Piano Pool Privilege

“Where’ve you been?” Miss W exclaimed when PP finally emerged from the caverns of the Montclair swim club locker room to take shelter under a shady umbrella on deck of the piano pool.
“Sorry,” PP shrugged, sighing. “I just take so long to get from place to place. I think I have Transitional Resistance Disorder. Otherwise known as TRD. I'm sure it's listed in the DSM.”

Miss W nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean, but listen, you’re not gonna believe what I just saw. See that guy over there,” she nodded toward a lanky tanned guy in baggy black Speedos.
“Yeah, what about him?” PP thought he looked kinda yucky in that most guys shouldn’t wear Speedos way even though when she appraised him objectively, he really wasn’t that bad.
Miss W leaned over and whispered loudly in PP’s ear, “He was flossing his teeth!”
“You’re kidding? Disgusting!”

Miss W nodded in disapproving agreement. “Yeah, can you believe that? I was just sitting here waiting for you, kinda spacing out watching all the action in the pool when outta the corner of my eye I catch him just sitting there, plain as can be flossing his teeth right here for everyone to see! Can you believe that?” she repeated.
“No….” PP’s voice trailed off as she glanced over at Flossing Man again. ‘But then again, yeah……I’m sorry I missed it!’
“Yeah you are! I need a Witness!”
“Oh I believe you. People are so free about what they do in public, esp. at the pool….”
”That’s true.”
“Maybe he just had something stuck in one of his teeth?” PP asked.
“No,” Miss W shook her head, “he was doing the full-on floss. It really was Something!” Miss W leaned back in her chair, giggling.
PP joined in, musing on what it is about some people that they have absolutely no inhibitions about performing their personal hygiene rituals on the pool deck. She’d seen hair brushing, of course. This she kinda got. After all, one’s hair was a big part of the swimming experience. The stuffing of it in the cap. The combing out of the tangles. In fact as PP was thinking about this, Miss W interrupted her for a moment to offer her some super duper hair detangler conditioner to rub in her tangled tresses before putting her cap on.

“My hairdresser recommended doing this,” she took a gob and combed it through her fun sporty short locks.
“It smells good,” PP commented as she tried to comb the goo through her hair, but it somehow wasn’t working as well. Her fingers stopping mid strand in a giant tangle. Oh well, whatever, it couldn’t hurt.
So, with the Floss Guy, what’s the difference? Are teeth that much different than hair?
PP glanced over at him again, as he rose and stretched before strolling off toward the snack bar. His situation was impressive. The beach mat with the towel on top. A pillow. An ipod plug in thingee left so blatantly out for anyone to nab.

But at Montclair, who would think of stealing such a thing? See, you can tell that PP has been swimming at the Oakland Y for too long, where the signage all over the locker room warns members of locks being cut and thefts being rampant.

Did this ease of invulnerability to theft have a connection to the inhibition regarding oral hygiene?

PP wondered. Maybe so. If he could floss his teeth with no thought of repercussions, social or otherwise, why then maybe this led to his lackadaisical disregard for the possibility of thievery around his personal possessions left so blatantly unguarded?

Ummm….it’s the Freedom of the Wealthy. They can floss their teeth. They can leave their expensive audio equipment lying about. They can flaunt their saggy Speedos.

Hell, they can do anything, right? Just like in the Woody Allen movie where the two girls who spend the summer in Barcelona can do whatever the hell they want with no worries about jobs, or money or consequences around their summer exploits with passionate crazed Spanish Artists and subsequent ménage a troise!

Oh, to be rich.
PP sighs as she tries to get her wrong tangled hair bunched correctly under her cap.
She’d give it a try for a summer.

In Montclair.
In Oakland,
But esp. in Barcelona.
(She knows there’s an Olympic Pool there! Ole!)


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