Those familiar with the television series Bad Sisters know the mystical restorative power of a plunge into a frigid body of water. For the eponymous bad sisters of Bad Sisters, it is off the Forty Foot into the Irish Sea; for me, it was off a wooden dock into Eastwood Lake in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.
It’s late December, so the water is 42 degrees, a mere ten away from ice. I told my family I was plunging so I felt obliged to follow through, especially since some number of them had gathered on the shore to watch me. I didn’t have a swimsuit, so I wore a pair of Sam’s boxers and the ratty T-shirt I sleep in. Should I jump from the dock, or sit and lower myself gracefully into the water? I settled on lowering myself, but quickly, before I could come to my senses.
It was at first shocking, then quite shocking, then unendurable. After swimming around for thirty or forty seconds I swam it back to the dock, teeth chattering. In my numb state it was hard to hoist myself up. I stood and waved at my granddaughter, Gemma, who was watching me from her father’s arms with either admiration or pity, I wasn’t sure.
I was in my robe and on my way back to the house, goosebumps downshifting from deep blue to bright red, when Gemma shouted, “Again! Again!”
Again?
With the certain knowledge of what I was about to re-experience screaming you have to be joking from every cell in my body, I gave Gemma the thumbs up and walked back to the dock. Nana had badass to model, and she was not about to disappoint her audience.
It was HORRIBLE and so empowering, all at the same time. XO!
Nope! Every bit as bad. But now, my badassedness is official.