Sigh…It’s ‘Swim Team’ Time

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The hell?  June?  Wasn’t I just shoveling snow like the day before yesterday?  Now it’s freaking June.  Was I in a coma or something?  Did I have another TGA?

Here I am sitting in the hot goddamn mid-Atlantic sun in 90 degree heat, getting splashed by the terrible and/or chubby Lane 1 swimmers (Lane 1 = the slowest, splashiest swimmers) and wishing I were dead or in a coma or in the throes of another TGA. Clearly, some of these kids have not been in a pool since our last Labor Day.  But I bet they’ve been crushing the Wii and the Fritos.

I’m sitting here like a mope trying to be polite and nicely wave hello to familiar faces of people who I’ve lived with for a decade but never bothered to learn their names.  “Hi, Ty!” is my cue to grin and wave.  I’m “popular” for being…that guy, I suppose.  The artist guy, the black guy, the mom guy, the enigmatic guy.  But I feel the small talk starting.  The weather.  The pool.  The kids!  I pretend to read the New Yorker in my lap, but I’m taking it all in.

My wonderful love-of-my-life daughter is way over in Lane 5.  Lane 6 is for the fastest eight and younger swimmers.  She should really be in Lane 6, obviously.  Her stroke is a thing of beauty.  She’s so fast she keeps closing the intervals and passing the other Lane 5-ers.  Of the 60 or so kids here, she’s probably one of the top three or so swimmers.  I’m being completely objective too.  She’s a natural.  That and the thousands of dollars in private and off-season stroke and turn classes.  Her choice, not mine.

Now she wants private piano lessons so she can start a band.  She’s eight.

It’s June and the moms are already out in their mommiest full-force momdemhood.  I’m one of like three dads here…two, actually.  But I’m the dude in 501 cutoffs, the stingy brim, and the skateboard shoes.  I’m the darkest one out.  The mothers are showing a surprising amount of skin for early June.  Oh, and the sitters and the nannies represent.  It’s “titillating!” Get it?  Just thought of that.  But they’re doing nothing for me today.  Meh.  It’s 90 degrees.  I’m sitting in the goddamn sun.  I’m sweating like a tall boy in a Coors Light ad while holding my child’s towel and swim bag, her Crocs by my feet…the fuck?!

I fully realize that I have to settle-in for the long haul; afternoon practices until the 15th and two-a-days June 16-July 16.  A whole month of my ever-shortening life!  Me and the moms in the sun.  Oy gevalt!

Tomorrow I’m wearing headphones.  Because I know what’s coming: lame ass small talk.  They’re going to try to break me this year, I feel it!  They want me to talk times, competition, and volunteer for the concessions booth.  But I am totally anti-social. Headphones are my salve.

Like Jon Spencer said, now I got worry.

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3 Responses to “Sigh…It’s ‘Swim Team’ Time”

  1. Rickey Retard Says:

    1) Wear large headphones. People still think they can talk to you with the earbuds.

    2) I took private piano lessons from age 9-12 and then didn’t touch an instrument again until I was almost 18. No one could have stunted my budding interest in music more effectively than my piano teacher. It was all about posture and learning to play music I had no interest in hearing.

    Her husband, a minister, was later arrested on child-pornography charges.

  2. Ty Hardaway Says:

    ^^^ I will take your advice re: #1. Big ass cans!

    She’s ready for piano lessons. I’m thinking young, music grad student/starving artist type versus liniment-smelling old lady piano teacher.

  3. Rickey Retard Says:

    Liniment-smelling old lady. Goddamn, how did you know?

    Yeah, I’d recommend staying away from wives of child pornographers.

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