joys taken for granted
I work as a lifeguard for a country club during the day. It doesn’t pay well, but it does pay regularly. Writing doesn’t do that for me; not yet.
Most of the well-heeled members use the pool as a de facto daycare, even if they stay to “go swimming with the kids.”
“Go swimming with the kids,” in country club parlance, means dumping the kids in the pool, meandering to the downstairs bar — they’re in the process of building one poolside — grabbing a glass of wine or something with an umbrella in it and clustering with friends and fellow Masters of the Universe for wife-chatter, mindless banter and glad-handing.
It’s my job to watch their magnificent, precious darlings (“all the children are above average”).
I enjoy it; the kids are mostly young enough not to realize the dickhead licenses Mommy and Daddy wield so willingly.