Concepts of Swimming

This was our endeavor to grasp the concept of swimming:
It is a sad tale, exhausting, one that I wouldn't wish to recollect; however, my ranting frustration has taken over the more reserved attribute of myself, and I don't mean to make light of the situation by pointing out that all was well in the end. Or is it? Stay tuned.

We full out sprinted over the bridge and into The Woods, madly changing into our swimming costumes, clothes flying about and socks being dumped onto the floor in search of the sacred goggles. In two minutes, we had charged up and down three flights of stairs and were changed and heading out the door again to the conveniently closely-parked car. Wildly tearing through the night, a scene Fitzgerald could have depicted himself, with the windows down to add to our excitement as we drove ourselves to the pool.

We parked and madly dashed to the door that was locked. Change of plans, up the stairs, around the corner, and back down three more flights of stairs. Just as we dramatically yanked the doors open, the two lifeguards waltzed out exclaiming, "the pool doors have been locked!" with smirks on their faces as if nature itself was grinning her "time means nothing because I am nature" grin. We had been, so it seems, chagrined.

Puffing back up the stairs, enraged, and exhausted from our denied efforts, and this thought cannot even be finished as a complete sentenced thus signifying how incredibly exhausted from this sudden turn of events we were...

The detail that gives this seemingly mundane activity some level of importance: The pool closes at 7pm. We were there at 6:42pm. We would have made it. We would have completed our exercises with 5 minutes to spare. We had planned it this way. The lifeguards closed the pool early.

So, here's to you, lifeguards, skipping out on work early. We were depending on your rightly earned salary. We lost, and you still got your salary.

How the concept was won: As we enragedly (poetic licence) drove slowly back to our abode, in an inexplicable dismay, we tuned into a local radio station, a swing dancing station, and heard the familiar voice of our professor's husband announcing the songs (he was like a father to us on a study abroad trip we had gone on).

So, it was Fitzgerald-esque.