This is one of those stories where you think you’re in the right… then realise you’ve just followed man in Speedos through a leisure centre… convinced he’s a swimming accessory thief.
This was about a couple of years ago in a swimming pool — and it still perfectly sums me up.
I’m at the pool, about to get in after what was supposed to be a relaxing steam and shower.
Now, I’ll be honest — I didn’t even really want to come swimming. I debated it for ages.
But I knew I needed it — because if I don’t get my exercise, I don’t get calm… I get ratty.
So I’d already had a whole internal negotiation just to be there.
I reach for my goggles.
They’re not on the hook with my cap.
Annoyance kicks in instantly. Not panic. Not fear. Pure, simmering irritation.
Because I NEED this swim.
I retrace my steps. Scan the pool. Check the benches. The floor. My bag. They are nowhere.
And I KNOW they were here.
And then I spot him.
A man walking away from the shower… wearing goggles that look exactly like mine.
So, I do the polite British thing.
“Excuse me… you haven’t seen any goggles lying around anywhere near here, have you? They look identical to yours.”
“Er… no, sorry.”
(He looks a bit sheepish. In my opinion. And once my brain decides that, it starts building a case.)
I walk away thinking: That’s weird. Because I KNOW they were here. And I’m pretty sure those are mine.
Now I’m annoyed AND suspicious. Dangerous combination.
So I follow him up the stairs.
“I’m really sorry to bother you, but are you SURE you haven’t seen any goggles that look like yours?”
“No, I really can’t say I have.”
He heads towards the male changing rooms…
And I stop in the hallway like a confused Roomba. (Which I believe is a robot hoover. Either way —lost.)
Because now the inner argument begins.
One voice: Go on. He’s nicked your goggles. Stand up for yourself. Other voice: Do NOT be that woman. You’ll become a leisure-centre urban legend.
This is where my husband would usually say,
“I’ll just let you carry on between you and you.”
So I pace. I circle. I mutter internally.
Then the ratty, exercise-deprived voice joins in:
You didn’t even want to come swimming and now this has hacked you right off. Go on. Knock.
So I knock.
He comes out looking genuinely concerned that he’s being stalked over aquatic eyewear.
“I know this is probably getting annoying, and I’m really sorry, but I KNOW I left my goggles downstairs. Are you sure one of your friends didn’t pick them up by accident?”
“No, I really haven’t seen them. And my friends just sit in the steam room. They don’t even use goggles. But I hope you find them.”
“Right… okay… that’s just really weird. Sorry again. Enjoy your shower.”
At this point I resign myself to:
1. He is a committed criminal
2. Someone else took them to lost property
Either way, I’m too annoyed to swim now.
So I go to steam off instead.
I walk to the steam room door…
and in the reflection of the glass I see them.
My goggles.
Around.
My.
Neck.
Poor man.
If there’s a lesson in this, I suspect it’s this:
I don’t actually need to fix this part of myself.
The overthinking.
The apologising.
The internal debates conducted entirely in public spaces.
Because without it, I’d never have this story.
And that poor man would never have spent ten minutes wondering whether he’d accidentally stolen a woman’s goggles — while she was wearing them like a necklace.
That said…Once your brain decides it’s right, it will happily gather evidence, ignore reality, and emotionally prosecute an innocent man in Speedos…
While the actual problem is literally hanging off your own body.
Which is to say — sometimes the issue isn’t them.
It’s you.
And your goggles.
