Peeing in the Gene Pool

There comes a time in every young girl's life, or at least in every poor, red-headed, ridiculously pale, painfully underdeveloped young girl's life, when one realizes that summer is, to put it mildly, not one's best season.

For me it hit around 1980. I was six years old, my parents were separating and my favorite song was "It's Still Rock & Roll To Me." That July I continued to frequent the local country club, even though in a lawyer's office on the other side of town my father was busy informing my mom that if she went through with the divorce, both she and her children would live in "buttface poverty." Were there guys named Todd, unlimited Dr Peppers and Twix from the freezer in "buttface poverty"? I was sure to find out, but for now I was sittin' pretty, poolside in an Izod polo.

A "friend" of my dad's was running me to daily swim lessons at the club, where I learned all the important stuff in life?how to float, tread water and pin a urine rap on the kid next to me by peeing near them and then quickly swimming away. My instructor was a twentysomething beefcake in a spandex marble bag and mirror shades. Craig was also a competent teacher, and loved the song "Hot Blooded" by Foreigner, or at least he sang along whenever it played over the loudspeaker.

That's when I first began to sense that his kind would instinctively mate with a different gene pool. Perhaps someone sun-kissed, with sleepier eyes and more turquoise jewelry. The kind of girl Foreigner would go for ("I want to know/what you're doin'/after the show"). But hey, I wasn't going to look anything like myself when I grew up! When I was 13, Barbizon would turn me into a model named Heather, or just make me look like one. I could afford to be merely "interesting" for now.

Stacey, however, was already 13. She was one of Craig's other students?a freckled, puckered-faced brunette. Her eyes were neon green, and my mother told me never to trust someone with lips that thin. While my physiognomy may have whispered potato blight of 1845, hers screamed no branches on the family tree. Stacey had the drive, but she was definitely not a frontman's babe. This one was strictly roadie territory. Yet that didn't stop her from hanging on Craig during our private lessons. She would crawl onto his back, cannonball in between us, and demur when he ordered her to leave.

One morning toward the end of August, I showed up and Craig was gone. He'd been fired, and I knew it was Stacey's fault. Later on, I asked my mom what I was going to look like when I grew up. "The same way you do now, stupid. Only after next week, a lot poorer."

Oh well, who could blame her. She was probably high at the time. And following that comment, I spent my summers much more productively?in my room practicing my jokes.

For years, though, I felt sorry for Craig. Then in high school I had the mixed blessing of unraveling a particularly tricky passage in the lyrics to "Hot Blooded," which read, "Come on baby/Do ya do more than dance." Craig probably landed on his feet at a Radio Shack somewhere anyway. What price beauty, huh? I suppose that summer prepped me for another big revelation?that being poor, red-headed, ridiculously pale and painfully underdeveloped isn't the worst thing in the world, because summer's children usually end up selling stereo equipment.