No running. And Dan — no walking at a normal pace, klutz. Take it extra slow.
No diving — period. And no cannonballs — Dan. We gave you a three cannonball allotment per day and you took advantage of our trust. So no more cannonballs. Welcome to this little thing called consequences, Dan.
No food or drink around the pool. Especially no rice cakes. Leave your rice cakes at home, Dan. They’re not a real snack and they always wind up in the pool and clog up the filter.
No swimming without a lifeguard on duty. No one believes that you’re CPR certified and swam in college, Dan. If there’s not a red-suited butt in the chair, your ass can’t be in the pool.
No peeing in the pool. No bodily fluids of any kind at any time. So stop getting in the pool after you’ve had three Coronas, Dan. And keep your snot-nosed kids out of the water too. They scare me. The older one said he knows how I’m going to die.
No street clothes in the pool. That includes crocs, Dan. We don’t know where your crocs have been but we know it can’t be good. And stop with all the Grateful Dead t-shirts in or outside of the pool, man.
No peeling off the plastic from the outdoor tables, watering it down with the complimentary cucumber water, and using the cabana chaise lounge cushions as water sleds down the illegal makeshift slip ‘n’ slide you routed to dump into the deep end of the pool. Pool property is not your property, Dan. Your dad may own the resort, but you don’t. And the board will make sure you never do.
No alternative sunscreens. Things you can buy at CVS only. That means stop bringing your weird homemade organic tanning paste, Dan. It’s fucking with the delicate chemical balance of the pool. The pH is hazardous to children under six months.
No entering the pool without showering first. We know you wore the homemade organic tanning paste, Dan. It turns the water black. What the fuck even is that? Please say you’re not putting it on your children.
No animals in the pool, or on the deck, or anywhere at the resort. And yes, a live salmon counts as an animal. While we’re on the subject: please stop telling people you brought a pet, waiting for a response, and then whipping a pet rock out of your pocket. It’s so cringe, Dan. So cringe.
No karaoke at any time. You can thank Dan for that. He just couldn’t stop queueing Grateful Dead songs. Nobody knows the words to those!
No more than 50 people in the pool at any time. Unless Dan is in the pool. Then the maximum capacity is Dan. This is best for everyone.
No bringing your own slip ‘n’ slides from home, connecting them end-to-end and weaving them past the concierge desk, through the Sunset Lounge, around the pool deck, and into the pool. No using the nice cushions from the antique settees in the lobby as water sleds on the illegal, ramshackled “Goliath 5000” waterslide you’ve cobbled together. Do not let Dan talk you into aiding and abetting this. You will be asked to leave.
No creating battle forts with pool rafts or staging elaborate historically accurate combat choreography with pool noodles. Reenacting the Dano-Swedish war is profoundly confusing for everyone, Dan. No one knows how the Battle of Brunkeberg transpired, and no one is well versed enough in the lore of King Christian I of Denmark to grasp your cannonball joke.
No wearing a wig and a fake mustache and telling people your name is Tyler and you work in investment banking and you’re here on business and business is good but you’re starting to get sick of the travel because you never see your children, but the only thing worse than traveling all the time would be permanently staying in one place — never moving, never changing, surrendering to suburban domesticity, aging day by day, dying slowly, and then all at once, leaving behind enormous funeral fees and broken promises — so you can cannonball in the pool. Everybody knows it’s you, Dan. The mustache does nothing to hide the back tattoos.
No shirts, no shoes, no Dan, no problem.
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Madeline is a writer based in New York with her collie, Oskar.