23 Attempts at Love

Chapter 11: The One With Commitment Issues

I know what you're thinking from the title of this chapter: haven't I already dated multiple men with commitment issues? Well, yes. You'd be right there. This was slightly different, as I'll explain.

Over the summer before my masters started I'd promised my Dad two things: 1. I would start swimming properly again (partly because I was getting fat and needed the exercise) and 2. He could come to watch some of the competitions and tournaments I'd be competing in with the team from uni. I'd been a member of the swimming club since first year, but since Seth persuaded me to get involved less and less, my fitness had declined and I just wasn't that interested. I'd forgotten how much I loved the water.

My first training session didn't go well. I was out of breath and struggling within twenty minutes of starting, and we'd be training for nearly two hours. I wanted to die.

The second one – two days later – went just as well as the first. I didn't really know anyone in the team by this point either: Bridget (who introduced me to Tinder a couple of years before) had graduated and was now living in Australia. A girl I recognised from my first year was there but I'd never spoken to her and had no idea what she was doing. I was in a pool with fifty other girls who mostly had their own friends and knew who to speak to.

Social events were still held on Wednesdays so, with the encouragement of my flatmates and an apology from me in advance for any drunken antics caused later, I headed off to the first social of the year at a nearby house where the social secretary of the club was hosting pre-drinks. It was "shit shirt" themed, so I'd come wearing the worst Hawaiian shirt I could find in the local charity shop.

It was weird at first, being a little bit older than most of the other girls. I had the pride of a degree certificate behind me which gave me a sense of moral superiority. That vanished when I started talking to a girl who had done two masters degrees and was just about to complete her doctorate. She used swimming as a "break", and would be leaving around midnight without drinking too much because she had to teach a class of undergraduates tomorrow morning. She pointed at one of the girls across the room and laughed,

"From the way she's drinking I don't think she'll make it to class," she said.

"Alright girls! Everyone listening? Have you all got your wristbands?" The club captain – a third-year Law student called Hannah – was shouting, stood on top of the coffee table. "The boys are meeting us at the bar where we'll be doing relay races and a load of other stuff, so make sure you've got everything from here because we're leaving in two!"

There were thirty girls and fifty boys from the swimming club in the bar, which meant the boys were immediately trying to show off as much as possible. Two of them had arrived in nothing but a pair of speedos and a set of fresh, white trainers. They were first years who lost a race earlier in the night, and this was their punishment.

I was paired with Winston, a 6-foot 7-inch half-Jamaican guy with a laid back smile, who towered over me and spent most of the evening lounging across the bar, limbs splayed out behind him like a giraffe.

"When my Dad moved to England he wanted a proper English name, that's why I've got what I've got," he laughed. I imagined his namesake, Winston Churchill, to be quite uptight and proper. And probably quite short. Winston from the swimming club was none of these things.

It was 1am and I'd just been made to down the rest of my drink from my trainer after spilling it on the table. My left foot was now wet and slippery, and I was hammered. I swear I was stood completely still, just waiting for two of the girls to back from the toilets so we could get another drink together, but I slipped over nothing and rolled my ankle. I sat on the floor and tried not to cry. It didn't hurt that much: I'm just a drama queen when I'm drunk.