My parents are not cultured as I thought they were. My dad was just lacing up his Danner boots for his workday of feeding and caring for my brother’s animals, wincing each boot loop.
“You know what you need?” I suggested. “You’ve got to head to the pool and then spend time in the sauna with all of the old, fat guys.”
“What?!” he was shocked.
“You know,” I said. “All the fat guys hang out at the pool sauna to get rid of the bad toxins in their bodies. You should go join them and you’ll feel better.”
I’m not sure if he thought I was calling him fat or if he thought hanging out with fat guys in a sauna was a gross idea but he called out to share with my mom.
“What?” I asked. “You’ve never hung out with fat guys in a sauna?”
“No!” they both responded.
“Huh,” I started. “When I lived in Nampa, I’d go swimming every morning at about six and then I’d hang out in the sauna for a few minutes with all of the old, fat guys.”
“Hanging out with old men in a sauna is just gross,” my dad said. “They wear nothing but a towel.”
“No. These guys at least wore Speedos and not just the brand, but the sort of junk-covering material that makes us cringe when we see it on old men.”
My dad hurried to lace up his boots and head out the door. His muscles were suddenly much less sore.
I love the cultural barriers between my parents and I. They made duck pizza and dated in college in Nampa; I saunaed* with old, fat men in Speedos. To each his own.
* Note: Saunaed is not a real word, but you get what I’m talking about, right?