Devotion to the swimming pool is an understatement; swimming each and every day, whether morning or afternoon, has been my saving grace, allowing the pregnancy-induced knots in my bunched back to release, and my entire, heavy body to decompress.
One weekend ago, when Seahorse turned 30 weeks, some friends and I took ourselves to a showy beach club called The Rixos, on Dubai’s incredible man-made island, The Palm, where we submerged our overheating selves into the pool, cool and clean as it was; skylarking in the Arabian Gulf’s waters when we felt like something warmer and saltier, then back again into pool for a splash and to watch burly youth compete in a water polo match.
Pregnant – yes. But I can still ogle (discreetly) at the bare chested heroes resplendent in their white and blue caps, one slippery ball being fought violently between them. No sin in gawking, right? That just is my brand of swimming-as-sport. Blame that waterlogged critter floating inside of me, the Seahorse…
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