It's Going Swimmingly

I'm hot. Sweaty to be precise. Returning to my apartment by bike is a chore, legitimate exercise. If I wanted a work out, I'd join the football team or get off the couch or something. Anyway, because I'm drenched, I decide to take a two minute dip in the pool. I have no intention of swimming (again, exercise), rather this plan is purely for cooling measures.

There's a family in the adjacent hot tub. A girl of about five is staring at me as I jump in the pool. Her hairy father announces, "Look, it's a boy for you." I hate him. Not because he's hairy, but because apparently he thinks I'm deaf. My middle finger does not signify that I know sign language, sir. He's talking about me loudly from no more than ten feet away. "Go see if he likes you," he encourages his child. Excuse me, but she's at least a decade and a half younger than me, of course I'm interested in her, especially in that age-appropriate bikini he's dressed her in. I've never understood why parents encourage their young children's crushes on older people of the opposite sex: is it an effort to nourish heterosexuality or to sadistically watch the inevitable heartbreak?

Now I face a dilemma: if I hop out now, as originally planned, they'll think they scared me away, and if I don't, I could wind up with a child bride, and ideally, a few cows as dowry. I opt to stay longer, not for the cows, but to show them that they can talk about me all they want - it won't make me uncomfortable. Except that I am uncomfortable, mainly because I'm having to exercise in this pool. I don't have the stamina for her, I mean, this, so I get out and leave.

As I exit, the father says, "Oh no, honey, you scared him away." I take it back. I do hate him because he's hairy. Also, I think maybe I will start dating his daughter: that'll show him.