Is it too late to go back and write some more about my trip to Walt Disney World? I mean, I realize I went there on vacation in November, but I didn’t want to bore you with too much Disney at once. It’s not like you were there too, or were you? I don’t remember seeing you there.
So I told you about the hotel, and I talked about the princesses. Let’s see, shall we move on to food? Why not, since there is so much to be had at WDW. You would think they had been accused of starving their patrons at some point in their past, that they have a guilt complex and are overcompensating for it now. Food is everywhere at Disney; it is its own separate attraction, and the theme is gluttony.
We stayed on Disney property when we were there, so we took advantage of the Disney dining plan, an advantage not available for those patrons who rather save money by staying at a less expensive hotel. Years ago, the dining plan was a great way to make a Disney trip closer to an all-inclusive experience. But over the course of time, the folks at Disney realized that they were probably losing money on the deal. Table service three times a day, with appetizers and desserts and non-alcoholic beverages, well, that all adds up for a family of four over the course of a week.
So they changed it to just one table service a day, then eliminated the appetizers, until it evolved into its present incarnation, which includes one table service meal, one counter service meal, and a dining plan approved snack, plus non-alcoholic drinks and desserts. I don’t think anyone needs to have dessert at lunch and dinner and follow it up with an ice cream bar for snack, but Disney doesn’t have a problem with it. It’s not just that dessert is free; they actually insist that you have it. At one meal, we all had milkshakes to drink and then ice cream sundaes for dessert. If we weren’t lactose intolerant before that meal, we sure were afterwards! Sometimes I just wanted a salad or soup before my entrée. After all, I could share one of three desserts with the rest of my family. I guess Disney finds the appetizer vs. dessert option too confusing for its mostly immigrant wait staff.
Table service doesn’t just mean table service either; it also means buffet. Disney loves some buffets. Think about it, they already corral people in line for rides and shopping. Here is another way to control the masses, having them belly up to the food troughs and slop too much on their plates before they lumber back to their tables, where the servers are ready to refill their sugary sodas cupful after cupful.
Buffet eating at Disney becomes its own show. We decided to try Oktoberfest in Germany at Epcot one night. Our waiter there was a strong purebred example of what Hitler was trying to accomplish. Time after time he strolled over to our table, proud in his lederhosen, and poured us more water from his icy pitcher before removing our dirty plates. We had a ton of them because we kept going back and trying to find something to eat that didn’t make us feel queasy. All that cabbage, schnitzel, sauerkraut, sausage, potato-ey goodness wore us down plate after plate, and finishing it off with an assortment of kuchen, linzer tarts, and other vaguely Bavarian style pastries was enough to make the four of us have to shit our way through the rest of the World showcase.
We took a day off from all you can eat before trying out another buffet, the Tusker House at Animal Kingdom. Animal Kingdom is the kind of theme park that really should consider going all vegetarian. Walking from one area to the other with the smell of barbecued meats assaulting your nose must be even worse for the animals which might recognize the odor of one of their friends (hey, isn’t that Gary? I thought he was just getting his bunions removed.) The Tusker House is unique because of its African theme, so in addition to the usual macaroni and cheese and brownies and roast beef, it also has an interesting assortment of couscous and curry and hummus and peanut based stews. I don’t know how truly African it is, but it’s better than a hamburger.
While dining there, we saw a family of four that combined could have easily tipped the scales at a ton. Watching them plow through their many courses was enough to make me put down my fork, not to mention the fact that I was still stuffed from all that German food two days ago. At one point, we saw a man walk up to the buffet line in his socks. It’s great that he felt so at home in the restaurant, don’t you agree? Someone at a table near us was celebrating a birthday, and a server who had Chaka’s hairline walked by with a cupcake with a candle in it, as if the other desserts were not special enough to be candle worthy.
With all the food you can eat at buffets or sit down, you would think that no other dining options would be needed. But no, you might get hungry for a snack in between your overeating. Everywhere you look, there were food carts…ice cream carts, popcorn carts, roasted nuts, pretzels, frozen lemonade, churros, even egg rolls. I am pretty sure there is even a phone app to help you locate what kind of food you want where in each of the parks. The most offensive ones, as far as I am concerned, are the smoked turkey leg wagons. Oh my god, the rotting corpse stench wafting out of those food carts could make a vulture’s stomach churn. And yet, everywhere you looked, overweight Americans were happily gnawing on those poor turkey shins, their faces glistening with the melted fat, as tendons and shit hung loosely off the ankle bones of the smoked legs. Vurp. Just writing about those legs is going to give me a nightmare tonight.
I would write about how Disney handles all the vomit next (it involves some sort of flavor crystals or cat litter), but I am pretty sure my sister is reading this, and she has a thing about puke. Needless to say, at some point, everyone, even at Disney, reaches their limit. Too bad more people couldn’t show some restraint before they chose to stand in an hour long line. God, I love Disney!
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
I Know What You Did Last Winter
I drove by a discarded Christmas tree today that someone had rudely and deliberately left on the sidewalk of the major road near my neighborhood. It’s not like it was the week after Christmas; it’s a month after the Jesus’ birthday, for Christ's sake. I can overlook it if the perpetrator is a little slow in taking down decorations, but tossing it unceremoniously into the public streets, well, that’s just nasty. What did that Christmas tree ever do to you? I’ll tell you what it did. It gave its life for you, and not for your life, but just for your enjoyment. That, my friends, is what Jesus would do. What Jesus would not do is throw that tree off the back of his pick-up truck like an empty Budweiser can.
Christmas trees are a lot like older women. They look nice in the beginning of the season, all dolled up with sparkly things and smelling fresh, and everyone is happy to see them. You park them in a room in your house, and they stand there, happily waiting for a little attention. They don't ask for much and they have gifts for you, tucked in little hiding places near their skirts, but after you get what you want from them, you forget about them. You don’t remember to turn them on, to look at them, or to appreciate them. Hell, you can’t even be bothered to give them a drink. They are a forgotten breed. And the next thing you know, they are all dried up, brittle, graying, and utterly disposable.
The truth is, Christmas trees deserve a little more respect than to be tossed out a car door like a ten dollar whore. That tree brought you joy. It celebrated at least one holiday with you, possiblly three, which is more than your college girlfriend did. Face it, would it have felt like Christmas without your tree?
Even when the season is over, that tree can still be useful. The Boy Scouts in our area collect them for God knows what. I think they throw them in a lake to make a freshwater reef, which will later trap a drowning victim during the spring rainy season. If you don’t want to go that route, run the tree over to the dump. They will be happy to turn it into mulch for you to take home and sprinkle around your flower beds. If you aren’t feeling that green, you can always shove it in a plastic bag and have your garbage collector haul it to the landfill where it will take centuries to break down. Look at all the options! Most of them are even free! It seems to me at least one of those would have been easier than abandoning it on the side of the road.
South Carolina, as a rule, does not have the cleanest of roadways. Between the deer and possum carcasses, the smashed beer bottles, the mysterious forgotten shoe, endless cigarette butts, and globs of mucus hocked out of windows, the roads are a disgusting collection of redneck detritus that cannot be avoided. In my twenty odd years of living in this state, I have yet to see a single public service vehicle collect road kill, although I have seen plenty of detention center orange jumpsuits allegedly picking up trash bags off the side of the road. So it isn’t unusual for people to toss their crap out of the car around here. But a Christmas tree? That’s bordering on the psychotic, don’t you think?
I wish some kid’s Nerf CSI forensics kit included a way to track the DNA off that dead tree trunk and trace it back to you, tree killer. If I could find your house, I would. You would wake up one morning to a yard full of dead Christmas trees, all lined up outside your garage door like zombies, waiting for you to go to work. You would see them and close that door, maybe move your particle board television stand behind your front door to block access, and spend the rest of the day standing behind the curtains, peeking out the window at the trees that look like they have moved a step or two closer since last you checked. You would stay there all day and night, never eating, until the sound of chainsaws in your own head drive you mad. You would be fine, eventually, with medication and group therapy, until the day after Halloween, when the Christmas carols start up again at Wal-Mart. You can run, but you can’t hide.
Christmas trees are a lot like older women. They look nice in the beginning of the season, all dolled up with sparkly things and smelling fresh, and everyone is happy to see them. You park them in a room in your house, and they stand there, happily waiting for a little attention. They don't ask for much and they have gifts for you, tucked in little hiding places near their skirts, but after you get what you want from them, you forget about them. You don’t remember to turn them on, to look at them, or to appreciate them. Hell, you can’t even be bothered to give them a drink. They are a forgotten breed. And the next thing you know, they are all dried up, brittle, graying, and utterly disposable.
The truth is, Christmas trees deserve a little more respect than to be tossed out a car door like a ten dollar whore. That tree brought you joy. It celebrated at least one holiday with you, possiblly three, which is more than your college girlfriend did. Face it, would it have felt like Christmas without your tree?
Even when the season is over, that tree can still be useful. The Boy Scouts in our area collect them for God knows what. I think they throw them in a lake to make a freshwater reef, which will later trap a drowning victim during the spring rainy season. If you don’t want to go that route, run the tree over to the dump. They will be happy to turn it into mulch for you to take home and sprinkle around your flower beds. If you aren’t feeling that green, you can always shove it in a plastic bag and have your garbage collector haul it to the landfill where it will take centuries to break down. Look at all the options! Most of them are even free! It seems to me at least one of those would have been easier than abandoning it on the side of the road.
South Carolina, as a rule, does not have the cleanest of roadways. Between the deer and possum carcasses, the smashed beer bottles, the mysterious forgotten shoe, endless cigarette butts, and globs of mucus hocked out of windows, the roads are a disgusting collection of redneck detritus that cannot be avoided. In my twenty odd years of living in this state, I have yet to see a single public service vehicle collect road kill, although I have seen plenty of detention center orange jumpsuits allegedly picking up trash bags off the side of the road. So it isn’t unusual for people to toss their crap out of the car around here. But a Christmas tree? That’s bordering on the psychotic, don’t you think?
I wish some kid’s Nerf CSI forensics kit included a way to track the DNA off that dead tree trunk and trace it back to you, tree killer. If I could find your house, I would. You would wake up one morning to a yard full of dead Christmas trees, all lined up outside your garage door like zombies, waiting for you to go to work. You would see them and close that door, maybe move your particle board television stand behind your front door to block access, and spend the rest of the day standing behind the curtains, peeking out the window at the trees that look like they have moved a step or two closer since last you checked. You would stay there all day and night, never eating, until the sound of chainsaws in your own head drive you mad. You would be fine, eventually, with medication and group therapy, until the day after Halloween, when the Christmas carols start up again at Wal-Mart. You can run, but you can’t hide.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Twelve Drummers Drumming
Remind me next year that setting a goal of writing twelve essays over the holidays is an insane idea. Seriously, what was I thinking? In between shopping for gifts and wrapping gifts and decorating the house and cooking and baking and cooking some more and did I mention baking, I decided to write not my usual four times a month, but three times that amount. Yes, I even helped review multiplication tables. And by holidays, I don’t mean observing one or two, but nay, three full holiday celebrations. We kicked it off with Hanukah, moved into Christmas, and moseyed our way on over to New Year’s Eve, the trifecta of overindulgence. In my house, we celebrated them all, so I had even less time than usual.
Let’s review, shall we? I kicked off with a little cute story about singing to my cats, one of those slice of life vignettes, mostly because it was short and I love my kittehs. Next up was a little tidbit from my family’s trip to Disney World and the hotel where we stayed. I kept it together until the end, when I referenced how the creepy clown water slide reminded my husband and me of childbirth. Believe me, I have a ton more to say about Disney. I next ranted about having to buy seventeen teachers’ gifts for the holidays. I moved onto a charming little conversation I had with the Publix cashier over another customer’s bottle of wine and the possibility of her enjoying it. That’s where my normal month of writing would end.
The extras, my bloggy gift to you, got even classier. MJ’s first real stretch mark. My daughter hanging her stuffed animals off the balcony during a play date. Disney’s first black princess. Aborting my sink. Raping my nostril. Staring at some lady’s pubic hair, which in turn made me think about my stepmother’s pubic hair. And finally, farts. Yes, that is what it has come to. When all else fails, I can always write about farts.
The other day, one of my husband’s friends was at our house hanging out and watching television. My husband turned on “The Family Guy,” and his friend, who is a college art history instructor, was surprised that my husband enjoyed such low brow humor. My husband turned it back around on me and said my subject matter for my essays has turned all low brow. What the hell does that even mean?
Well, in an effort to raise my brow, I Googled it. Turns out that the expression low brow refers to the science of phrenology, when people were all into molesting each other’s every skull bump and ridge in an effort to judge and categorize each other. People who had a high brow line were thought to have great intellect, while those with a lower brow line were closer genetically to Neanderthals. I would imagine that Neanderthals laughed at a fart or two in their day.
Which doesn’t make fart jokes low brow. It actually makes them timeless.
Let’s review, shall we? I kicked off with a little cute story about singing to my cats, one of those slice of life vignettes, mostly because it was short and I love my kittehs. Next up was a little tidbit from my family’s trip to Disney World and the hotel where we stayed. I kept it together until the end, when I referenced how the creepy clown water slide reminded my husband and me of childbirth. Believe me, I have a ton more to say about Disney. I next ranted about having to buy seventeen teachers’ gifts for the holidays. I moved onto a charming little conversation I had with the Publix cashier over another customer’s bottle of wine and the possibility of her enjoying it. That’s where my normal month of writing would end.
The extras, my bloggy gift to you, got even classier. MJ’s first real stretch mark. My daughter hanging her stuffed animals off the balcony during a play date. Disney’s first black princess. Aborting my sink. Raping my nostril. Staring at some lady’s pubic hair, which in turn made me think about my stepmother’s pubic hair. And finally, farts. Yes, that is what it has come to. When all else fails, I can always write about farts.
The other day, one of my husband’s friends was at our house hanging out and watching television. My husband turned on “The Family Guy,” and his friend, who is a college art history instructor, was surprised that my husband enjoyed such low brow humor. My husband turned it back around on me and said my subject matter for my essays has turned all low brow. What the hell does that even mean?
Well, in an effort to raise my brow, I Googled it. Turns out that the expression low brow refers to the science of phrenology, when people were all into molesting each other’s every skull bump and ridge in an effort to judge and categorize each other. People who had a high brow line were thought to have great intellect, while those with a lower brow line were closer genetically to Neanderthals. I would imagine that Neanderthals laughed at a fart or two in their day.
Which doesn’t make fart jokes low brow. It actually makes them timeless.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Egg Alert
In body flow class today, someone let one rip. It was a real cheek flapper, and it reverberated off the mirrored wall. I could see how a fart might be necessary in body flow, which is a combination of yoga and Pilates. You use a bit of core strength in that class, and with all that lower abdominal squeezing, it is possible to feel a gas build up or even dislodge a tampon, if you are doing it right. Now, I understand that sometimes you have to let that fart out, although I have yet to hear of anyone exploding because they held one in. If that were the case, then mothers in law all across the Bible belt would be exploding left and right. Just because the class is called body flow doesn’t mean you should let all your body functions flow too. It’s not like you don’t know you are going to fart. Maybe you should show a little decorum or common courtesy, and for God’s sake, pull back a little.
That flatulent emission reminded me of my recent trip to Disney World. My family and I experienced clouds of toxic ass gas at every single theme park in the Walt Disney World complex. We walked through them in stores. We got trapped in them in attraction lines. We smelled them just moving from one area to another. I get it; the food at Disney World is a little richer perhaps than what you are accustomed to eating at home. Not to mention all that popcorn and ice cream available everywhere you turn. What is worse than a popcorn fart? Except maybe a dairy fart, you lactose intolerant Mickey Dove Bar eater.
Every family has a signal for the passage of gas, right? Some people blame it on the dog, although we all know that if dogs farted that much, they would need a visit to the veterinarian or a change in diet, or, at the very least, a doghouse. Grandpas and fathers everywhere play the “pull my finger” game, as if that somehow made farting in front of others a legitimate pursuit. At my sister’s house, they say, “huh-huh,” with the stress on the second huh, pronounced in a French accent. I always picture my nephew wearing a beret and twirling a pencil thin handlebar mustache when he says it.
My family has taken a liking to the expression “egg alert.” I cannot even begin to tell you how many times those words were uttered at Disney World. It wasn’t like we actually witnessed an episode of flatulence. We never saw a seated person lift one cheek, nor did we ever actually hear a loud blast, not even a tiny squeaker. But we did encounter the olfactory evidence, and we delighted in screaming “egg alert” as a warning to everyone nearby, much to the horror of my husband, who is not above the "pull my finger" game himself.
Now, my question to all the Disney patrons out there who feel completely comfortable farting at the first intestinal spasm is this: Didn’t your mama teach you any better? What happened to excusing yourself and doing your business in the restroom? Have you seen how many restrooms there are in Disney? You don’t need to leave your mustard gas bomb in your Peter Pan ship. There is a bathroom right outside of the ride.
I agree, the bathrooms at Disney are not what they used to be. When we went in the restroom at Cinderella’s Castle to wash our hands before our meal (think about how many things you have touched at the Magic Kingdom next time you stick your hand in that bucket of popcorn), my daughter E said to me, “Well, this isn’t such a magical experience.” She’s right. It’s a step up from digging your own latrine, using a port-a-potty at any music festival, or squatting over a hole in Calcutta, but barely so. By the end of the day, you should consider yourself lucky to find a square of paper left or a toilet not completely obliterated by upset stomachs and menstruation. That being said, you still might want to consider a disgusting bathroom as a better place to release your methane than next to my dinner.
If they have drug sniffing dogs and corpse sniffing dogs, could they not train a few beagles to stick their noses up some man's ass and identify the brand? I promise you if we released a color along with an odor, people would give up this notion of leaving silent but deadlys all over the place. All I'm saying is, stop farting in public. Think of the children.
That flatulent emission reminded me of my recent trip to Disney World. My family and I experienced clouds of toxic ass gas at every single theme park in the Walt Disney World complex. We walked through them in stores. We got trapped in them in attraction lines. We smelled them just moving from one area to another. I get it; the food at Disney World is a little richer perhaps than what you are accustomed to eating at home. Not to mention all that popcorn and ice cream available everywhere you turn. What is worse than a popcorn fart? Except maybe a dairy fart, you lactose intolerant Mickey Dove Bar eater.
Every family has a signal for the passage of gas, right? Some people blame it on the dog, although we all know that if dogs farted that much, they would need a visit to the veterinarian or a change in diet, or, at the very least, a doghouse. Grandpas and fathers everywhere play the “pull my finger” game, as if that somehow made farting in front of others a legitimate pursuit. At my sister’s house, they say, “huh-huh,” with the stress on the second huh, pronounced in a French accent. I always picture my nephew wearing a beret and twirling a pencil thin handlebar mustache when he says it.
My family has taken a liking to the expression “egg alert.” I cannot even begin to tell you how many times those words were uttered at Disney World. It wasn’t like we actually witnessed an episode of flatulence. We never saw a seated person lift one cheek, nor did we ever actually hear a loud blast, not even a tiny squeaker. But we did encounter the olfactory evidence, and we delighted in screaming “egg alert” as a warning to everyone nearby, much to the horror of my husband, who is not above the "pull my finger" game himself.
Now, my question to all the Disney patrons out there who feel completely comfortable farting at the first intestinal spasm is this: Didn’t your mama teach you any better? What happened to excusing yourself and doing your business in the restroom? Have you seen how many restrooms there are in Disney? You don’t need to leave your mustard gas bomb in your Peter Pan ship. There is a bathroom right outside of the ride.
I agree, the bathrooms at Disney are not what they used to be. When we went in the restroom at Cinderella’s Castle to wash our hands before our meal (think about how many things you have touched at the Magic Kingdom next time you stick your hand in that bucket of popcorn), my daughter E said to me, “Well, this isn’t such a magical experience.” She’s right. It’s a step up from digging your own latrine, using a port-a-potty at any music festival, or squatting over a hole in Calcutta, but barely so. By the end of the day, you should consider yourself lucky to find a square of paper left or a toilet not completely obliterated by upset stomachs and menstruation. That being said, you still might want to consider a disgusting bathroom as a better place to release your methane than next to my dinner.
If they have drug sniffing dogs and corpse sniffing dogs, could they not train a few beagles to stick their noses up some man's ass and identify the brand? I promise you if we released a color along with an odor, people would give up this notion of leaving silent but deadlys all over the place. All I'm saying is, stop farting in public. Think of the children.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Locker Room Rubberneckers
I am a regular exercise enthusiast, and when I travel, I miss my regular work-out time at the gym. Add to the lack of physical activity the amount of food, in both volume and calories, that I have ingested over the holidays in the past two weeks, and that lack of exercise becomes more than just a missed routine. I was in Atlanta, visiting my sister, LM, and her family for Christmas, and she suggested that I join her for her water aerobics class. I do a variety of classes at my gym, but none of them is in the pool. LM is a good sport about going to exercise with me when she visits, so I figured I could return the favor. Plus I needed to move before the butter solidified in my blood stream.
I didn’t pack a swimsuit with me, but my sister had a whole collection of athletic suits designed to make everyone look fatter than they are. The swimsuit she gave me mashed my boobs flat, where they migrated to the armpit area, like water wings. The odd strap set-up in the back divided my fat into different sections, not unlike the Michelin man. It was not a pretty sight. I figured that I might not be the skinniest one in the pool, but I was probably going to be the youngest, so I got over myself and headed to LM’s gym with her.
We stowed our clothes in lockers and she put on her swim cap, which is covered in brightly colored floppy flowers, adding a festive touch to the class as well as a needed distraction from the unattractive bathing suits. We wandered into the pool area and joined the rest of the women and the one emasculated husband in the water. My friend JR used to take lil JR for swim lessons at our gym’s pool, and she referred to the water class participants as pool cows because of the way they sort of meander about in the swim lanes, bumping along clumsily, with their large black and white bathing suits. You can almost hear them gently lowing and mooing as they drift around. It might sound like a mean way to describe large women in a water class, but it’s the truth. LM’s exercise class had more than one pool cow in it, stepping about in the shoulder deep water like they were grazing in a meadow.
The teacher got in the water with us, and led us through a variety of moves designed to churn the water and our excess body fat into a human stew. We cross country skied and did modified jumping jacks and tucked ourselves into fat little eggs. We lunged and high stepped and resisted the water. After thirty minutes, the lone male left the class before his testes permanently sucked into his body cavity. The rest of us grabbed water weights and did the same routine, only this time with more resistance. Mind you, it was not an easy class. I could feel my arms burning while trying to hold those foam weights under the water’s surface, and it took great control not to hit myself in the face or cause a tidal wave.
The class ended, and not a moment too soon, as I had started to suffer chemical burns on my skin from all that chlorine. LM and I took showers and wrapped up in our towels before we headed back to the main locker room area. She and I discreetly dressed ourselves, more modest than perhaps many sisters would be in front of one another. Meanwhile, an older woman entered the locker room from the main gym floor, setting her stuff down on the same bench as our bags. She peeled off all her clothing and stood there all full Monty in front of us.
You could tell she was older, not just by her weathered skin, graying hair, or wrinkles, but by the full afro bush she sported between her legs. No modern woman walks around with that level of pubic hair, not in today’s youthful hairless culture, so it was a shock to witness it in person. It was a massive bush, and it was even thickly overgrown on her upper thighs like mutton chop sideburns. Her pussy looked like President Chester Arthur.
I know her bush looked like that because I stared at it openly, all shocked. If my daughters were with me and stared like that, I would have scolded them for being so obviously rude. But I had no one to scold me, not even my sister, who was all agog too. It was all we could do to not point at it. There we were, two grown women staring at another woman’s snatch like it was a house on fire or a car accident. We grabbed our bags and fled the locker room before that thatch of hair could spread and overtake us.
Now, I am not a fan of the smooth hairless look, which to me looks most natural on a child. Hair is what separates the ladies from the little girls. But tidying up down there seems like a courtesy to me, if not something I do for myself, than something that should be done for the comfort of others. I remember my third stepmother, Irene, who had pubic hair that started from her belly button and spread like wildfire almost down to her knees. Why do I know this? Because she took us to the pool all the time, and would lounge on a chair with all that hair on display where it creeped, and creep is the appropriate word here, out of her unflattering bikini bottoms.
It scared me then, and it still scares me. If you have to be courteous for your neighbors and trim your hedges, should you not do the same for your bush?
I didn’t pack a swimsuit with me, but my sister had a whole collection of athletic suits designed to make everyone look fatter than they are. The swimsuit she gave me mashed my boobs flat, where they migrated to the armpit area, like water wings. The odd strap set-up in the back divided my fat into different sections, not unlike the Michelin man. It was not a pretty sight. I figured that I might not be the skinniest one in the pool, but I was probably going to be the youngest, so I got over myself and headed to LM’s gym with her.
We stowed our clothes in lockers and she put on her swim cap, which is covered in brightly colored floppy flowers, adding a festive touch to the class as well as a needed distraction from the unattractive bathing suits. We wandered into the pool area and joined the rest of the women and the one emasculated husband in the water. My friend JR used to take lil JR for swim lessons at our gym’s pool, and she referred to the water class participants as pool cows because of the way they sort of meander about in the swim lanes, bumping along clumsily, with their large black and white bathing suits. You can almost hear them gently lowing and mooing as they drift around. It might sound like a mean way to describe large women in a water class, but it’s the truth. LM’s exercise class had more than one pool cow in it, stepping about in the shoulder deep water like they were grazing in a meadow.
The teacher got in the water with us, and led us through a variety of moves designed to churn the water and our excess body fat into a human stew. We cross country skied and did modified jumping jacks and tucked ourselves into fat little eggs. We lunged and high stepped and resisted the water. After thirty minutes, the lone male left the class before his testes permanently sucked into his body cavity. The rest of us grabbed water weights and did the same routine, only this time with more resistance. Mind you, it was not an easy class. I could feel my arms burning while trying to hold those foam weights under the water’s surface, and it took great control not to hit myself in the face or cause a tidal wave.
The class ended, and not a moment too soon, as I had started to suffer chemical burns on my skin from all that chlorine. LM and I took showers and wrapped up in our towels before we headed back to the main locker room area. She and I discreetly dressed ourselves, more modest than perhaps many sisters would be in front of one another. Meanwhile, an older woman entered the locker room from the main gym floor, setting her stuff down on the same bench as our bags. She peeled off all her clothing and stood there all full Monty in front of us.
You could tell she was older, not just by her weathered skin, graying hair, or wrinkles, but by the full afro bush she sported between her legs. No modern woman walks around with that level of pubic hair, not in today’s youthful hairless culture, so it was a shock to witness it in person. It was a massive bush, and it was even thickly overgrown on her upper thighs like mutton chop sideburns. Her pussy looked like President Chester Arthur.
I know her bush looked like that because I stared at it openly, all shocked. If my daughters were with me and stared like that, I would have scolded them for being so obviously rude. But I had no one to scold me, not even my sister, who was all agog too. It was all we could do to not point at it. There we were, two grown women staring at another woman’s snatch like it was a house on fire or a car accident. We grabbed our bags and fled the locker room before that thatch of hair could spread and overtake us.
Now, I am not a fan of the smooth hairless look, which to me looks most natural on a child. Hair is what separates the ladies from the little girls. But tidying up down there seems like a courtesy to me, if not something I do for myself, than something that should be done for the comfort of others. I remember my third stepmother, Irene, who had pubic hair that started from her belly button and spread like wildfire almost down to her knees. Why do I know this? Because she took us to the pool all the time, and would lounge on a chair with all that hair on display where it creeped, and creep is the appropriate word here, out of her unflattering bikini bottoms.
It scared me then, and it still scares me. If you have to be courteous for your neighbors and trim your hedges, should you not do the same for your bush?
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