Speedos and hairspray
|Don't care 'bout nothin'|
A very long time ago, in a mystical land filled with big hair, sluts and spritz, lived an awesome high school kid named Eric. One of Eric's main goals in life was to have massive and well designed hair. In his quest for this daily goal, one horrible thing would always get in the way. Gym class. Gym, the bane of a student's high school life.
As everyone knows, the population of gym teachers are sadistic malcontents, whose only joy in life is to torture hapless students. It's also a known fact that gym teachers aren't the sharpest hammers in the tool belt. It's no surprise that the lesson plans in gym were less than brilliant. For example, the swimming section consisted of titles like, "Make the kids do laps until they puke."
Since I grew up with a pool at home, swimming per se wasn't an issue. If I was your average bowl-haircut dork, fine. Let me swim until I die, master. But I wasn't. The crafting of my hair in the morning bordered on D-Day invasion-type planning and execution. For some reason, gym class always seemed to happen first thing in the morning. Fuckers.
The Olympic-sized pool smelled like a combination of chlorine, janitor piss and period blood. Speaking of period blood, the girls were always getting out of swimming by claiming that their aunt was in town. Skanks.
At any rate, depending on how much mousse and hairspray I had going that day was how I'd determine how far underwater I'd go. To go full-bore on the hair in the locker room was not something to be relished. Although, I do remember having a hair dryer with me at one point.
Adding sand to the Vaseline in this was the fact that we had to wear used Speedo-type bathing suits. The old suits were all various shades of green — bordering on tie-dye. I don’t know if the gym teacher was just a perv or he thought that we would steal these wonderful things, but he'd make us take them off before we slithered back to the locker room. He didn't do that with the girls, hmm.
After gym, and for the rest of the day, that rancid pool-smell would follow you. All fellow disheveled pool-kids would give you that sad, knowing look in their eyes as you pass by in the hallway.
Now and then, I'll have a swim class-themed night terror. It goes will with all of my other ones.