Growing up, my sister and I had the fortune of being raised alongside our kinfolk (I live in the South now, so I can use that word like it’s no big deal and still relevant in this century. Although I only ever heard it once growing up, in a history book). A batch of our cousins would visit for weeks at a time in the summer and being in such a small town, we made our own fun. Like getting the garden hose out and filling up a plastic pool on the deck to swim (even when you feel WAY too grown up to get into it).
As it goes with family, you often times become so comfortable, you can let it all hang out (sometimes quite literally). On the specific day in the photo below, we had an absolute surprise from my cousin T. He was particularly lazy, not wanting to get out of the pool for a bathroom break.
That’s the little shit (pun intended) T in the back, concentrating on his masterpiece. My sister is on the left, splashing with oblivious delight, as I sit next to her in my Rainbow Brite swimsuit, not amused. Of course T’s big brother in front thinks it’s all kinds of hilarious. Being trashy is knowing better but doing it anyway, not giving a rat’s ass what anyone thinks. And T absolutely knew better but rejoiced in seeing our squeals of disgust and overreaction to the floater in the baby pool.
Although, I’m thinking a turd in a plastic pool was a step up from where my folks originally took me to swim…in mud puddles (because that’s all kinds of sanitary, yes?) where it looked like someone had previously taken a dump.
No pool? No worries. Just find a hole on a gravel road and insert kids! Luckily for me, I had on long pants unlike my teeny weeny friend Erica who got to soak in all of the benefits of a gravel pit with her short overalls.
Now that’s nothing if not fabulous trash.