Worth it

But really, it’s not about the hair. Being worth it is all about mentality and being secure in who you are.

For the longest time, I’ve been threatened by the kids I guard that one day, they’re going to push me in. And each time it’s said, I cannot help but smile. The question always plagued me: “WHY ARE YOU SMILING AND HAPPY ABOUT THIS?!”

Here’s something new to learn about me:

My hair does not like chlorinated water. Actually, let’s just say chlorine as a whole is against my hair. Unlike most blondes, my trouble isn’t that my hair turns green. If it were that easy, I’d gladly go swimming every day and enjoy the green hair. (Natural green hair? Who wouldn’t want that!) Rather, my hair turns into this tumbleweed mess of a tough Afro. It looks okay, every one says. But if you touch it, it’s like touching bristles. The ends split something fierce in five different new ends and the hair is so tough it breaks brushes. Chlorine doesn’t make my hair brittle; it makes each strand a fishing line. It’s terrible.

Now, to those who say “But you’re a lifeguard! Don’t you swim to stay in shape?” the answer is yes. Yes, I do. Somewhere along my life line, I discovered that there was a certain combination of shampoos and conditioners I could use to treat my hair. Of course, there’s probably something better than what I use, something that only involves one bottle instead of three, but still, it works. As long as I use this chlorine-fighting combination of cond-oos, my hair and I get along.

So why, in all that is safe with my hair before swimming, would I smile and get happy when told I shall be tossed in the pool before I leave?

It’s because I seem to be viewing it as an honor. I’ve always been the type of girl who slides by unnoticed in the background. The cool kids would joke and would literally toss in their friends and I always wanted to get in on that. It was a cool prank full of love. To be considered worthy to be tossed in means you’re being thought of. Usually for a great deal of time before the toss-in.

So, yeah, even though my hair and I will be akin to Bruce Banner and the Hulk, I’m kind of excited to get tossed into the pool. But don’t think I’ll go easy. I’m ready to sit my butt on the ground before they even get me close. Ah, the perks to weighing more than what meets the eye.

Big Sister

I discovered a few days ago, during a droll day at the pool, that I am viewed as the “big sister” of some of the boys. Not sure about the girls. But possibly the same.

I found this surprising and highly amusing all at once. Usually I get called the “mom” of a group. Or will get the adoring stares (check out Dear John letters can be funny). This was the first time I ever heard the words “big sister.” I have no idea what to make of it.

The boys, of course, knew right away what to do with it. They jumped right in to saying that if I ever dated they’d go find the guy that was to be my date, beat him up so he knew what would happen if he hurt me, and then beat him up again when he hurt me. I was smiling the whole time. Mostly because they’re guys and they were really getting into how exactly they would hurt him, not how he hurt me. Really, it was sweet. And made me wonder how the topic came up in the first place. Or how they knew I wasn’t dating. Or had a boyfriend.

Actually, it’s all very suspect. After all, why bring up the topic unless considering dating me in the first place? I mean, I was just sitting there eating when they pounced on me (always want to be fed, they do). Ah. Whatever. It’s nice to know I have back-up support in my life in case anything gets hairy.

Dear John letters can be funny

…but not always a good idea.

Back when I worked at the high school as a lifeguard (ha! “back.” that was four days ago) there was this one boy who’d ask me for my number every day. Well, there was a period where he didn’t ask me for it because of my response to why I wouldn’t give him my number. But then it started up again three days after the explained ‘no.’ So, I think it became a game to him. Which means I would never give him my number. Ever. Like I would give my number to someone unrelated and interested in dating me under the age of 22. (Soon to be 23.)

Why, you may ask, was he asking for the number considering no other guys my age do? Simple, I answer. Because I’m a lifeguard. Still confused? Well then, let’s pull up some pictures from Google on what we all think a lifeguard is like, shall we?

Let’s make that picture a little bigger for you: I am a female lifeguard in a high school chock full of hormonally challenged teenage boys. I am older, cooler, and in an authoritative position. What’s your mind pulling up? Crazy images? Good. That’s exactly what those boys are thinking except ten times worse. To them, I’m a hot mama and one who’s single to boot. So of course I get hit on. Some of which can be borderline harassment, but that’s another story.

Now, as you know, I got a new job elsewhere recently. On my last day, I figured it’d be funny to officially give the poor boy the brush off. How was I going to do this? The Dear John way.

At first I was all set up to give him a fake number: 555-1732. Thought better of it when I came to the conclusion that it might be too harsh to give him even a fake number. My next idea was to  make a letter of decent length explaining why I would never give him my number. Then I realized this was a bit much and some words could be misconstrued. Therefore, I changed it to the following:
“NO. And please don’t ask the next lifeguard. It could be considered harassment.”

Half of the people I texted this idea to said it was hilarious. The other half said it was a bad idea. Apparently, if you give a boy who has been continuously asking for your number in front of many other boys a piece of paper, it could be seen as something else. As in, they might think I actually said yes and/or gave him my number. Plus, there’s the factor that a teacher/instructor shouldn’t be giving out personal notes to the students.

All my fun taken away by a bunch of changed rules on  how to deal with kids. Can’t even give a kid a hug anymore because it can be viewed as molesting. ANYWAY, before I completely sidetrack, the letter was never delivered, thankfully. Instead, it sits in the trash where no one can find it. No classes came into the pool room on my last day, so no letters were given. Good or bad, I have come away from the experience feeling less than stellar and a bit wiser knowing that one cannot give notes specifically to kids. To their parents, yes. To the kids, no.