I have been a swimmer for a lifetime. It has sustained me almost everywhere I’ve been.
These days, I swim about three miles a week at a couple of local pools. Over the past year, there’s almost always a knot in my stomach when I enter the women’s dressing room. How many women will I encounter blithely using their cellphones in the common change room where I and others disrobe?
There are signs regarding cellphones at the entrances. You know, the circle with the slash over the picture of the phone. The device addiction is that strong — my head boggles with what I’ve seen.
I can’t blame just the teenagers — their mothers and grandmothers are equally egregious.
One grandmother-to-be madly checking on her daughter’s pregnancy. Two teenagers giggling with their friends on FaceTime, forgetting they are also recording their surroundings. Another wailing at her mother about something totally unfair while resting her head on the sign that says: “No cellphones.” Somebody using the designated outlet for hairdryers to recharge her phone. A lifeguard texting while on duty. A mother entertaining a youngster with her phone. Young parents on phones while toddlers go unheeded.
I started keeping a mental checklist of how many times I’ve said: “I’d appreciate it if you would put your cellphone away. They are not really permitted in here.” On a good day, I might do it once. On a bad day, many. I quit counting once I’d reached 50.
Last summer, I cracked. Two attitudinally charged young ladies lashed out at me when I asked them to put the phones away. The verbal assault was something you’d recognize from reality TV. I decided it wasn’t prudent to engage with them. But I did decide to try to do something about it.
I knew just which personnel in the hierarchy I needed to hit. I composed a courteous letter with my complaint. I provided suggestions for improvement, and I made sure to outline successful lawsuits — such as one in the U.S. where an elderly woman had received $70,000 after having her photo unwittingly snapped in a pool change room and uploaded to Facebook by a quasi-celebrity with the tag line: “Ewe, I had to look at this!”
I emailed my letter judiciously, causing a mini-uproar among the recipients. I received calls. Promises were made.
Then, absolutely nothing — a Grand Canyon of inactivity. I returned to the pool looking for some evidence that my complaint had been taken seriously. That it was sensible to suggest that smartphones were hardly secure — that they had cameras, and for some people the temptation is huge.
No, I don’t really think that the cellphone-addicted women around me are using them to deliberately snap pictures in a public change room. But I do believe that all of us should abide by the rules that are prominently posted around the pool, such as showering before entering the pool or not running on the deck or “no cellphones.” By abusing the no-cellphone rule, we are modelling to young swimmers that the rules of participation in a community facility do not matter.
I had mostly given up and resigned myself to my one-woman crusade, and to the routine hostility I would encounter whenever I requested a phone be put away.
Then, an email arrived and I was pleasantly stunned: It contains a jpeg of a new poster. It is big, bold and forthright and to the point. Along with some excellent graphics, the poster includes the following: To ensure everyone’s privacy, the use of cellphones is prohibited in change rooms.
I felt some relief and vindication. I did a quiet happy dance in my office. Of course, I have no idea how this poster will play out.
While I’m celebrating the small victory of the old and persistent (that’s me) over the profanity-fuelled adolescents I ran amok of, I am also saddened to think that it takes something like this poster to remind people that we Canadians have always been known for our courtesy and good manners.
I was excited about the poster, and the next time I was at the pool, I was chuffed about seeing it for the first time in all its Plexiglas glory. I noticed two girls of about 11 or 12 arrive. One of them pointed to “my” poster, and turned to her companion: “Never mind, we don’t have to listen.”
Houston, we have a problem.
Anne Letain lives in Victoria.
