Christine and the Great Lazy River Uprising
Christine never swam laps.
She wasn’t training for the Olympics — she was training for relaxation.
Her favorite form of exercise was drifting slowly in her donut raft, eyes half-closed, one hand trailing lazily in the water like she was auditioning for a commercial about peace and quiet.
But these days, peace and quiet had gone extinct.
What used to be a calm community pool was now a “Family Splash Adventure Experience” — a water park so loud it could probably be heard from orbit.
Christine still showed up, raft under her arm, determination in her flip-flops. She plopped herself into the lazy river, hoping for her usual gentle float.
Instead, the current swept her straight past Pirate Cove Splash Zone, through Mega Dump Bucket Falls, and directly under a water cannon manned by three eight-year-olds on a sugar high.
“Ma’am, that’s a high-splash area,” a teenage lifeguard called out helpfully.
Christine glared, her mascara already running down her cheeks like battle paint.
“Yeah, I figured that out, soldier,” she muttered.
She tried to relax again, but every few feet another spray, splash, or water blaster took aim. By the third lap, her hair looked like she’d wrestled a dolphin and lost.
Still, she floated on — donut deflating slightly, dignity mostly gone — but her pride intact.
“Used to be you could just float in peace,” she sighed. “Now you need a helmet and insurance.”
When she finally climbed out, dripping and heroic, she looked back at the chaos — kids cannonballing, buckets dumping, fountains firing like a naval battle — and whispered,
“They can have it. I’m buying a kiddie pool and a garden hose.”
That night, she posted the photo: her on her donut raft, sunglasses on, mid-chaos.
Caption read:
“The last calm woman on the Lazy River.”
