But there was no cramping our style; no, we trashies would not be deterred. We packed up our various coolers, snack bags, and beach toys and headed straight to our hotel pool—where drinking was allowed, as long as it wasn’t out of glass bottles.
When I walked into the pool area, I was immediately met by my younger brother-in-law, who was using the beer in his hand to point at a sign on the wall. “Shay,” he giggled, “look at the pool rules!”
Everyone gathered around and read them, and we could all agree without a doubt that they were the weirdest and most hilarious pool rules we’d ever read:
First of all, #1 knocked me right out of the water—literally. Damn that shit I’d taken 8 days ago.
I guessed I’d have to just sit on the sidelines and watch everyone else have fun. SIGH.
And #3—really? Because unless you’re dropping a deuce, who the hell actually gets out of the pool to go to the bathroom?
I remember on our honeymoon 9 years ago, the hubs and I had met two other couples at the swim-up pool bar. We’d all been sitting there, treating each other to all-inclusive shots, sharing stories about our weddings and laughing like old friends, when one of the husbands—Chuck was his name—stopped for a moment. He was a big guy, all muscles, and he had a thick New York accent.
“Do you guys realize,” he said, “that we’ve all been sitting here drinking for no fewer than 4 hours…and not one of us has gotten up to take a piss?”
None of us even had the decency to look ashamed—we were all way too drunk for that. Besides, we realized as soon as Chuck said it that we were all doing the exact same thing, so what was the point of acting like you felt bad for it when everyone else was doing it, too?
We were all grossed out, though, as we turned to take in the scene around us. The pool bar was separated from the main pool, which at least had some movement going on with a little water continuously running through the lazy river.
Our little swim-up pool bar, however, was pretty stagnant. It consisted of a small area of water where we were all currently sitting, pissing ourselves with drink because we were too lazy to get off of the small, half-underwater stools and walk the 10 feet to the bathroom.
It was gross, you guys. The water was turning yellow.
Did I learn a lesson from that day on my honeymoon and stop pissing in chlorinated pools?
No. And I wasn’t about to start now, 9 years later on family vacation.
Damn those pool rules; we were there to par-tay. I found myself mad that my younger son was finally potty trained, as I couldn’t thumb my nose at rule #8.
But that’s okay, because in defiance of rule numbers 2 and 4, I totally used my left hand—the hand on which I had a paper cut—to pick up a pool noodle and spout water through it at my husband.
I’m such a rebel, you guys. Authority be damned.