I prefer to swim early. If I wait until later fat Hispanic boys will be cannonballing all around me. An achy virus has snagged me but the exercise gurus say the only medical issue that should keep me from my athletic routine is a fever. I'm adding explosive diarrhea to that list out of social deference for my fellow swimmers. Nothing clears a pool faster than a floating turd.
Three large men are water walking on the other side of my lane and I am trying to keep my eyes off their hairy backs but you know how human nature is. We can't help staring at circus freaks, roadkill splashes and the overly obese lady when she bends over.
And it was just last night Sonny and I had a lively discussion on body hair. We talk about everything at supper from whale blubber recipes to Japanese torture techniques in prisoner of war camps, topics that cause my high strung husband to flee the dinner table. My father is explaining how he no longer has hair under his arms and I struggle to look interested while slurping up spaghetti.
Sonny is a skinny dude with scant body hair but his forearms boast major clumps of fuzziness and I remember sitting across from him in the back seat of a car. I felt little ticklings on my arm and what is this, a lonely flea attempting to make contact? And then I realize it is one of my father's arm hairs stretched in the billowing breeze almost a foot away doing a staccato dance on my skin. I swear this really happened and I tell him all this.
Sometimes I question the practicality of living so close to an elderly parent. I am privy to every detail, why the bread pudding didn't gel and how he got the odor out of a bad-smelling cabinet and unfortunately why he buys sanitary napkins.
I am sauteing peppers and onions when Sonny comes through the door. He displays his arms under my nose and I am wondering why I need to look at this age-spotted skin and then I see it. Oh! Oh! He trimmed back the offending arm hair and I let him know it is a wonderful thing he has done. Somebody get me a life, please.
Three large men are water walking on the other side of my lane and I am trying to keep my eyes off their hairy backs but you know how human nature is. We can't help staring at circus freaks, roadkill splashes and the overly obese lady when she bends over.
And it was just last night Sonny and I had a lively discussion on body hair. We talk about everything at supper from whale blubber recipes to Japanese torture techniques in prisoner of war camps, topics that cause my high strung husband to flee the dinner table. My father is explaining how he no longer has hair under his arms and I struggle to look interested while slurping up spaghetti.
Sonny is a skinny dude with scant body hair but his forearms boast major clumps of fuzziness and I remember sitting across from him in the back seat of a car. I felt little ticklings on my arm and what is this, a lonely flea attempting to make contact? And then I realize it is one of my father's arm hairs stretched in the billowing breeze almost a foot away doing a staccato dance on my skin. I swear this really happened and I tell him all this.
Sometimes I question the practicality of living so close to an elderly parent. I am privy to every detail, why the bread pudding didn't gel and how he got the odor out of a bad-smelling cabinet and unfortunately why he buys sanitary napkins.
I am sauteing peppers and onions when Sonny comes through the door. He displays his arms under my nose and I am wondering why I need to look at this age-spotted skin and then I see it. Oh! Oh! He trimmed back the offending arm hair and I let him know it is a wonderful thing he has done. Somebody get me a life, please.
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