Skip to main content

My Weekend

 The Five-Star British Swim School is the brainchild of one bright man, the Wizard of Oz, who never shows his face to parents.


I'm not sure why it's a "British" school, but I think the adjective just preys on a lazy American assumption that anything English is vaguely superior (e.g. Jane Austen novels, Benjamin Britten operas, Judi Dench).

The Wizard of Oz has hired a fleet of annoyed, bored children to teach the classes; the children are unsupervised and underpaid, and they sometimes speak openly about their job-related irritation. I try to manage this as if I were a Christoph Waltz character--worldly, unillusioned, in command of the situation--but I am not Christoph Waltz.

"Look," says the guard at the door. "Umm...you're not allowed to use the locker rooms? But the teacher should give you a little tent. Your kids will have a changing tent. If it's not there? Definitely contact me...."

There's no tent--and, in a rage, I strip nude.

"You're in public," says my spouse. "This is an all-gender pool. You're waving your bare ass at half of New Jersey...."

The teacher stumbles onto the scene, nursing a hangover. "The tent is, like, broken," he says quickly. "I'll see what I can do!"

I trail him, demanding a lesson plan. The Swim School says that basically all children die from drowning. The evidence that they may be drowning? They look perfectly normal. So if you see your child looking perfectly normal? You should panic.

"We're really focused on not crying," says the teacher. "That's the goal for the day. Could I get a selfie with your baby? I gotta text my mom. She said I would never, never work with kids!"

I comply, because it would be a fate worse than death to seem "mean." This exchange costs approximately one hundred dollars.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more

My Favorite Pop Song

  One thing I admire about Prince is his weirdly pretentious verses: Dream, if you can, a courtyard-- An ocean of violets in bloom. Also: Touch, if you will, my stomach. Feel how it trembles inside. No one else writes like this. Did people try to shoot down these choices? Did a producer say, "We'd like to rethink this one... Touch, if you will, my stomach...."  I can't help but wonder. But it's the chorus that makes this a classic. It's direct and universal--and it ends with that bizarre flourish, the allusion to "the crying doves." (Prince's song was number one in America for quite a while; it defeated Bruce Springsteen's "Dancing in the Dark.") How can you just leave me standing-- Alone in a world that's so cold? Maybe I'm just too demanding. Maybe I'm just like my father--too bold. Maybe you're just like my mother; She's never satisfied. Why do we scream at each other? This is what it sounds like when doves cr...
Post a Comment
Read more