Mr. Chex Mix was flaunting a BAG OF CHEETOS this morning.
My first lucid thought was to tackle him right off the back of the locker room bench, wrench the offending (savory, delicious, full of terrible things for me) munchie bag and run off, laughing maniacally, stuffing them into my open maw but my recent yoga experience has taught me inner peace and self control.
Instead I opted to stretch on my new swimming onesie (Hello Kitty) and hit the lanes. It’s a lot like footies but it’s skin tight (brace yourselves ladies) and it has swim flippers and water wings built right in! Sexy, right?!?!
Strutting my bad self onto the pool deck in full view of the chatty womenfolk in lane two, the aqua arena went completely silent.
I stopped, looked around, checked my midsection (this thing doesn’t even have a fly so no worries there) and thought “they must be in awe of my Greek god physique” (if said Greek god had been to Golden Corral way too many times).
With even more swagger in my step I stretched on my hot pink bathing cap, pulled my Elvis swim goggles (sideburns even) over my eyes and leapt into lane three.
I sank like a stone.
With a lead core.
Apparently some sadistic joker at the Hello Kitty factory filled the water wings with sand (I thought they felt a little heavy).
After panic thrashing for a few seconds I gathered my wits about me and pushed off the bottom of the pool, breaking the surface with terrified school girl shriek and sank yet again to the bottom.
Just as I thought it was lights out for me, the safety hook, which in all of my somethingdy something years I’ve never seen used, appeared directly in front of me and I grabbed ahold.
Hauling my stretchy pink & white vinyl clad quivering torso out of the pool was the tiniest and most kindly, grandmotherly looking lady I’ve ever had the fortune to gaze upon.
As I looked lovingly into her calm gaze she smiled sweetly at me and said in a demure voice…
“Get out of the pool, dumb*ss…”