Splash!

The summers of my youth were primarily spent in chlorine; the local swim team was the social, athletic and cultural epicenter of the world.  The negative attributes of Racer Back tan lines and greening hair paled in comparison from the joy obtained from the night of fun and games that marked the pinnacle of each summer, the Splash Party.  Such was a night to strut one's dolphin dive and bobbing ability in joke relays and attempt to score an underwater touchdown in 'Greased Watermelon Football' (a practice which has since been replaced with less life-threatening/pump clogging activities- I call them less fun activities).  

Last night, on the deck of the very same pool of my youth, marked the first 'Adult Splash Party'.  Apparently the parents wanted to get in on the fun, beer goggles style.  Prompted by an urgent message from my Local Friend, I made my way to this party to observe the adult enjoyment rituals of commenting on one's children, discussing the Red Sox and laughing at not-that-funny jokes.   It is within this framework that I met Little Man.  I've encountered many a Little Man in my life time- small and unattractive, with lots to complain about and a grudge towards all who outshine him; think George Constanza with Man Sandals (Mandals).  

In the few unfortunate moments I spent with Little Man, I was privvy for his disdain for Michael Phelps' wing span ("He's a freak" were Little Man's words of choice).  Additionally, Little Man still refuses to refer to French Fries as such and prefers "Freedom Fries".  I managed to edge my way out of the conversation by saying something brilliant, probably along the lines of, "Oh! Are those stuffed mushrooms??!"  

 

I then proceeded to rush home to catch Mr. Phelps in all his giant wingspanned glory take home another gold.  I bet HE doesn't wear Mandals.