The Blind Side (Stroke) . . .

Lest you think this blog is only a forum for me to bemoan, mock, ridicule, and criticize others . . . let me tell you an obnoxious story about your Creepy Uncle Sean (that's me - you don't actually have to be my niece or nephew to make this work).

When I was seven years old and in he second grade, there was a slight problem . . . I had my mother's vision (technically I also got her teeth, love of food, premature graying, and chin-quiver-when-crying thing) and that meant I was certifiably blind. I mean BLIND. I mean couldn't-match-a-pair-of-socks-or-find-my-way-to-my-classroom-without-a-school-of-other-fishies-to-swim-down-the-hall-with blind. My loving parents took me to the eye doctor and started my life as a "corrective vision" patient with the thickest plastic, shatter and scratch resistant lenses you have ever seen complete with "S C A" stickers on the right lens. Yeaaaahhhhhhhhh!

31 years later, I still need glasses to see my brightly-handled-and-bristled toothbrush (which sits neatly in a holder - all by its lonesome) each morning and evening.

Why am I telling you this? I've recently taken back up with an old love of mine - swimming (another post for another time but I LOVE to swim). And that is where our story truly begins.

You see my special lady friend (that's the only term you're ever going to get here so get comfortable with it) also enjoys swimming so we occasionally go to the pool together (yeah - that's a euphemism (giggidy)) and, since we don't live anywhere near each other we will frequently meet at the pool. I know it is her when we arrive. I know it is here when we disappear in to our respective locker rooms but - from there - I have to use approximate body shape and size and vocal cues . . . I'm like Lt. Col. Frank Slade (go ahead and Google it - I'll wait) . . . welcome back.

So the other evening (NOW the story really begins - I promise) I, having tucked my flip flops, glasses, and ear drying drops safely in to a locker and taken my rinse-off shower, emerged from the locker room of the Downtown YMCA, having safely eluded the awkward train-wreck-like-allure of middle-aged, moderately-obese naked men and their droopy asses, dangling scrotum, and schmeckles allll over the place (I once saw a guy with his junk placed ON THE COUNTER as he brushed his teeth) and saw one open lane on the far side of the pool. I dove in and began my 30 minutes of laps.

As I stroked - flawlessly and with (sober) Michael Phelps-like speed - up and down the length of the pool I looked to my left, then right, then left, then right, and was very excited to have been fortunate enough to get a lane next to my swim partner (we are normally at least a lane or two apart with an 80 year old, super-skinny Asian dude with trunks in his armpits hauling ass up and down the lanes).

"Hey, gurrrrl," I gargled.

"Hey," she retorted.

- - next lap/passing - -

"You come here often?"

(no real response - it is worth noting here that most of my childish antics get no deigned response)

- - next lap/passing - -

"We hitting the hot tub after this because I am doing WORK. Check my glutes. BOOM!"

 - - next lap/passing - -

"I couldn't help but notice your breasts . . . troke. Yeahhhhhh."

- - next lap/passing - -

"This would only be less comfortable for me if we were naked right now."

- - next lap/passing - -

"Your place or mine after this? Seriously. I can't remember. And what is for dinner?"

This goes on, with escalated profanity and awkwardness (this was not flirting - this was me trying to elicit a giggle and/or a reminder that she was someone's daughter, sister, aunt, etc.) for about ten minutes.

Then, for no apparent reason, the lovely woman/object of my objectification in the next lane simple stopped swimming, grabbed the edge of the pool and popped up out of the water.

It was then - and only then - that I had been verbally harassing a total stranger who simply wanted to swim in peace.

I need contact lenses or laser surgery . . . and to learn how to be appropriate in public.