A few months ago, I started taking swimming lessons. At 42, I bought my first swim cap and pair of goggles, and joined a handful of other adults at our local YMCA for a six-week course. I ignored my pasty white legs and tried to look nonchalant. I regretted my vibrant blue swimsuit after noticing that the other students had on more subdued choices. The first day, and I was already wearing the wrong thing. It felt like high school, but with wrinkles.
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