underage swimmers

I didn't visit a coffee shop in Amsterdam. I bought a koffie americano and some chocolate with hempseed.

But Manu and I did go to the Y today, where we were interrogated and emotionally violated during the lap swim.

Like the coffee shops in Amsterdam, the YMCA adult lap swim is 18+. With just my [not-so]-smooth skills, which usually delay my passage at airport security, Manu and I would not have stood a chance getting past the desk. Fortunately, there had been a major accident, and paramedics had flooded the place, so that we slipped past unnoticed.

After being kicked out of the Mother & Girls locker rooms for being too old, and then a scramble for the showers in the women's locker rooms, Manu and I thought we had finally crossed all hurdles when we plunged into the blue pool. About 30 laps into the swim, however, the young blonde lifeguard walked over to us. He had been watching us for the last half hour, so I fixed my oversized bathing suit (I was wearing one I found around the house), which was inflating in the water, batted my eyelashes, and smiled.

"Are you both over 18?"

And my entire life (well, this entire summer) flashed before my eyes. The Indian promoter in London who essentially ID'd me on the street (despite my not wanting to go to his club); the American girl on the flight to London who thought I was a junior in high school; the children's ticket I could buy at the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam. Now, I was being asked to leave the YMCA adult swim.

"I'm 20."

He stared blankly at me. "Well, it's just that you don't look 20; you look under 18." And then he looked at my sister, who stared blankly back at him instead of lying or admitting to be an underage swimmer. He must have decided she was okay, or got flustered with her silent response, so he turned back to me. "The teen swim is in the other pool. This is the adult swim for those over 18."

"Okay, well I'm 20."

He continued to stare at me.

"It's just that, you don't look it."

"I get that all the time. No worries." I pulled my goggles forward, dismissing his doubts entirely, and yet he stood firmly above us.

"You know, I'm only asking because people get angry at me if I don't ask. Because if you're under 18, you need to be in the other pool."

I kicked off the wall, and then turned back to him, mid-stroke. "Okay, whatever, that's cool."

And then he continued to watch us from the bench, as if our juvenile strokes could reveal our true ages, and an innate immaturity characterizing those under 18, like me.