Swimming Isn’t For Everyone

I feel like a lot of suburban kids grew up having to take swimming lessons. There was nothing really that special about swim lessons, they were just basic swim lessons teaching you how to…well swim. Not a big deal right?

 

Wrong.

 

You see my mother was a competitive swimmer in her youth. She was the star of her high school team and she was even offered a full ride to an accredited university to swim. She was even a good enough swimmer to make it to the olympic qualifiers back in the seventies. In fact she was less than a second away from actually making it to the olympics.

 

Pretty cool right?

 

For her yes, for me no.

 

You know those parents that like to live the ambitions of their youth through their children? Yep. You guessed it. My mother is one of those parents.

 

So she decided that if I was going to be an olympic swimmer I obviously should have the finest instructors around. So she took me to the local community YMCA.

basically.

Now I don’t know about the YMCA’s in your area, but I know the one in my area recently got remodeled for a very good reason: it was hell. That YMCA was a place of misery and pain in my youth. I would walk in there every morning and be attacked by the horrid stench of what the receptionist would always call “hard work paying off”. To be honest it constantly smelled like a gas leak or something. On the way to the women’s locker room we would always walk by these old men working in the equipment room, grunting and constantly complaining about the horror movie like lighting. Looking back now I’d say that that was a pretty good metaphor for my whole situation.

 

Anyway I would get my one piece swimsuit on every morning and go jump in the pool while my mother watched near the door. Now it’s probably a good thing that my mother was one of the only parents that stayed and watched instead of working out themselves because I am nearly one hundred percent positive that other mothers would have shamed her for giving birth to such an awful swimmer.

 

Oh and it would be deserved. I was literally the worst swimmer that the YMCA had ever seen in that band aid filled pool. After weeks of lessons all of the other kids were swimming laps and having a great time swimming in the deep end whereas I was in the shallow end trying to figure out how to float. I would feel my mothers judging eyes watching me day in and day out wondering why i wasn’t good. Until finally one day my swimming instructor explained to my mother that swimming was not for me. She was shocked and full of rage, but I mean I was happy because I really hated swimming. We drove home in silence.

And this was one of the first of the many times that my existence has disappointed my mother.  

 

OH WELL.

 

#poofproblems

-Poof

Ponify

Once upon a time there was a stressed out teenage girl who only had a few meer hours to edit her speech. She rushed into the library and hastily turned on a computer next to her friend Mitch while scattering all of her belongings in the space around her.

 

Ok i’m bored of third person. Plot twist: the girl is me.

 

So I started to tell Mitch about my speech while I was waiting for the schools computer to load. My high school literally has some of the slowest computers ever, unless you are in “engineering” room where the school had to get good, fast computers so that the programs would work. Ironically the majority of the people that take the “engineering” classes at my school have no interest in engineering and they only use the computers to watch hockey games and look at porn.

 

Classy right?

 

Anyway, my computer finally loaded and I opened up my speech on Google Drive. At the time I was rewriting the ending to my piece, or at least trying to. I quickly wrote out a new ending that I thought could work but upon rereading the ending I noticed something odd. I had tried to type the word “Boyfriend” but instead the word “Coltfriend” was in its place. Confused, I thought to myself “Oh maybe I accidently typed in “Coltfriend” instead of “Boyfriend”. I’m sure that happens to everyone”

 

Swiftly I deleted “Coltfriend” and carefully wrote out “Boyfriend” letter, by letter. But guess what, it changed to “Coltfriend”.

 

Again.

 

Angry and confused I continued to delete and retype, I even tried changing the preferences on Google Chrome so It would never allow the word “Coltfriend” to be on a Google Document. But that didn’t stop “Coltfriend”. No, It appeared that nothing would ever stop “Coltfriend”. “Coltfriend” would never go away. I began to type more angrily, while trying to find a solution to this virus on Google. But all I found out was that it wasn’t only on my Google Drive. No, words were changing all over the internet. “Everyone” changed to “Everypony”, “Girl” changed to “Filly”, even “Hands” changed to “Hooves”.

 

Since I was already stressed out, I could find literally no rational explanation for this virus. Even my friend Mitch couldn’t figure it out. I sat at that computer angrily typing, trying to find a cure to this cancer, until suddenly Mitch speaks up:

 

“Hey! Isn’t that Ari? Maybe she can cheer you up” He says while pointing at our friend coming towards us.

 

“NOTHING WILL CHEER ME UP.” I spat as Ari sat down next to us. She asked what we were doing and Mitch explained what my computer was doing, but oddly enough Ari didn’t seem phased by this outrageous tale.

 

“Oh it just has Ponify! Here-” as she gently takes my mouse and navigates through the settings with no more than three clicks. “-There! It’s all fixed!”

 

“…wat…”

 

“Yeah Ponify! Basically Ponify is an extension on chrome that changes all human words into pony words.”

UM CAN YOU NOT

“See I told you Ari would cheer you up!” As they laugh together.

 

“…I can’t even handle this.” I say as I look up and turn off my computer turning my back to the pain that ponify had brought me while swiftly exiting the library.

 

Moral: Never trust Ponify.

 

#poofproblems

-Poof

Why I am an Awful Person (Part 1)

I, am a pencil chewer.

vomiting.

 

That’s right, I admit it. I am that kid that is constantly chewing on the ends of their pencils. And it doesn’t just stop there, no. I chew on the ends of pens too. I’ve even been known to chew on pen caps.

 

You are probably all glaring at your computer screens right now aren’t you? Maybe even thinking back to that time that I lent you a pen or pencil?

 

Well if you aren’t you should be because whenever I do this I put my healthy, caring friends in danger of dying from touching the spots on my pencils and pens that are just riddled with bite marks. It would be fine if I only did this once or twice but I swear people ask me for pencils all the time and I never say no. Why don’t I say no? Well It would be really uncomfortable to say no to someone that can blatantly see that I have more than enough pencils in my pencil pouch.

 

I swear every day I will be in one of my classrooms minding my own business and getting ready to consume my daily dose of knowledge for the day. I casually take out my designated notebook for the class along with my handy-dandy pencil pouch.

 

And that’s where it all begins.

 

As if the pencil pouch is a powerful magnet, every time it is exposed to the outside world without fail someone comes over to me and asks if they can “borrow” a pencil. I say “borrow” because high schoolers tend to not return pencils. Anyway, It’s as if I forget about my awful habit every time because I reluctantly hand over a pencil, every time. But, the second that my healthy friend is holding one of my pencils I remember it all. I remember biting that exact pencil only a few hours before and as I see them walk back to their desks with that infected pencil I have to fight every urge to stand up on my chair yelling

 

“NO GIVE ME BACK THE PENCIL BECAUSE I CARE ABOUT YOU NO”

 

But I never do that.

 

I sit there, and I just

 

watch.

 

And watch as my friend is using my disgusting pencil that I so carelessly distributed to him or her. Watch as they twirl it, use the eraser feverishly, or even touch their faces with it. And this is one reason why I am an awful person.

 

But hey, it could be worse. At least I don’t have AIDS.

 

#poofproblems

-Poof

They Spiked the Milk

It was an average summer night in the year 2012. I remember it as if it were yesterday. My window was open, and I was skyping an old friend. Summer was drawing to an end. It was a great summer full of many laughs and memories, but I still wanted one more adventure. That’s when my phone went off. I looked down to read a text saying:

 

“Do you have any milk?”

milk. always a classy beverage. nothing is ever wrong with milk. ever.

I quickly texted out a hasty response:

 

“We are out. Sorry.”

 

Even though I thought that I solved the problem, I knew deep down that I was wrong. So…so wrong. Nothing is random in my friend group. No. Nothing. People in my friend group don’t send texts like this to be funny or start a conversation. No. These texts mean one thing, and one thing only.

 

They. Were. Coming.

 

But for some reason, I didn’t believe it. I thought to myself “No…they won’t come not tonight”. Since I deluded myself to this beginners thought I didn’t set up any precautions. And 10 minutes later when I heard the doorbell ring in the distance, I realized I made one crucial mistake.

 

My mother was downstairs. And she answered the door.

 

In my haste I fell off of my bed and quickly ran down the stairs to see my mother standing in the doorway letting in my friends. And there they were, all standing in my doorway with straws in their hands asking for milk.

 

Now I’m not going to lie, my mother isn’t the most, friendly person. Especially when people show up at my house unannounced to her. Sure she was smiling, but her eyes were screaming “GTFO OUT OF MY HOUSE HOOLIGANS” but still being the infamous Patty she whipped out her camera and started taking pictures.

 

Before they started to talk, I thought it would be a good idea to get them their milk that they so craved. Luckily my mother followed me into the kitchen. She didn’t say a word as I opened the fridge and grabbed the milk. To my surprise the milk had not been opened. I swiftly grabbed a glass while opening the new gallon of milk as my mother watched me like a hawk.

 

Remember kids. She was watching me the whole time.

 

I walked back to the doorway reluctantly handing them their milk with my mother close behind me. Slowly they all dropped their straws into the milk. They raved about how the straws were magical because they actually made the milk taste like strawberries. They asked me to take a sip, though reluctant at first I didn’t think much of it so I took a sip. My mother exclaimed after I drank the milk:

 

“Peer Pressure!!”

 

The giggles that filled the room with the discovery of these creative straws soon stopped. Everyone stared at my mother. Each second more awkward than the last. That is until one of my friends spoke up asking if I could go with them. Reluctantly she let me go which was really out of character, but I didn’t stay long enough to question it.

 

I mean why would I? It was a beautiful night and I would get to spend it with great people. And hey, maybe I could that last summer adventure I really wanted!

 

BUT WAIT. This is my life, there is always a catch.

 

About 10 minutes into my adventure I get a call from my infamous mother herself. Her tone was hushed and raspy but the conversation went like this:

 

“Hey.”

 

“they could have spiked the milk.”

 

“…what?”

 

“they could have spiked the milk.”

“…are you serious.”

 

“Don’t do drugs.”

“what?”

 

“THEY SPIKED THE MILK”

 

“But you saw me pour it and give it to them!”

 

“careful” *hangs up*

 

This all happened to me because i can’t have a normal life or friends. Oh well!

 

#poofproblems

-Poof

The Special High Five

Two summers ago I started working for my local Parks and Rec department as a T-Ball coach. Unlike soccer I was actually fairly good at Baseball related activities. I had been playing some form of Baseball sense I could walk. I thought “Hey, this will be easy I just have to teach kids not to throw bats at other kids, how hard can it be?” Well as usual I overlooked one small, tiny detail:

 

I hate kids.

 

I mean I REALLY hate kids.

I HAVE A PASSION FOR ART GUYS. WOW. O. WOW. ART.

 

I guess I had too many awful experiences as a babysitter in my preteens to even like kids at all. Kids are smelly, loud, and they ask way too many questions. They also have a lot of feelings and cry a lot and i’m already an angsty teen so I don’t need more of that in my proximity. Like honestly children are the bane of my existence.

 

Wouldn’t I be a great mother guys?

 

It was a hot summers evening in early July. This was the night of my teams last game for the season and they were playing…ok. Now I am a very competitive person but these kids play for fun so when someone strikes out while trying to hit a ball off of a stationary object, I force a smile on my face anyway and tell them that they tried their best. Usually I throw in a high five too. Why do I do all of this if I hate children? Well it’s quite simple really.

 

Their parents never leave.

 

And if there is one thing that I have learned in my 18 years on this planet is that you do NOT mess with Parks and Rec parents. They. Are. Ruthless.

 

So anyway back to the game. Everyone was laughing and having a good time and I even found myself genuinely smiling during the duration of this last game. Now it might have been the heat or something but I felt a little sad that It was my last night coaching these kids.

 

When the game was done everyone shook hands with the other team and we had our last group talk together. I gave a little speech that I’m sure none of them will remember and then they all ran off to their parents to go home and do whatever it is children do at home.

 

All of them left, except for Charlie.

 

Charlie.

 

Oh Charlie Charlie Charlie.

 

Charlie was one of the few kids on the team that I thought I would remember after the season was over. He would just do and say some of the most ridiculous things. But even I didn’t see this coming.

 

“Umm coach.”

 

“What’s up Charlie?”

 

“Umm…can I get one more high five before I go?”

 

“Oh uhh sure Charlie.” as I lowered my hand to a level that he could actually reach.

 

“Oh no this is a special high five!”

 

“Oh alright, what do you want me to do Charlie?”

 

“Keep your hand there but just close your eyes ok?” For some foolish reason I listened to Charlie. The next thing I knew a tiny hand slapped my ass.

 

He was seven.

 

My eyes sprung open in utter shock only to see Charlie sprinting toward the safety of his parents yelling “Thanks coach! See you next year!”

 

I stood in that spot for 10 minutes in utter shock. It’s safe to say that I will never forget Charlie.

 

#poofproblems

-Poof

The Origin of “Poof”

September 2009. I had just entered my first year of high school. I was only a freshman sure but I was ready to take on the world and make a name for myself. However, it is kinda hard to make a name for yourself (a good name at least) when no one actually knows if you’re real or not and if you are incredibly socially awkward.

 

Speaking of socially awkward, about a week into my freshman year I got switched into a new gym class. Not only is a freshman gym class awkward enough, but it really didn’t help that I only knew a few people in the class.

 

Because I was in a new class with new people I decided it was a special occasion and It was important to leave a good impression. So I decided to wear my hair down. In the beginning of my freshman year I was really embarrassed by my genetic defying curly hair, but I was trying to come to terms with it.

 

We were all in the main gym when my teacher announced that we were going to be playing:

 

Soccer.

 

Outside. Where there were strong winds and 100% humidity.

 

I, am awful at soccer. I always have been, and I am pretty sure I always will be. When I was a kid my mother made me play soccer from the ages of 4 to 7, but I was always that kid that would only run, If I was running to make sure that I was going to be goalie so I wouldn’t have to run.

 

Classic childhood me.

 

Anyway soccer. So we all go outside as a class and the humidity hit me with full force.

 

Now if you don’t have curly or thick hair, let me explain what humidity does to your hair.

Remember that episode of the Suite Life of Zack and Cody where Maddie’s hair was growing bigger and bigger by the minute because of the 100% humidity on her big date? Yeah. That was me. Except my date…was a date with destiny.

me

Still determined to make a good first impression despite the humidity I thought “Hey, maybe I’ve gotten better at soccer without even touching a soccer ball in 8 years? Seems legit right?”

 

Wrong.

 

So…So wrong.

 

Let’s just say I was better when I was 7.

 

After 10 minutes of trying to play soccer I eventually gave up and walked toward the fence in shame hoping no one would pass the ball to me again. I took out my phone to check the time only to drop it in horror of the reflection I saw.

 

My hair had tripled in size.

 

And THAT is saying something.

 

I was starting to freak out hoping that something, anything would make my hair stop from getting any bigger. I was pressing down as hard as I could on any section of my hair that I could reach when all of a sudden:

 

Someone passed me the ball.

 

Since it was soccer you were supposed to keep your eyes on the ball at all times, and when your eyes are on the ball, you tend to see who has it. And oh boy did everyone see the train wreck of a freshman that had the ball. I had still had both hands on my hair trying to push it down while my bull legged legs were buckled together. Instinctively I thought it would be a good idea to try and get low to the ground so they wouldn’t see me.

 

Keep in mind I’m smarter now.

 

But in that instant, something happened that would change my life forever:

 

“HEYYYYYYYYYYY POOFYYYYYYYYYYY!!!” One of my classmates yells from across the soccer field. At first I was appalled. I wanted to yell “It’s not my fault!! It’s the humidity I swear!” But at this point, I no longer had any words. I was so emotionally ditraught that I just sprung up and took all of my anger out on that soccer ball. The ball flew all the way across the field to my classmate as he went in and scored.

 

“Nice kick Poof!” “Good job Poof!” My classmates shout as they run to congratulate the scorer. I am left standing at the opposite end of the field alone in utter confusion, muttering out a single “wat”.

 

The funny thing about high school is how quickly word gets around. The next thing I knew everyone was calling me “Poof” or some variation of the term. Even people I didn’t really know at all. It’s safe to say that it’s become a big part of who I am.

 

And this was the story of my first…

 

#poofproblems

-Poof