My Favorite Domer says I must be part cat. He even calls me “Kitty” on occasion.
I think he’s onto something.
You see, I’ve never been very fond of being wet, be it rain-soaked or swimming-pool immersed.
My dad always used to welcome a good rain, especially if it came with a lightning show and lots of thunder. It cleans the earth, he’d point out.
I agree, but washing is supposed to be done at night, not during the day. And that’s when rains should fall, too.
If they did, there’d be no need for rain jackets and hats and boots and umbrellas — shoot, entire industries would dry up.
So to speak.
But rainy days are depressing. They’re gray and drab — and wet.
It’s that part-cat thing, remember.
Long ago, I was coerced into taking swimming lessons.
“You never know,” my parents said. “Being able to swim might save your life some day.”
So I dutifully went to the pool and suffered.
It wasn’t bad enough that I had to wrap my then-skinny body in a swimsuit. Invariably, the temperature here in June hovers somewhere around the 60-degree mark, give or take. Not near warm enough to heat a huge outdoor pool to where it’s comfortable.
Bath water comfortable, I’m talking about.
Combine the embarrassment of appearing (milky-white body, of course) in a swimsuit with the pain of dropping into near-freezing water and you can imagine how I dreaded the ordeal.
To this day, I shun water sports. I don’t water ski. I don’t swim laps for exercise. I don’t do water aerobics. I don’t dive or snorkel.
And I hate driving on bridges and flying over big bodies of water.
Terra firma, that’s where I’m meant to be.
If the Good Lord had wanted me to swim, He’d have given me fins and flippers instead of arms and legs, right?