Everyone in the Pool! Except Me

My community has a pool. Well, technically it’s a pool. In actuality it’s a cauldron of boogers, pee, bugs, leaves and hair. But we all call it a pool because “I’m going to the pool” sounds a lot better than “I’m going to the bodily secretion pond.”

Every year around Memorial Day my neighbors and I go to the opening day pool party and not swim. The reason we don’t jump in is not hygienic but thermal. The water at the start of pool season is approximately 32.0001 degrees Fahrenheit, because it’s filled with winter snow, some of which hasn’t melted yet. So we hang out on the deck and drink beer, occasionally entertained by high-pitched yelps from brave – and by brave I mean stupid – people who dare to plunge into the icy cesspool.

The water doesn’t remain cold forever. By the end of June the temperature rises to the point where you could poach an egg. (But of course that would be futile since no one in their right mind would eat anything that was cooked in there.) On a hot day I jump in expecting relief from the heat, and instead I find myself in a hottub. But not just any hottub -- a hottub full of snot and urine.

Another great feature my neighborhood pool has is a spiral slide. Perhaps you’ve seen this sort of device. It’s shaped like a corkscrew and has water continually sprayed on it so it stays slippery. As you slide down you twirl around and pick up speed like you’re going through astronaut training. Additionally you are knocked against the sides, getting battered as if you were married to Ike Turner, arms flailing like you’re having a seizure, until finally you enter the pool at 192 mph, which makes water shoot up your nose. No wonder the pool has so many boogers.