Sunday, November 05, 2006

Why Oh Why... they make flesh-colored speedos?

Since we started training for our triathlon last January, I've been frequenting a local pool to swim a few times a week. Since I've been pregnant, it's been a great way to get exercise without overworking my heartrate or joints.

Which brings me to my current dilemma: Why do grown men (old grown men, at that) think it is okay to wear flesh-colored speedos, let alone wear speedos at all? As if it weren't bad enough seeing these men several times a week at the pool, a recent occurrence made me want to hang up my goggles altogether.

Flesh-colored Speedo Old Guy (hereafter referred to as FSOG) undresses right on the pool deck, and on the first occassion in which I first laid be-goggled eyes on him, I thought to myself, "the guy left his undershorts in his sweatpants." But, upon closer inspection, I realized that no, in fact, he was wearing what I now know to be the aforementioned speedos.

As if this wasn't enough to make me want to switch lanes (let alone pools), FSOG is also a splasher. There are a few annoying swimming styles which happen to find the open lane right next to me every time (much like the phenomena in which you find yourself at the grocery store, always behind the person who forgets a certain item and leaves their cart in front of yours to run back to aisle 1,072 and return 3 weeks later). Anyway, among the most annoying styles are FSOG aka "the splasher," green speedo guy aka "the water plow" and "Olympic Hopeful" nos. 1 and 2. All of them swim in such a way as to move the greatest amount of water from their lane into mine, filling my open, breathing mouth with buckets of chlorinated H20.

But I'm getting away from the real story. Just when I though I'd seen it all, I found myself swimming along (quite well, despite my 7-month pregnant belly) in the deep end of the pool. Basic pool etiquette (not unlike public bathroom stall etiquette) led me to choose a lane at least once removed from the swimmers on either side. To my right, one open lane between me and the rope. To my left, 3 open lanes between myself and Olympic Hopeful no. 2. Guess what lane FSOG chooses? The one between me and the rope. As I returned to the side of the pool, I thought to myself, I'll just have to move over a lane, not as much to keep etiquette as to avoid drowning in only 10 feet of water.

As I neared the edge, FSOG dove in, not only splashing me with lots of water (a given), but giving my de-fogged goggled eyes a clear, open glimpse of his old, fleshy, hairy crack above the top of his old, stretched-out, flesh-colored speedos.

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