Through observation, I can inform you that of the many varieties of larval-yuppie-childhood-recreational-activities, swim team appears to be one of the more miserable options. As these young swimmers flail and gasp for air with each blow of some coach's whistle, I can only imagine that they long to splash and scream, "MARCO! POLO!" and slap eachother silly with those neon-colored noodles.
It only seems natural that it would begin downpouring right before their scheduled swim meet against mighty Greenville. This resulted in a bunch of granola and gatorade-infused 6 to 7 year-olds and their Ann Taylor Loft- clad mothers crowding into the "club house" area. After approximately two horribly claustrophobic minutes, Sydney, the girl I was responsible for, looked up at me and asked if we could go outside. thankyousweetjesus.
Watching Sydney play in the rain was oddly inspiring. She asked me if I'd like some of the raindrops she'd captured in the palm of her hand. She then extended her arm and shook my hand, in order to share this wealth. (I guess this story did not have a point...)
This is a series of photos I took while riding my bike down a parking garage at around 2 a.m.