I have seen some gross stuff in my lifetime.
Back when I was 15 or 16, I was working as a camp counselor when one of my fingers got wedged between a large stone and the edge of a shovel. The resulting blood-puss-nail decay combination nearly caused me to pass out.
Many times, returning from New York City to New Rochelle, I’d use the Grand Central Station bathrooms, which were often oceans of flowing shit, urine-coated seat covers and festering wayward fluids.
Hell, I can sit here for hours and gross you out with tales of fatherhood; of vomit rivers rolling across my forehead and into my eyeballs; of exploding diaper excess staining my forearms. On and on and on and on and …
Nothing nasties me out like used poolside Band-Aids.
The above photo was taken earlier today. We’re on vacation in Virginia, at a place with a bunch of chairs surrounding a pool. I was comfortable and happy and relaxed, until I looked down and saw … it. The Band-Aid. Yeah, it features one of the Disney princesses. But all I could see—all I still can see—is the nastiness that fills my mind. An oozing cut. A festering wound. Someone running along the lip of the pool and, oops, Band-Aid falls off. And sits there, in the sun, waiting for me; haunting my dreams; diseased and decayed and carrying some sort of cow virus.
I don’t know why poolside Band-Aids have this impact upon me. I mean, what about people who walk barefoot in bathrooms? That’s disgusting. What about the time my daughter, age 2, chewed on a worm? Not cool.
But the Band-Aid … just … just … just …