I hated swim class as an elementary school kid, and wasn’t beneath feigning various ailments to recuse myself from the proceedings. Three reasons for my contempt: 1) As a ginger, my
pale translucent body was rife for mockery, 2) I couldn’t actually, you know, swim, and 3) I hated, hated, hated those damn rubber swim caps. What was their purpose? I’m assuming early 1980s pool technology was such that errant strands of hair wouldn’t destroy the filtering mechanisms, so let’s rule that out. It could be argued these pseudo skull prophylactics allowed for a friction-reduced experience, but is optimal swimming velocity all that essential for a class of nine year olds?
My biggest swim cap gripe is reserved for the application. Sticking the thing on your head was — and still is — equal parts painful, irritating, and soul sucking — a process that never becomes easier over time. At least, this was the case until the recent arrival of a fellow I’d like to dub Genius Ambiguously European Dad. If Nobel Prizes are doled out for lifehacking — and they should be — my main man’s accomplishments will soon be feted the world over. You sir, are a true humanitarian.