Swimming Lesson #6

Thursday comes, and with it another swimming lesson. Today was my second attempt to master breaststroke, and also my first attempt to explain to my swimming coach why I’d had 14 different swimming teachers, without using the phrase "ice cold pool of dilute juvenile piss". (My 14 different swimming teachers is a terrible lie my wife is spreading; it was 14 years of swimming lessons with an indeterminate number of unsympathetic swimming teachers whose pedagogical technique was uniformly comprised of yelling and blowing a whistle.)
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Twelve Hours

Last night, after Destroyer screamed at me because I couldn’t find Chicka Chicka Boom Boom to read to her, I fell asleep on her bed. My wife came in after an hour and woke me, and I went into our room, lay on the bed and woke up at 9 this morning, wearing the clothes I’d put on yesterday. I guess a week of four hour sleeps every night has a way of catching up with you.
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