In case you missed my last post, I figured out a way to leave shredding papers in the basement of my dad’s office and set my sights on a far sexier occupation: Iowa pool lifeguard.
Reasons why I wanted to lifeguard at Splash Landing:
• The pool manager was in his twenties, could grow a beard, and was the sexiest Ben Affleck look alike I had ever seen.
• Boys took their shirts off at the pool
• Everyone gets tan at the pool in the summer
Reasons why I was terrified to try out to be a lifeguard:
• I had to pass a swim test for Ben Affleck and while in my mind I was a sassy flirtatious queen, in practice I wouldn’t utter two words to Ben.
• I HAD TO PASS A SWIM TEST FOR BEN AFFLECK and I’m 15!
Trying out to be a lifeguard was the first time I cared about anything in a fewyears. Other than fighting a lot with my dad, writing sad mopey journal entries and wishing I was in my twenties so I could move to California, I now had a goal I cared about and set my plans in motion. First, I went down to the office across the street from the pool and got an application. I filled it out at the kitchen table, asking my mom for my social security number not even knowing what one was at the time. I had my driver’s permit so that upped my cool factor. I wouldn’t have to ask my mom to drop me off a block away in her embarrassing bright yellow car waving out the window, “Have a nice day, Han!” No, I could drive myself to the pool in my bad ass black Oldsmobile Cutlass pimped out with dice in the mirror.
When I turned in my application, I expected to go home and wait and be nervous like I’d just auditioned for American Idol. Instead, I handed the my application to a very practical thirty something, butch-looking, general manager who looked it over and without looking up said, “Be back here Saturday morning, 8 am for a swim test.” As an aside, I’m sure I still use too many words when I’m gaining understanding of something but her answer did nothing but elicit more questions: So, am I hired? How many laps is the swim test? Can you do it, instead of Ben Affleck? How many hours will this last? Should I be nervous? My list of internal questions went on and yet I answered, “Okay.”
Friday night before the big swim test, I laid out my speedo, goggles and cap in my lucky Jansport burnt orange backpack and anticipated the morning to come. I then studied an article in Seventeen Magazine on shading your chest with bronzer powder to somehow enhance your cleavage because procrastination helps calm me down. I painted my top boobs brown and didn’t see a bit difference in the bathroom and then wrote this in my mopey journal:

Dear Journal,
I don’t even know why I’m doing this stupid swim test. It’s not like any of the guys I love from Assumption are going to be there. Maybe this is just my way of branching out to new Bettendorf guys? I can’t wait to have a boyfriend. I doubt Midwestern boys even know how to swim. We used to swim all the time in Cali. I can’t wait to be twenty and move back there. Well, I’m thankful that even though I was fat, my mom encouraged me to swim for the Rockville Rays as a kid in Maryland. I may not be good at other sports but I can swim for a long time without feeling tired. Too bad this doesn’t count for being sexier in high school. Nighty, night journal!
The next morning, there was dew on the grass and the concrete of the pool deck was cold beneath my feet. I walked into the locker room, stripped off my sweats, sucked in my gut, grabbed my cap and goggles and tried to make sure no one could actually hear my heart beating like a drum up into the back of my throat. Out walked Ben Affleck looking all fine with his morning scruff and slouchy athletic sweats and a clipboard. He said something about how the butch lady manager was supposed to do this swim test but she called in so he now HAD to do it. Ouch, Ben, I thought to myself. I seriously thought you’d be happier to see me at 8 am in a Speedo.
I don’t remember how long the tests were, but I do remember we had to tread water, show proficiency in all the strokes and then do a timed race. Suddenly, I was trying out for Navy Seals. I wish I had known then I had a competitive streak because I could’ve been much more accomplished in high school had I channeled it. The game was on and I was ready to cut a bitch who drifted over in to my lane. I’d mow down this competition then throw it in reverse and back right back over you to be sure you understood the meaning of a dominant bitch. Well not really, but I was invested! The prize was an imaginary rose from Ben and I wasn’t about to go down without giving it my all. Now that I’m thinking about it, I’m pretty sure Ben was hungover behind his sunglasses. He was probably burping up last night’s Jägermeister wishing he were dead. Hell, he probably passed all of us so long as we could doggie paddle! This swim test was my only time to shine and I knew it. I have a nice buffer of mid-section fat (always have) that creates an incredible amount of buoyancy in the water. So long as I pull the sponge bob square pants that is my torso swimming has never been too hard.

As soon as I got done, I pulled my swim cap off and checked to see if I remembered to take off the boob bronzer from practicing in the mirror last night. Ben then came up to each of us and asked us our availability for the summer. Again, I knew I had to put a filter on things for coolness sake because answering the question truthfully would sound like, “Well aside from fighting with my dad, writing mopey journal entries and practicing make-up and hair in the mirror I’m pretty much wide open.” My imagination often gets the best of me and I had a solid daydream moment where I wondered if this was code for Ben asking me out on date. “Hey, Hottie are you like, available?” Once I came to, I realized this was NOT what he meant. My real answer, “Um, yea. I can work like Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday…”
I drove myself home berating myself for that overly available answer and my earlier excitement turned into this rotten attitude of dread and embarrassment for putting myself out there like THAT. Please, God, my family better not ask me how it went because I want to die right now.
I came home and mom asked, “So, how do you think you did?”
“I think I swim well I just wish I wasn’t such a dork.”
“Han, you’re not a dork.”
“Mom, this means nothing because you’re my M-O-M. You’re forced to show love whether you got dealt a dorky daughter hand or not.”
A few days after, I got a call from Butch saying I got the job! I was excited for the prospect of having more chances to impress Ben and that I had earned a job on my own merit. It felt really damn good and was the proudest moment of my teenage life thus far.
Once I started, I realized life guarding was about as boring as watching paint dry. I looked forward most to rotating chairs, at which time I could stand at the base of the next chair and talk to whatever lifeguard was switching out with me. And while it didn’t earn me points with Ben or any of the other boys I tried impressing, I always volunteered to fish the kid poo out of the pool after it had been cleared of swimmers.
The poo alarm went something like this, a loud obnoxious child would scream up at a lifeguard, “There’s poo floating in the pool! Ew!!” From there the head lifeguard got on the mic and said, “It is mandatory all swimmers please clear the pool!” Cue me with a long pole with a net on the end. I truly enjoyed fishing kid poo from the pool because it was an activity where I could actually get wet and stretch my legs from that boring chair. Hannah, poo fisher woman to the rescue! Negative points earned on the sexy scale but I was too damn sweaty to care at that point.

Towards the end of the summer, Ben came up to me and I almost fainted from either heat stroke from 88 degree humid summer or because I thought Ben was finally coming to his senses and asking me out. He said, “Hey Hannah, I think you’re really hot and I want to take you out sometime.” False. He never said that. Instead he said, “Hey Hannah, technically you’re supposed to be 16 to teach swim lessons but one of our instructors has to go back to college early. Do you want to teach the tots class?” Ben could’ve asked me if I wouldn’t mind doing a back flip off the lifeguard stand and I would’ve done it. So without thinking about the fact that I hated babies and most children at this period I said, “Yea. I think I can do  that.”

Teaching babies really means putting up with moms. Moms treat their babies like they’re made of porcelain. With a ton of enthusiasm I sat in the tot pool and said things like, “Alright everyone, show me your bubbles! Blow bubbles!! That’s great! Now kick, kick, kick, kick.” It was very obvious to me that the babies didn’t care what I said to them, just touch their feet in water and it was like they knew they were coming home. They appeared to be tactile only, and loved the feel of recreating the free float they had in utero. It was the moms who cared if I liked their pooping, squealing, piglet babies. As the old saying goes, “Fake it till you make it,” and so I did. At the end of the 3 week class the moms filled out very nice evaluation forms on me and Ben and Butch pretty much let me do my thing.

When the summer wrapped, I was sad to say goodbye to the pool. While I came in thinking I was going to get a boyfriend. I left thinking I’m a pretty darn good swim teacher and I had grown in confidence and gotten outside of my own insecurities.
That fall I got a call from Butch saying they had a request for a private swim instructor for a “sensitive situation” and would I be interested? Well, I thought. What is the situation? There was a 26 year old local grocery store manager who was brutally embarrassed that he never learned how to swim. He had just become a father and wanted to learn so he could swim with his kid. Did I want the weekend job at the indoor pool? Without thinking about how awkward it would be to try and float a 6 ft white male I said an enthusiastic, “Yes!” I left thinking I was about to get Brad Pitt for private swim lessons. SCORE!