The other side of the story

Jill was putting away her oars this morning when she suddenly recognized me. "Oh my god! I remember you!" she shouted, and began to tell the long and embarassing story about when we first met.

My rowing club was hosting a training camp a couple years ago and being somewhat dismayed that I had not been asked to come, I invited myself over. I ended up in several boats over the course of the weekend, and for my last row, I was placed in a double with a whiney novice.

My coach had set the workout as a long, boring 10 km steady state. About half way out, she began to complain that she was tired. Then she began to complain about how her hip hurt. Then she began to cough and choke, and told me that whenever she exerted herself, her throat began to bleed. By the time we had gone 5 km out, I was thoroughly tired of her whining.

We turned around and I told her that she didn't have to row if she was too tired. She didn't even offer to help me on the way back, and I didn't really mind much. She complained less when she was just sitting there, and my patience can only be stretched so far. I had nothing but soothing words for her as we slowly made our way toward the dock, watching other boats pass us right and left.

I had something to prove that day. I've always been too short to be taken seriously, and maybe that is for a good reason. I can safely say that I will never be an olympic rower. Yet, in spite of that, I am still a fighter. I have very little respect for people that don't finish races because they're tired or sore. I never want to be that person, and I wanted to show my coach that. Jill was twice my size and I pulled her back into the dock by myself.

Later that evening, my conversation with the coach was as follows:

"What the hell happened out there?"

"She said she was tired and her throat was bleeding."

"What a baby."

I was forced to agree, and wasn't until much later that evening that I realized with some disappointment that he hadn't said anything about me.

Today I was surprised to hear how similar her version of the story was to mine. She was painfully honest about how pathetic she was that day. "You were so patient and nice to me when you had no reason to be," she said, appreciatively, laughing about how ridiculous she must have looked, being towed by a little girl.

I think that too often I come across as being overtalkative, bitchy, arrogant or strangely aloof. It's nice to hear that sometimes I get remembered for being someone good. Maybe I gained something out of that wasted day after all.