I saw an older Asian man in a Speed-o today.
That was my shocking event.
I didn't take a picture of him. But here is a picture of just a few of the people that enjoyed the refreshing waters of shared sweat and snot and urine. We swam in one another's bodily fluids, which is accepted and possibly even encouraged in some social circles.
I shouldn't be shocked when I see men in tiny panty pants at the pool. I should only be uncomfortable if I saw him at the grocery store among the produce and dairy products. But he wasn't at the grocery store. He was right where speed-o wearing is sanctioned and even encouraged in some social circles.
See, so my momentary dismay at seeing a man mostly naked at a swimming facility is ill-placed. I have no right to gawk or even look away in shame. No right at all. Everyone at the pool is sans some important article of clothing or another.
I mean, don't get me wrong. I'd be shocked if I walked into a bar and saw him wearing a speed-o. First of all, I don't do bars. So my being in a bar would a sight in and of itself. And second of all, Asian men (or any race of man, for that matter) in underoos are out of place in a bar. He wouldn't be served.
I mean, can you IMAGINE?
Let's do...
Let's pretend.
An Asian man in a black speed-o walks into a bar. He is a small man in every facet of his person. This is superfluous information and not at all the point or his fault. He sits down.
"You can't seat your junk at my bar!" says a rightly offended bartender. No shirt. No Pants. No service.
Speed-o man is removed without further notice by an enormous black man called Maurice. Maurice only wears his metallic red Speed-o when he takes his woman to the beach in Rocky Point, Mexico. He knows there is a time and a place for every Speed-o.
What was Asian Speed-o's crime?
No one bats an eye when Panty Man saunters about the YMCA pool grounds. He belongs.
Not only does he belong, but so too does the 400lb woman in a yellow polka dot bikini. Imagine her at seated across from you in the the I-HOP or at the skating rink.
Folks are walking about in broad daylight with their most closely guarded secrets exposed. And we are all OK and accepting of those secrets. I think it's very big of us. Mature. Good job, guys.
Oooooo you know what's really weird? Tan lines. I've got a few. I've got a farmers tan. Or is it farmer's tan? Farmers' tan? Singular? Farm-er tan?
Does the tan belong to a group of farmers? Or it is more of an Every Farmer type of tan? I'm confused. Usually.
Anyway. The color of my legs is mutually exclusive. Monochromatic. I seemingly still wear my running shorts and shoes even when I am, in fact, not.
Now I have to fry in the sun until I match. Skin cancer, anyone?
I broke my safety tank blog rule today. I'm feeling rebellious. Or maybe just less hypocritical?
Allure magazine was telling me about skinny chicks and how skinny chicks say they can eat whatever they want and not get fat. That is called LYING. Skinny chicks do NOT eat whatever they want. Because what they want is an synthetic bag of bat poop infused Doritos. But they can't have that bag of Doritos or they will soon develop a strong resemblance to that bag of triangle shaped snacks.
Doritos seriously do have bat poop in them. It's called guano. Look it up.
I think Doritos are delicious. I could devour a truck load.
Tan lines are embarrassing.
PS In very sad news, my son busted up his lip at the bottom of the pool today. He said he only only cried a little when he was under the water. He is a brave man indeed.
In happy news, my baby girl has the cutest freckle nose ever in the world.
I played Mama Shark with these babies of mine. I bit their feet. They splashed my eyes and kicked me upside my head.
