Pass the Petri Dish

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Nothing is going on. The highlight of my week is that I mistook a urinary tract infection for a heightened state of arousal. 


I have decided to attribute the infection to the one time I used the jacuzzi at the sports club. I have no idea if that is even remotely possible as a cause, but it gives me a perfect excuse not to use it again.  


While most people would rather lounge in a jacuzzi than swim laps, I prefer the latter. 
In the pool I become a champion for half an hour. I am a graceful swimmer and I know that when swimming, my body fogets its recent foray into middle age. In a jacuzzi, I have to pretend that I am not grosssed out by the overly hairly sharing their space with me. 


So I stake out my lane and swim almost non-stop for half an hour, taking a moment every so often to knowingly renew the slather of saliva in my goggles,  betraying only the fact that I was too cheap to buy the antifog ones. 


I lean against the wall at the end of my laps and look around, keenly aware that from the vantage point of being half submerged, I am as as svelte as the rest of them. 


And then I get out.


As I climb up the heinously skinny ladder I am shocked into reality that I am neither svelte nor a real athlete,  and if I had any doubts, I try to wrap a towel around me, but suffice with covering my butt. 


Once, I found a window of opportunity when there were no men in the jacuzzi who would watch me waddle my way from the pool's edge to the jacuzzi's edge. There was no one  in the warm bubbly water, no one crouched at the perfect eye level to watch my thighs jiggle ahead of me down the jacuzzi steps. So I lowered myself with the grace of a rhino into this reservoir of bacteria and positioned myself strategically against a jet of water. 


And a week later I have a urinary tract infection. 


You do the math. 
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