Saturday, July 10, 2010

Smelly Feet

I took Connor to the pool last weekend for a little 'man time'. The water was filled with kids, which meant it was a perfect 98.6 degrees. In the shallow end, I noticed a dark object on the bottom of the pool. I jokingly said, "Hey, Connor. It looks like someone pooped in the pool."

"No," he giggled. "It's just a rock."

"You want to dive for the roc?" I asked.

"Sure!" he replied.

With one fell swoop, I grabbed the object with my toes, like a stuffed animal Claw Machine that you see in arcades and pizza parlors. I had it about knee-high before I realized this was not a rock, but was, in fact, a turd that I had in the grasp of my sunburned pink toes.

I panicked. 'There's poop in the pool!" I shouted.

It was as if I yelled, "SHARK!" People screamed and scattered towards the stairs and ladders. People were swimming on top of people. I saw a grandma running across the top of the water.

"Women and children first!" I heard someone cry.

The pool was empty within four seconds and I limped (for some reason) to the stairs.


Claw Machine

The following week, the pool reopened after a cleaning and sanitizing. As I sat in my lounge chair reading the paper, I overheard people talking about the incident. It's amazing how a story can change as it travels through the tangled vines of gossip. "I heard someone picked it up with their bare hand," someone whispered. My embarrassment outweighed my pride and I kept my mouth shut. "It was my foot," I thought.