club in the suburbs -- it costs a ton, and you can never really be sure of the company you keep. However, if you're lucky like me, for a mere $9 a month (probably a computer glitch I'm in no hurry to fix) you can belong to Bally's Total Shitness, and access their string of crappy clubs around the city. (To get to the top-tier Bally's you have to shell out at least $40 more a month.) It's essentially like having Coney Island as your country club.

If you want to swim, that's a whole nother story. Swim clubs cost top dollar, unless you're fortunate enough to live near one of the city's rec centers. Or belong to Bally's. (In which case you have to hop on the F train and trek out to King's Highway. And you have to deal with Irina, the Pool Nazi.)

The setup at King's Highway is this: three lanes of swimming, each one five full crawl strokes long. (So, what? Maybe 35 feet?) The first lane is labeled as the "Loafers Lane" and that's where the really fat people go to bob or float or, most likely, pee. The second lane is, technically, not labled, and the third lane has this confusing sign with two arrows that says something like "Medium Lap Swim." Basically, if there are two people swimming laps, they each get their own lane, and if there's a third added on (and Irina's around), then the three of you have to rotate through two lanes.

It's lame, if you ask me.

But it's what Irina believes in, with her whole heart and soul. (Note: Irina may not actually be named Irina. I have named her that because 1) King's Highway is very Russian, 2) she looks very Eastern European and 3) she barks at other members in an Eastern tongue. And it suits her.)

(Get it? Suits?! ha!)

Anyway, Irina was there, barking at everyone on Saturday. And it was irritating, especially because when there were only the two of us, she plunked herself in the better lane (yes, there is one) and left me to deal with turning around on an angled wall. So today, I went at a different time, intentionally, and Irina was there again! I muttered to myself (just like everyone else there) and seriously considered putting my workout clothes on and running on a treadmill instead. But I had already showered, so I figured I could at least outlast Irina and get a few laps in without her.

I developed a new respect for Irina, however, because there was someone there who just kept bucking the system the other three of us had agreed to.

All it took was "bark bark bark!" from Irina and that woman was doing her own slow laps with the Peeing Loafers. Not bad, Irina.

I've been thinking a lot lately about what bothers me about other people -- there's a theory that whatever you don't like in other people is something you are unsettled about in your own personality, and that really resonates with me -- so investigating what I didn't like about Irina shone an interesting light on my desire to be a regular somewhere. You know, to belong, to be familiar and have a sense of ownership. I wanted to be the one who knew what the rules were. (And I wanted to know how to bark in Russian.)

The other highlights of the King's Highway swimming pool (aside from the bandaids on the pool floor, the men I'm pretty sure were watching my bathing suit in case anything fell out, or the creepy guy with his shorts pressed up against a bubbler in the whirlpool)? The fire alarm in the ladies' locker room goes off every time someone opens the door to the steam room (and won't stop for three whole minutes); the other occupants of the pool are so old you have to wonder how much unintentional pee you're swimming in; there is a low-level of Ben Gay saturated into the pool water, so you come out without an ache or pain; and, if you leave your bathing suit hanging on a hook in the locker room on Saturday, there's a pretty good chance it'll still be there the next day. (Although that may only be if your bathing suit is all worn out and semi-see through like mine is.)

Thank god for chlorine and goggles.