And the Resentment Never Stops So back when I was younger, my older brother (aka Bubba) was on a local swim team. That in itself wasn�t so bad except for the fact that my parents were the type to insist that as siblings, we needed to support each other endeavors. However, that usually translated to the notion that I was required to attend every single swim meet that Bubba ever participated in. Every single one. And if there�s a thread of similarity between all swim meets in the present and the future past, it�s that Swim Meets Are Exceedingly Dull. My mother (god bless her) also disallowed me from doing anything that would pass the time or make the eight to twelve hours go by in a somehow less painful manner for a 10-year-old. That meant I was not allowed to read or do my spool knitting or blow bubbles off my tongue. No. I had to pay attention. One of the things I got very good at was letting my mind wander, which, combined with the stench of pool chemicals, probably was at least partially responsible for the twisted state my mind is in now. I mean, what 10-year-old thinks about things like, �If your knees bent the other way, what would a chair look like?� Somewhere along the way � and I�m pretty sure it was my father � someone got the idea that since I was there and I was relatively responsible for a 10-year-old-kid � not mention bored out of my stinking skull -- that I should be a timekeeper for a lane during the swim heats. So began my 2 or 3 year career of being a timekeeper for wet men in Speedos�. Now this was the 1980�s. This was before shaving all body hair and wearing NASA-material full body suits. These were hairy-legged, furry-armpitted, tiny Speedo�-wearing guys. So, since I sitting directly behind the starting blocks, leaving my POV at crotch-level, I began the �Stuffer or Non-Stuffer� game. Now, the title of �Stuffer� or �Non-Stuffer� had nothing to do with the actual package of danglies within the Speedo� itself. Frankly, at 10, I didn�t really care all the much, and wet Speedos� and cold water don�t leave all that much to the imagination. Couple that with the fact that I was a ballet dancer and used to half-clothed people in tight garments anyway, my whole attitude to half-nudity was �Meh.� �Stuffer� or �Non-Stuffer� had to do with whether, once the male swimmer had mounted the starting block and gotten into position � that is, in a squat � shoved his dangly bits back between legs before diving off the block. Naturally, the guys that were either very self-confident (or were too young to care) tended to be Stuffers, whereas pubescent boys who were self-conscious about wearing the Speedos� -- Mark Spitz be damned � tended to keep their legs closer together so that the 10-year-old (who looked to be about 14 anyway) wouldn�t see quite so much of their dangly bits. Never mind the fact that I was looking straight up their bungholes. Hey, I was 10. Trapped in a damned nataorium for 8 to 12 hours. This was before my knitting years. A girl�s gotta do something. So forgive me when I say that I cannot watch the Olympic Swimming coverage. I�m sure Phelps is a great swimmer. I�m glad to hear that he can apparently breathe under water and had won about 42 gold medals for this country. I also feel for the other kids who are also great swimmers but have to compete directly with Phelps and his alleged gills, which are conveniently hidden under that NASA material. But I�m not going to watch. Gimmee Men�s Gymnastics and the way they just flip sideways without a run or anything. And given their physique and general height, I�d just bet that if you put those gymnasts in a Speedo�, they�d be Stuffers.
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