I Blame Denzel

Every Olympic cycle finds folks worldwide longing for an everyday pluggish person to compete next to the athletes so we can be properly impressed by their feats of strength. *Regular person for scale. Like the adrenaline-filled car chases and inexhaustible fight scenes in action movies, the Olympians leave me feeling very much like I could probably do that. Just about anyone can build muscle and stamina, it’s about committing to the bit. I’m somewhat bendy and have always been able to pick up anything I needed to pick up, so surely a boot camp obstacle course would only be slightly more difficult than carrying all my groceries in at once while my collection of cats circles my ankles. I’ve always been convinced I could breeze through Navy Seal training because of how much I like myself. An angry drill sergeant yelling put-downs in my face seems more like their own personal problem. I just don't think I'd fall for it. 

Now Denzel Washington, I believe all these things about him too. You won't rattle his self-worth. You won't even get him to wheeze a little after a lengthy run. After watching his stoic performance being waterboarded in a rip-roaring adventure film, I was certain I’d be equally as tested but still beautifully composed and attractive if it ever happened to me. So I tried it that night in the shower.

I hadn't planned on doing it. It was a regularly scheduled “everything” shower, so I settled in for the long haul. Razor, washcloth, face mask, conditioner…. washcloth. I thought of Denzel. He’d just been waterboarded on my TV screen mere hours ago. It was fresh on my mind. What I thought I knew about waterboarding is that it really only kills a person if something goes wrong, otherwise it’s just a convincing simulation of drowning. It’s like Survivor or Fear Factor. You know the TV executives can’t afford a death on their watch so it won't actually be dangerous. Waterboarding is like reality TV; merely a perceived threat. I put the wet washcloth over my face and stared straight ahead. It was muggy under there, but not all that different from being outside in July. I tipped my head back slowly, letting water flush through the fibers and drizzle out onto my neck. This is kind of nice, I thought but then I tried to inhale and a garble of washcloth and water filled my mouth, sending me back upright again, spitting and gasping for air.
Tip #1: Hold your breath. (That's the end of the tips.)

I took a deep breath, replaced the washcloth, and then went whole-hog, flat-faced under the shower head. I held my breath like a champ until I couldn't anymore. I parted my lips discreetly, thinking the water wouldn't notice and I could sneak a little air past it, but it caught me red lip-ed and filled my mouth with hot water. I whipped the cloth off my face and took a deep breath. This is harder than I thought. I went on to try a plethora of ways to figure out how to breathe under such conditions, including sticking my tongue straight out to create a tent-like structure to act as an air pocket, but I'll go ahead and tell you that this is a foolproof exercise in keeping a person from breathing. Those torture folks really know what they’re doing. 

The life lesson came later that night as I tried to sleep. My chest hurt; a strange kind of fluid pain up high, where my lungs might be. While I would normally spend ample time trying on different ailments, mulling over their causes, symptoms, and potential duration, my mind skipped the pleasantries and went straight to the most probable cause. Occam’s razor; it’s got to be water in my lungs. 
Whoopsies. I laid on my side, facing away from Brett. Eyes wide open. Ok hold on… I worked to keep myself calm. This is no big deal, people swallow water swimming all the time. Wouldn't I have felt it if I inhaled water? Why would water in your lungs be a problem anyway- they could probably use a little flushing out. Aren't they kind of made of water? I had almost brushed it off as nothing when my brain whispered, “Dry drowning.” 
The hell does that mean? I asked my brain. That’s when I remembered hearing the term one time, more than twenty years ago. I read an article about a little boy that drowned a few hours after swimming. I didn't remember anything I might have learned from the article - just the term "dry drowning," and that’s when I knew my fate was sealed.
I will die tonight.

I wondered if I ought to wake Brett up, tell him I had waterboarded myself out of curiosity and now I don't feel good. 

If he didn't laugh at me, he’d probably make me go to the hospital. I wasn’t interested in either option so I kept laying there, strategizing. I took a deep breath. It didn't hurt. Should it hurt? I felt on the verge of panic but I also felt stupid. But people aren't supposed to die from it, I argued, That's the whole point! How many times have I told Brett I was dying but then I didn't die and had to apologize in the morning? How many times will I give him evidence to have me committed?
But I don’t want to die. I thought to myself, and then I paused.

I'd never had that thought before. I've never had the opposite thought either, though I'm certainly prone to lamenting the stupidity of modern existence. My easy preference for solitude over company and my bi-annual flirtation with nihilism had me cast myself away from others; different from them. I had written myself off as a kind of accidental misanthrope. A self-proclaimed tragic case. 
I was struck by the thought because of the urgency in it. My own death has never scared me and suddenly, when it finally seemed a real possibility, I was just SO disappointed.

Interesting. Why do you want to be here? my brain asked, and answers poured out, tons of them, like they'd been lined-up, waiting to rush the field. All of them small things. Rainy-day indulgences. Family dinners, sun on my face, hot beverages, falling asleep on my husband's chest. Laughing with my mom. Crusty bread right out of the oven, watching dogs sleep and birds fly. Flowers. Bike rides. Beach days. Card games, sweet tea, dinner parties, music - sad music. My sister’s real laugh. Books and blankets and bonfires. The smell of a newly painted room. Colors! My dad’s stewed green beans, and his salad dressings, and his frozen peanut butter cereal log. Punch-lines, one-liners, cheap-shots. Margaritas, french fries, and dancing in creaky old beach bars. Watching my mom hate things. Surprises. Furry animal feet. Well-worn t-shirts. Natural born storytellers. Blueberries. Strange laughs. People who light up when they see their people.
I fell asleep smiling.

I didn’t drown that night. I confessed it all to Brett as soon as I woke up. “I waterboarded myself and thought I was dry-drowning last night but I didn't and I realized that I really like being here!” He stared at me a moment before silently turning to grind his coffee beans. (He’s always appreciated existing and has pushed back at my blasé attitude about life.) “There’s just so much to be excited about!” I informed him.