Quite the day yesterday. I have family in town. My dad and one bro, and my sis and her kids and a zillion other relatives. We went to Wet 'n Wild and had a good time. And well, I just want to run through my day and the parts that are significantly seared into my memory.
a. For all who were wondering what the limit is, I've found it. I have exceeded the maximum allowable limit for "Speedo Exposure." I have met my lifetime max, and anymore sightings could possibly cause my head to explode. Or at least blindness accompanied by temporary paralysis. When did form fitting swim suits ever become acceptable for men? Michelangelo's "David" leaves more to the imagination than some of the male swimsuits I've seen.
b. While on the subject, I was in the wave pool, I happened to look toward the shallow end. The bright white light was none other than a naked butt. Yes, a naked butt. It was a child, but there's no disclaimer that says shirt and shoes and bottoms required EXCEPT for children who are 4-6 years old. That's how old this kid was I imagine. No clue really, it was all quite bright and naked, but quite unright and awkward for sure. Must've been a cultural barrier. Stupid French.
c. When getting out of that same wave pool, I walked over to the chair to start drying off to head home. I'm doing the usual: drying the hair to the arms to the chest to the back to the shorts to the legs to the feet...so I look up and an old man, easily in his 70s is staring at me with a crooked grin. I still feel violated. Shivers. Yeck. I'm just praying he's almost blind and thought I was a hot chick. No, that still feels gross.
d. I saw some neat body art. From a family of belly piercings to the age limit and weight limit for back tats. But the grossest body part, granted it wasn't "body art," was in the Lazy River. I'm on our little inner tube and we're stuck in traffic. I hate traffic. I can't even get away from it in a Lazy River. So I'm stuck in this logjam of beached walruses on innertubes, and I'm semi-content. Just relaxing until I realize I'm spinning with little control. I'm being spun by the mass of tubes. There's no room to paddle, and my feet are dangling over the side in mid air. So are everyone else's. And therein lies the trauma. I find I'm spinning uncontrollably closer to a neighbor's feet. My face. His feet. I'm not a feet guy. Not many are, and virtually no one likes them in their face. But this is the torment I befell. So I'm getting closer and closer and realize that the feet aren't just regular feet, but the feet of a dirty englishman. A college aged dirty englishman's feet. With peeling skin on the bottom. And foot fungus on the toes. Orange and brown funk. And to top it off, the top side of the foot had what one could only assume was a renegade form of Foot Herpes. Fever blisters. Cold sores. On the feet. In my face. I think I must've blacked out. No, I WISH I would've blacked out. Ignorance is bliss. I wouldn't have known if I contracted the foot herp or not. Anyway, I dodged and ducked, dipped, dived and dodged my way from The Herpe. Like dodging a ball. Or a wrench. Or an STD. How does one exactly get Foot Herpes? The STD, I can use my imagination. Oral Herpes as well. But FOOT HERPES? I DON'T WANT to use my imagination. The Herpe probably contracted his Foot Herpes as some unsuspecting dirty englishman in a dirty lazy river with another dirty englishman's fever blister-infested feet. Neat. Good thing I'm Mexican. And Irish. And...English. Great. Maybe I'll try to legally change my ethnicity this week. That might head off the Foot Herpe.
Final thought. We ate at Emeril's restaurant Tchoup Chop. Party of 8. $600. What? I'm retired. I should eat well while I can. I store it away like a chipmunk. Or a camel. Or a boa. I ate it all-save the man-sized broccoli on my plate. I'm storing up for winter when I'll be trying the next phase of retirement: hibernation.
I'll leave you with this Asian wine from the wine menu: (warning: PG-13)
See you Friday with the ADHD Remedy of the Week.