I was in primary school when my mum, bless her, decided to put me for swimming classes. The swimming teacher was an old, grandfatherly Parsi man, who had just introduced me to the terrors of swimming without the rubber float. He’d take me to the middle of the pool, then ABANDON me there and I had to make my way spluttering and wheezing, to the side of the pool and hold on to the railing for dear life.
The first time this happened, I found myself gasping and crying in huge wet sobs. And the only person who gave a crap about it was a sweet little Parsi boy (what, those exist!). This kid was cute, okay? Like, Kevin in Wonder Years cute. He had swam up to me and tried to say comforting things like, “Don’t cry, it’ll be okay.”
He didn’t need to. If you see some strange kid bawling her eyes out in a pool, you’re first reaction ISN’T to go on and say nice things to her. It was unnecessary and in hindsight, downright adorable.
And he did it.
After which, I turned to him and yelled, “NO, IT WON’T!” and continued blubbering into the water.
I’m beginning to think that there MAY just be a reason I didn’t have any luck with guys growing up.