i don't swim. i mean, i could save myself if i got pushed out of a boat, but i'd have to be close to shore and i definitely wouldn't enjoy it. when i was little, my parents went through the yellow pages and found the cheapest swimming teacher available. i remember her vividly. margaret p. my one and only swimming teacher, and the woman who ensured i'd hate swimming all my life. her name still makes me shudder. she was a behemoth of a woman in a speedo four sizes too small, who'd shove your face in the water and pull you across the pool by your hair while screaming "kick your legs" and pushing your face back in the water if you tried to breathe before you got to the other side of the pool. no matter how much i protested, i was sent to those lessons every week for an entire year and never learned to swim. i "failed" her program, to the disappointment of my parents, and cried so much about going back that they just said "hell with it" and never signed me up again. if there's a hell, i'm sure she's got satan by the hair telling him to kick his fucking legs. focus: what don't you do, and why don't you do it? alt-focus: childhood trauma. keep it light. let's not discuss molestation, shall we?