Smurfship One

For most of my adult life, I have followed one basic rule: Do not buy a giant inflatable swimming pool. Do not, under any circumstances, put a giant inflatable swimming pool in your backyard, where it will destroy the lawn and make your neighbors think you’re even weirder than they already do.

Quarantining, though, as social media has made quite obvious, has brought out the dumb in most of us, and so it has happened. We did it. We performed our civic duty and used part of Santa Trump’s money to make this purchase.

And, let me tell you, it…is… huge. I mean, it’s a really, really big deal.

How big is it? Well, let’s see. It’s big enough to require all of the crap that makes owning a pool such a terrible idea in the first place. For example, it requires a pump and it requires chemicals. It requires a ladder. It requires constant adult supervision and it so big it even requires level ground (much more on that delight later).

In other words, it is big enough to cause a headache but not large enough to be useful to an actual adult sized human. It is the ultimate hangover without the punch.

And it isn’t at all subtle about it, either. This pool is so fat and unnaturally blue that we might as well use it as a prop in a movie about a Smurf alien mothership.

Now, grant it, there is a certain amount of social currency that comes with owning a real swimming pool. You can say things, like,

“Hey, come over for a cookout and the kids can swim in our actual swimming pool.”

“Oh, that sounds fun. What time?”

“I’ll start the grill at six.”

“Count us in.”

See? That is a real adult conversation. That is how friendships are made and cemented.

We are not inviting anyone to our house to swim in this monster.

“Hey, come over for a cookout and the kids can swim in our Smurfship.”

“No, man. That sounds weird.”

Friendship over.

But we did it, though, and, let me tell you, it is over. The pool is up and the pump is pumping, so the question becomes then, why did we do it? Why did we ruin a giant square patch of our lawn that I do not have the skills to redeem?

Well, why does anyone do anything these days, man? Because of the ‘ronna.’

We did it because of COVID-19.

When we purchased the pool, everything was cancelled for the summer, right? All the area swimming pools, the park districts sports, the church camps that promised us at least a few days each summer without our children yelling at each other…all of this was cancelled. And even if all of this wasn’t actually cancelled, it would be cancelled for us because, as I remind you every third column, our youngest has a compromised immune system, and so we are homebound for the long term.

Like I said before, we’ve been quarantining way before quarantining was cool, and we will probably be quarantining well past the point when most folks resume life as normal. We are here at this house, with very few places to go, and so we needed something to break up the dog days of summer so we didn’t break random electronic gadgets against the wall.

So, we bought this BAIP—A Big Adventurous Inflatable Pool—and therefore now I will offer you, totally free, some uncertified life coaching advice in the unlikely event you too will be so desperate as to purchase such a mistake.

Step One: Obviously, order the pool. The pool will come in a huge box with pictures of smiling people on the outside. These people do not own this pool, nor do they own the children swimming in the pool with them, unless they gave birth to the children when they were fifteen.  The family enjoying the pool on this box does not exist.

Step Two: Go on YouTube to find out how easy it is to put up this pool. All kinds of videos exist of people setting up their pool in less than three days. These families also do not exist.

Step Three: Find a level place in your yard. No, not that spot. That spot is not level enough. Seriously, I’m telling you…you’re wasting your time. OK, wow. You just wasted a lot of water.

Step Four: Find an actual level place in your yard and start all over, trying desperately not to think about the ecological disaster that was your first attempt.

Step Five: Inflate the top of the pool. Yes, you do look like an idiot.

Step Six: Start filling it with water. Try to get out all the wrinkles. Try harder. Keep trying.

Step Seven: Watch more YouTube videos for setting up the pump. Argue with your spouse loudly in the backyard.

Step Eight: Once the pump is functioning, tell your children they better jump in the pool right this minute regardless of how cold it is and they better like it because this is their summer fun so they better get used to it.

Step Nine: Sit and watch them enjoy the silly thing.

Step Nine is my favorite, because it will allow me to make a dent in my National Geographic collection. I’m currently reading the December issue of last year about this guy who went to prison for threatening to kill a lady because she didn’t approve of his business model.

Did you know that in the United States, there are more tigers living in captivity than there are living in the wild? Did you know that you can, if licensed, actually own a real tiger?  If you’re interested, I know where you can find a bathtub.