The Change of the Guard

So, I headed in to the YMCA for my workout the other day. Regardless of the prescribed set, I enter the pool area with exactly 1 thought in mind: Does my butt look fat in these speedos? I hope that the hot chick is working the lifeguard stand.

Understand, I have absolutely no desire to interact with said hotguard. She's half my age. Even if I were 20 years younger, I would probably behave exactly the same way I do now: jump up and down like an untrained monkey admire from a distance. I lack the confidence to talk to hot chicks and she was/ is way out of my league. I simply enjoy the pleasure of pool candy whilst working out. Plus, she always seems to be bored out of her gourd causing her to walk laps around the pool deck. There's something else on which to focus on as you, ahem, stroke 16 times per 25 yards to flip it over and repeat.

Much to my chagrin, I entered the deck and saw this dude. After a second glance, I knew this guy. We had coached a team together several years ago. In his current manifestation, with his hairstyle and red guard shirt, he resembled Chuck Sherman from the American Pie movie franchise.

Don't get me wrong, I like this guy (even though I can't remember his real name). He was a good coach and a guy of solid character. He worked well with the kids and, unlike several of the other coaches for the club team, he had an idea of how to swim. We exchanged a few pleasantries. I spied the deck clock and made a mental note as to where the second hand was in relation to the 60. He didn't need to follow my gaze. He's a swimmer and knew exactly where I was looking. At the 50 second mark, like he was using to force and in tuned to the black hand, he shut up letting me get ready to start my set. Like I said, I like this guy and he knows his stuff.

My workout for the day was enough to make Olympians writhe in fear rather vanilla. I did a 500 yard warm-up. Then I snapped of 10x200s. I followed the set with 5x50s hard (I always put the hard stuff at the end). As I was cooling down, there was a change of the guards.

Dammit. My workout was done. It was time for me to leave. And the hottie walks in. This was not the girl I had in mind an hour ago. She was, umm, better. You know the type. Blonde. Ponytail. Cute. Late teens or maybe early twenties (and the simple fact that I am obsessing over the age difference is proof that I'm an old fart who has not yet had his mid-life crisis). Yet there she is. The pic at the right is not her but it's pretty darn close. I look. My girl is wearing shorts with an inscription on the back. I have no idea what it says because, err, I'm not wearing my glasses on the pool deck. I look away. I look at the deck clock. I glance at the time, which just so happens to be located right behind the lifeguard stand (I also can't really see the numbers but I'm the only one who knows that). Back at her. Crap, I am being far too obvious. The clock clearly says one thing... It's time to leave.

As I walk out of the pool, I wave my hand at the lifeguard stand. I do this after every workout, regardless of who is working. I have never actually had the need of a lifeguard while swimming and I pray that I never will. This does not mean that I don't want them there. They all do good work for just over minimum wage. Imagine that, the people paid to save our lives earn just a little bit less than the average McDonald's employee. The lifeguards have earned and deserve my gratitude. The least I could do is thank them for keeping me alive. Not many other people at the Y do this, which is a huge shame.

As I wave and smile, I take one more look at the lifeguard stand. I smile as I realize the full weight of the awesomeness of what I have just seen. I was just kept safe under the watchful eye of the Sherminator! Life is good.