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A few years ago I enrolled in the YMCA. My girlfriend and her family were lifelong members, and I finally caved in and got my own membership. I soon discovered that I loved the gym—I would play basketball to loosen up, run around the track for 20 minutes, and finish my regimen with some weights. Not only was I in better shape, but I was also in better spirits.

But when I passed the Olympic-size pool on my way from the locker room to the basketball courts, it shimmered in my periphery, ominously reminding me it was there. The pool was like a member of a rival gang. When I passed by, I would nod to it knowingly, as if to say, “Respect.

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