Life Lesson #23: Oh Cabana boy! Why don’t you come rub some lotion on my back? And don’t forget, I need those TP reports first thing tomorrow!

I wish there was a way to turn Sunday poolside lounging into an actual paying job. Or even better yet, make it into a career. Leisure Expert, or something of the sorts. That would be amazing.

I would kick some serious ass at my job. The corporate ladder would be my bitch.

My dad has always said that you should discover what it is that you love to do and find a way to get paid for it. Well, I’m kind of in love with our summer share pool. And I’m trying very hard to get this to work for me in a moneymaking sense.

I never really used to be a pool lover. I always fell on the beach bum side of the fence.

Ever since I can remember, my parents would take my brothers and I to Jones Beach on summer Saturdays. While we pretty much grew up in Westchester, they refused to join any sort of country or pool club that most families of this fine county belonged to. I guess it’s a Bronx thing; if Jones Beach was good enough for them when they lived in the borough, it would remain so when they moved up the line.

There was nothing more exciting than hearing the garage door signal my dad had returned from the deli with cold cut sandwiches and Doritos (please, let it be Cool Ranch this week). My mom would put them into a cooler with plums or peaches, watermelon, cookies, several Heinekens for my dad, and a giant jug of either pink lemonade or iced tea for the rest of us. This would get packed into the trunk of the car, along with our giant beach blanket, towels to dry off with, reclining chairs for my parents, my mom’s tote filled with sunscreens, lip balms, tissues, plastic cups and sweatshirts, and last, but definitely not least, another massive bag filled with miscellaneous pails, shovels, Star Wars figurines, WWF dolls made of solid rubber (Andre the Giant, King Kong Bundy, Iron Sheik, George 'the Animal' Steel, and of course, Hulk Hogan), mini water guns, and every once in awhile, a random Barbie I had helped to escape from my room and join her wrestling heroes for a crazy day in the sun.

We’d pile into the car and make the hour (hopefully) drive out to Long Island. By the time we reached the Jones Beach tollbooths, I could be found in the middle back seat, bouncing with excitement and the desperate need to pee. If luck was on our side, we’d be able to pull right into Field 6 (my dad’s favorite due to the shortest walk from the parking lot to the actual sand), although that was pretty rare. After a few circles around though, the old man always managed to get us into his desired field, regardless of any LOT FULL signs or orange cones meant to block you from entering.

Fifteen minutes later, this kid was in heaven. A rented umbrella would be swiveled into the sand, declaring the ten by ten section of beach ours for the next six or so hours. The spot would be covered with our plethora of stuff, sand and toys and towels a giant mess in only moments. The day would be spent at a dizzying speed as we ran from the water, to the sand, to our treasure of toys, to chase down the guy selling ice cream, back to the car (Andre the Giant and Iron Sheik had a nasty habit of escaping the bag and hiding in the darkest corner of the trunk), to the blanket, to the giant hole my dad would shovel for us, back to the water, to our towels, into our parents chairs when they went for a walk, back to the hole now covered with the blanket, to the chairs now in the hole, to the sand, and back to the water before our mom could stop us.

When the sun would just about hit the top of the horizon, my brothers and I would shake the sand from our feet, wrap ourselves in the blanket and pass out in the back seat, only to wake up as we pulled into the driveway.

Years after I was too old to run around half-naked, bits of chips mixed with sand still on my lips as I screamed at the top of my lungs “BARBIE IS GOING TO MAKE A POOPIE IN THE OCEAN!!” (yea, even then I was out of line and got a huge kick out of making others highly uncomfortable), we’d still take frequent trips to the beach. And I still loved it. I still do. And almost any day of the week, beach wins over pool.

But I’ve got to admit; the pool ain’t so bad either. Especially on a Sunday.

I figure that if I’m going to attempt to pursue this sure-to-be highly coveted occupation as Leisure Expert, specializing in Pools, I should really start fine-tuning the necessary skills, which I of course have been seriously contemplating over here.

The capacity to spend several hours doing not much of anything, without special attention to little, if any, detail of one’s clothing and/or proper pool attire.

Proactive nature in regards to bringing key food ingredients to the deck, including such items as chips, water, Gatorades and/or Vitamin Water, flavored ices and bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches.

The ability to reassess the previous night’s activities in a relatively un-chronological, erratic manner, with bouts of hysteria and uncontrollable laughter.

Little, if any, fears of getting extremely cold and wet in the pool as a necessary means to an end (of a vicious hangover). Note that minimum submersion time is five minutes, but can easily be up to sixty at a time.

Life Lesson # 23: So I'm having some difficulty figuring out what the hell I'm going to do when I move. But maybe I should open up my eyes to the possiblity that, well, anything is possible. Like Papa John said, you've got to love what you do or you're going to hate life.

So Leisure Expert might be pushing it a bit. Then again, maybe not. There's Dirty Jobs and a whole television channel devoted to food. Why not a book on the 100 Best Sunday Funday activities? Or a television show following me around from pool party to pool party, mingling with people to find out what they're all about and just how they wound up floating with me on a noodle on a lazy Sunday afternoon?

If that doesn't work - I could always go back to the beach. That is my first love after all. How about starting an Olympics for the largest sand pit or the search for the wackiest lifeguard out there?

I'm thinking big people. I already quit my real job. At this point, I really have nothing to lose.