Man, thank God summer has nearly ended and our community pool closes in a few days. Because, seriously, I can’t take it anymore. It’s not fair. I’m done. My nerves are shot. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.
The girls. And the bikinis. And the girls who wear the bikinis and who walk around in the bikinis and who lounge poolside in the bikinis, tanning their dewy flesh, a disturbingly high percentage of which is left exposed not only to harmful ultraviolet radiation but also to the gaze of otherwise responsible, chaste, upstanding members of the community.
And I am not a dirty old man. First of all, I’m only 35 years old. If I stopped eating so many tater tots and started getting some regular exercise, like if I woke up early a few days a week and went for a brisk walk, the sort where you really pump your arms and you have to wear sneakers instead of Birkenstocks, I could live to see 90. So 35 isn’t old. What’s more, everyone knows that dirty old men wear trench coats and loiter about in public places, giving the appearance that they are looking straight ahead while they are, in actuality, straining behind their dark sunglasses to look out of the corners of their eyes and surreptitiously ogle attractive females who lie at the outermost edges of their peripheral vision. I mean, come on. I don’t even own a trench coat.
I wear the black bathing trunks my wife bought for me because she said the red ones with the Hawaiian floral print did not complement my fair skin. The Hawaiian trunks were roomier and more comfortable, but I wear the black trunks because My Fair Lady has fashion sense and I am a good husband. I respect her judgment. It is equalled only by her beauty.
I slather on the SPF-30 sunscreen. I sit at a table with a large umbrella. I read the Sunday Dallas Morning News from cover to cover. That takes about 10 minutes. If I interrupt my reading to lecture My Fair Lady about how crummy the Morning News is, it takes a little longer.
Then I want to read whatever book I’ve brought with me, taking breaks only to confirm for my boy that, yes, his cannonball was awesome and, no question, the splash was huge and almost got me wet. Maybe I’m reading Joel Osteen’s Your Best Life Now. Maybe I’m not.
I am an innocent man. A man who merely wishes to please his wife, see his boy make splashes, and read.
But all summer long, my poolside idyll has been ruined by the girls. And the bikinis. There is only one reason to wear such a garment. Its scanty fabric serves no natatorial purpose. Especially where lifeguards are concerned. You can’t tell me that the American Lifeguard Association endorses the bikini as the best outfit for leaping into the water and effecting a rescue. If the top did not come off upon entry, which it certainly could, the panicked 35-year-old victim might deftly remove it as he was flailing to keep his head above water. Think about it. He would be covered in SPF-30 sunscreen, making him slippery and difficult to grasp and bring to the pool’s edge. Bam, just like that. He’s got that top off.
No, the bikini is an invitation. The girls want me to see their well-made bosoms and lean shanks. It would be rude not to look. But of course I can’t look, not only in deference to My Fair Lady, who is nothing if not vigilant, but also because the girls are girls.
It’s best not to dwell on precisely how young these girls are. We can safely assume they are at least 17, given that 17 is the age of consent in the great state of Texas. In fact, we can probably say that the girls are 18, since they should at least be able to vote. Which means we may as well go ahead and round up to 20.
Because I want to make this clear: I have not spent all summer at the pool looking at teenagers in bikinis.
In any case, the pool will close next week, and soon enough the trees will be the only things showing their bare limbs outdoors. Winter will be upon us. And come October, My Fair Lady is scheduled to issue us another dependent. I’ll go ahead and violate the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act: it’s a girl.
Can you say “one-piece”?