Stay in Your Lane
navigating societal norms, chasing Italian plums, and the non-judgy vibe of aperitivo
It’s Monday morning, just after 8:00 am, and I am obsessively refreshing my browser. Monday is the day my new health club updates its schedule of exercise classes, and more importantly, swim lap lane availability. There are two private lanes and two shared lanes (two people only), available in half-hour time blocks. Within seconds after the schedule is updated, enabling reservations for the following week, the single lane slots are snapped up, I’m pretty sure mostly by older people. The shared lanes go pretty quickly too.
Anyone who has ever questioned an older person’s ability to navigate technology has never tried to reserve a swim lane.
For the third time in my life, I am embracing swimming as serious exercise, even though I have my trepidations about swim culture.
I have happy memories of swimming laps at lunchtime at the outdoor pool next door to my office in Bangkok. I usually had the pool to myself. The sun felt good and the pad see ew I ravenously ate in the canteen afterwards tasted good. Little did I know, this mellow nirvana was not the norm.
Fast forward several years later to Seattle where, when injuries made other forms of exercise impossible, I joined the cavalcade of early morning pre-work lap swimmers at the indoor community pool a few blocks from my house.
It’s safe to say that people who choose to swim laps at 6:00 am tend to be Type A people. Pick the wrong lane for your speed and you risk getting your foot aggressively tapped by the swimmer behind you, letting you know they will be passing you. If it happens too many times you know to either pick up your pace or sheepishly dive under the rope and move to a slower lane. This type of stress was good preparation for the workday challenges ahead.
I briefly did a stint as a Swim Mom. Being a spectator at swim meets brought its own set of microagressions. The ratio of waiting vs. watching was skewed in the wrong direction IMHO. Lots of sitting around waiting for the 30 seconds I would get to actually watch my kid in the pool.
The first (and last) time I went to a meet, I clearly didn’t know how things worked. Seasoned moms (always moms) got there early, spreading towels across the bleachers to save seats for their returning competitors, even though they wouldn’t be back at the bleachers until hours later, when all or nearly all the races were over.
This seat-saving meant that for four hours I had to cram myself into whatever available space I could find. Lucky for me, Seasoned Swim Mom (SSM) took pity on me and begrudgingly moved one of her towels partially aside.
I also apparently didn’t get the memo about snacks. I thought I had packed enough snacks to satisfy my daughter’s hunger after her 30 seconds in the pool, but I was wrong, according to SSM, who gave my daughter one of her homemade granola bars, while looking at me disapprovingly.
Some days later I ran into that mom at the grocery stores, where I KID YOU NOT, she checked the contents of my cart, perhaps to make sure I was adequately feeding my family.
The term “judgy” came into vogue right around then.
I had my own judgy last laugh, because prim SSM had no idea what a dirty mind and filthy mouth her daughter had, speaking freely to my daughter in the backseat of my minivan on the way to and from swim practices, forgetting that the driver (me) was well within earshot.
***
I’ve had a pretty good run for years in my comfort zone, moving in familiar spaces, where I understood the rules, trying to be welcoming and not too judgy to newbies.
In fact, one of the best compliments I ever received was from a refreshingly outspoken mom at my kids’ elementary school, where I was an “involved” parent.
She told me that I did not have a “stick up my ass.”
Now, as we prepare to jump into the deep end, making a new life in Portugal in a multinational community, I find myself thinking about subcultures, group mentality, rules, and societal norms. I’m particularly interested in the role women play as keepers of the flame.
Google “women and herd mentality” or “women and evolutionary biology” and you’ll learn that we are programmed to seek the security of groups and follow and enforce societal norms. We also seem to be the moderators of most Facebook groups.
Last night, after a vigorous boot camp class at the gym, I was waiting my turn to put away gear in the storeroom. I was holding a barbell, with some weights attached, when a woman said to me, “Isn’t it better if you dissemble that outside the room? It makes it easier for rest of us.” I apologized, pleading ignorance. While I dutifully removed the weights from my barbell outside the room, I watched a guy enter the storeroom with a fully loaded barbell. That women didn’t say anything to him.
I get it. I’ve been that woman. But I also see how annoying it can be to be on the receiving end of constructive criticism masked as advice.
During my State Department Foreign Service training, we played a version of this Peace Corps game to understand how different cultures function and interact.
When we enter a new culture, we’re supposed to keep our eyes open for clues about how things are done. There’s an uncomfortable period where you remain on the outside, dependent on the goodwill of others to show you the ropes. And then, understanding, hopefully followed by acceptance.
***
Things are going pretty well at the pool. I got an earful from a naked woman in the locker room, who was complaining about the cutthroat reservation system. She’s the one who told me to be at my computer each Monday at 8:00 am sharp, which I have to admit made me feel like an insider.
I’ve learned that even though the signs say “circular swimming only,” the veterans prefer to stake out one side or another of the lane for parallel swimming. Today, a nice man showed me how to turn on the hot tub jets.
Mostly I’ve learned that those same older folks who are quick to nab the online reservations are also excellent swimmers, blowing past me without having to stop and catch their breath.
I’m okay with that.
I aspire to that.
Speaking of societal norms, as some of you may know, Italian plum season is fleeting. Many of us, including
apparently, like to make Marion Burros’ Plum Torte, which has been published by the New York Times every year since 1983. (Click the link - I gifted the recipe).A few weeks ago, someone posted on our neighborhood Facebook page that she had a bumper crop of plums to share from her trees. I set out to collect some, but when I looked at Facebook to double check the address, the post was down. The original poster confirmed that all the plums were gone.
Undaunted, I went to our neighborhood produce market, where I learned a woman had just bought the entire supply of Italian plums. Was it the same woman, on a mission to grab allthe plums in the neighborhood, not leaving any for the rest of us? Not cool!
Lucky for me, Jimmy, the curmudgeonly owner of the market, who has a heart of gold, offered to get one more delivery of Italian plums. I managed to grab some before that woman got to them first.
The Best Thing I Cooked This Week
Goat Cheese, Piquillo Peppers, and Honey Canape by Penelope Casas, 1,000 Spanish Recipes
3 oz fresh goat cheese
12 crackers (Though the original recipe calls for plain crackers or melba toast, I used Lesley Stowe’s Raincoast Crisp fig and olive crackers, which I highly recommend)
4 jarred piquillo peppers cut into half-inch strips
1 T honey
Spread the goat cheese on the crackers. Top with the peppers and drizzle with honey. Serve at room temperature.
Mindful of how we were welcomed in Portugal, and how I hope we will be welcomed when we return, this week I organized a backyard “aperitivo” for some new neighbors.
Aperitivo is my favorite low-stress way to entertain. You get to mix and match delicious snacks and drinks and people seem genuinely relaxed and delighted with the offerings. It’s a no-rules/no judgment way to hang out.
The plum torte was a hit. One of my neighbors said she had just baked one and I told her about the Mysterious Plum Hoarder.
She smiled mischievously and said, “Maybe it was me.”
Reminds me of a frequent nightmare during my swim dad year(s): a voice announcer “this is heat 1 of 47, event 96, 400 meter backstroke.”
You've put me off that kind of swimming for good!
Getting hold of really good plums is such a rare luxury.