Now that summer is in full swing, a flood of memories, spanning 40 years, returns each time I pass a community pool.
As a kid growing up in suburban Chicago, the community pool tripled as playground, athletic facility and babysitter. Mom dropped me off nearly every morning or early afternoon for swim team practice and carefree days of diving and splashing with friends. She’d spend the next two to three hours doing whatever moms do when they have rare moments of summer free time.
Fast-forward to the years my own daughters viewed the community pool as their summertime entertainment mecca. As a self-employed business owner, my, um, “flexible” schedule allowed me ample opportunities to knock off work a few hours early, load the girls and their friends into my car mid afternoon and visit the pool even though parking by that time was nearly impossible.
Yes, I had to find parking because I was not just the Uber driver on these 3 p.m. jaunts. No, I wished to experience what my tax dollars were paying for so, like the girls, I packed a bag containing a towel, sunscreen, water and other pool necessities. I commandeered an empty pool chair and waited patiently…for the whistle.
The whistle I embraced as a parent but hated as a kid.
The whistle proclaiming adult swim.
The Sacred Nostalgia of the Pool Whistle
In a time frame that spanned the invention of text messaging, multiple stock market swings and one attack on America, adult swim stayed constant and unchanged. Usually ten minutes before every hour, lifeguards simultaneously blew a lone and lengthy whistle blast. Kids begrudgingly retreated to the pool walls and hoisted themselves out of the water while small pockets of “grown ups,” most using the pool ladders for support, entered. There were no ID checks; at community pools it’s very clear who qualifies for adult swim and who does not.
Ten minutes of a scream-free environment. Ten minutes knowing I could dip my face in the water without fear of it getting kicked by a 10-year-old who, judging by his energy level, had made too many trips to the snack bar during previous adult swims. Ten minutes is a small amount of time to cool off on a 90-degree day, but for adult swim participants it was all we needed.
When the top of the hour whistle signaled adult swim was over, we obediently exited the pool. An army of kids, many who spent adult swim sitting on the pool’s edge and dangling their feet in the water in a seeming act of defiance, took our places. We didn’t complain, for we knew our time would return, 50 minutes later. Adult swim was our beachside massage, our winning scratch-off lottery ticket, and our dog waiting to greet us at the door all rolled into one. It brought us temporary relaxation, happiness and anticipation.
Applying ‘Adult Swim’ Logic to Modern Stress
In our stressed out worlds, adult swims should be the norm everywhere. Planes for example. Airlines give “families needing extra time to board” priority over adults, even those holding “Group 1” tickets. I suggest we switch to “adult-swim” boarding. All ticketed adults board ahead of children, savoring 10 minutes of quiet before the toddler with digestive issues and an ear infection takes the seat behind us.
How about adult swim in restaurants? We get 10 minutes to quietly consume our meals as our children wait for their chicken nuggets and buttered noodles. Watching each bite, they will grow hungrier and more envious. Trust me, when their food arrives, complaints of “ewwww” and “I don’t like this” will drop tremendously.
Finally, and this is a stretch, adult swim at theme parks. And yes, that includes Disney World. For 10 minutes each hour, kids must patiently wait at the base of Space Mountain or the latest Harry Potter ride while their parents embark. Children will learn the value of patience while their parents experience two minutes of fear, thrills and memories of riding coasters at neighborhood carnivals, when times were simpler and “jump the line” tickets weren’t a thing.
I’d be more than happy to seek employment at Disney World if this system existed.
Just hand me a whistle.
