how i became a mermaid
by cheryl dietrich

I realized I had reached middle age when my body began to betray me.

First my metabolism went bonkers, then slowed to a standstill. I ate as I had done all my life and gained pounds of flab; when I cut back, they just settled in more comfortably. I quit smoking and became short of breath. I exercised more faithfully than I had ever done. I stretched myself, aerobicized myself, spun and stepped myself. I trod endless stairs to nowhere, biked, hiked, danced, lifted weights, wore a path in the treadmill. In return I received a broken ankle, fractured wrist, frozen shoulder, twisted knee, injured Achilles tendon, stiff hip, and torn rotator cuff.

My body had become a stranger to me, the ultimate enemy--the traitor from within, constantly undermining my attempts to stay fit. Most frustrating was how defiantly this body refused to obey my orders. “Raise right knee over wall,” my brain would command, and the traitor body would raise the knee just high enough to shove it into the wall, signaling its rebellion by radiating pain. “Rotate legs 180 degrees to the other side of the wall,” but the legs would remain sullenly uncooperative as if my instructions had been in an unfamiliar language. I pretended I still had control of this alien body of mine, but I was really terrified of what it might do to me--or worse, not do for me.

So it was in desperation that I took to the water, not inclination. I was never much of a swimmer, couldn’t hold my breath under water, and dreaded the effort to make myself look post-exercise presentable in a clammy-damp locker room. But necessity demands. Working under the assumption that at least I couldn’t hurt myself in the water (unless I drowned-but surely there would be a lifeguard, wouldn’t there?), two years ago, I went to my first aquatics class.

The immediate benefit: I was a 50-plus woman in the midst of 70-plusers, so I rediscovered the confidence (if not sheer cockiness) that a teenager has among her elders. “Of course we can do this,” brain and body trumpeted together, and yes, I could do it. So could all those 70-plusers, I discovered. We moved through the water like lively rocking horses and jumping jacks, leaping exuberantly out of the water and splashing back with no caution or need for it. When we bounced into someone else (which happened frequently), we just apologized and moved on. Surrounded by cushiony water, we couldn’t hurt each other! We lunged and plunged; we jogged; we swung like pendulums; we skied—cross-country and moguls—pushing through resistant waves we had churned up ourselves. We lifted water weights and did crunches floating on pastel styrofoam noodles. We formed circles and kicked high into the middle like retired Rockettes.

Over the last two years, faces in the classes have changed and the average age has lowered, as word has gotten out. Instructors changed too, each bringing a different style. Lithe Sonia would run back and forth along the deck, pressing us to pump it up and keep smiling! Buff and tanned, Jim unabashedly played songs from musical comedy, singing loudly along to “Tra-la, it’s May, the lusty month of May,” and he sometimes made us sing too. Ethereal Patty choreographed elegant movements that challenged the nascent, natant coordination my mind and body were just beginning to develop.The biggest change was with me. In the midst of all this activity, I underwent a metamorphosis. Mind and body merged in an amphibious marriage. I became a mermaid.

Now, I glide in the water with a grace I’ve never known on land. The stubborn extra pounds slide sleekly through this friendly environment. When I elongate my torso, stretching high onto my toes and extending my arms, I feel I could be dancing in the corps de ballet. Best of all is when, with legs and feet together, I form my long mermaid’s tail and spring out long and straight, like a diagonal cutting the pool in half, or twist myself into coils and spirals in a lazy aquatic dance, moving by paddling my feet flippers.

Being a mermaid does not mean I have discovered sudden beauty or a hidden athletic talent. If you saw me, you would probably just see a stout, middle-aged woman splashing in the water and you would be disappointed. Your head is too full of Disney mermaids. But in my mind’s mirror, I can see how powerful and graceful my mer-body is and I welcome it back as a part of me. Out of the water, disguised as a two-legged dry creature, I can easily forgive my body’s awkwardness and its occasional stumble on the unforgiving ground. I know it’s just literally out of its element.

We come from water and as children, keep yearning to go back to it. I lost my way when keeping my hair dry became a higher priority. Now that I have found the water again, I like to float with my head back in the water, short hair swimming out as blissfully as if it were waist long. That’s when I can hear the low throb of silence under the water’s edge, and I feel as if I have found my way back home.

Cheryl Dietrich is a retired Air Force officer whose previous writing experience mainly consisted of preparing staff studies for general officers. She’s glad to have the chance now to indulge her love of language through creative writing, reading, and volunteering with the Literacy Council. She lives in south Asheville with her husband, Lynn and beaglette, Maisie. (828-277-1757; Maisiebuds@cs.com)