When conversations about imaginary scenarios leave you wanting to scream, you have to realize something else is bothering you. In my case, last night, a discussion about how to spend lottery winnings, left me a tad hot under the collar.
First, let it be noted, that I don't buy lottery tickets. I do, however, have plans for how I shall spend the millions when I win.
WPSD would get an indoor swimming pool. When my daughter was a student there, she dreamed of swimming more often than in the summer. The memory of trying to speed down the hall to biology class, wet hair dripping on my books, is so pleasurable, that the idea of kids missing out on the fun, is enough for me to become a swimming pool builder.
Swimming class is also character building. Where else can girls perfect the skill of convincing men that they have their period three times a month? While I was a tampon using champ early on, I never let onto that fact. Nope, it was better to announce that unless the class wanted to witness a water into wine miracle, it was better to let me sit it out.
While I never became much of a swimmer, the club where my family belonged should have been held responsible for some of my nasty habits, past and present. Sometime during my fourteenth summer, my friends, and I decided that smoking was glamorous, even if the poster on the locker room wall at school, featuring a prematurely aged woman (probably younger than our current age), showed us otherwise.
Nine years after smoking that first machine bought Winston, I never smoked another cigarette. I did hold onto the other swimming club habit.
Giggling at Boys
In fact, last summer, I was faced with an elderly neighbor who either fancied himself a stud, or deemed my thighs too bulky, and hoped to turn me into a bulimic. The latter would have happened, had I not turned my head whenever he exited the pool.
What you are about to read is gratuitous crap about underwear. I have to get ready for the dentist, and I am using imagery to attempt to calm myself. It is either that, or Valium. I know, some people use images of nature. I don't.
If you knew me back when I was writing about men on a daily basis, you might remember that I despise boxers. They look stupid. What is the point of underwear that is all bunchy under pants?
I really don't care if you are baking your balls in tight undies. If that doesn't hold appeal, cut down on the laundry, and I won't complain.
BUT when it comes to swimming
SPEEDOS hurt my eyes.
If you appear before me wearing a slip of spandex, I will giggle, and blush, and bury my head in a book. Now, that isn't quite as bad as what my friends, and I did back in 1977. We would hunt down boys, and giggle, and POINT. Then we would sneak away to choke on tobacco, and talk about our plans for life.
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One more thing. I would like someone to make me a sign. While I am at the dentist receiving #53 Novocaine injection, please construct this sign:
If your boobs are larger than mine, and your lower genitalia doesn't match, a t-shirt will be provided.
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