Because I Don't Want To Forget This Happened

I lie here, in this deck chair, poolside. The chair, much lighter than expected, is made of a faux-iron plastic. Conveniently, the faux-iron has "corroded" into a nice green color that matches the nylon support fabric. The pool is not my own. Neither is the 3rd grade girl swimming in the pool. They both belong to a wealthy family, residents of the Highland Park community in Dallas, TX. I have never met the patriarch or matriarch of said wealthy family. I am not even friends with any of their friends. Yet I am here. I am here because my friend's girlfriend is babysitting said 3rd grader who is swimming in said pool. Said 3rd grader's older brother is rollicking around here somewhere, probably throwing pistachios or shoving said babysitter into the pool.

I am here, still lying, shirtless, reading C.S. Lewis, polarized Oakley's protecting my eyes from glare and UV radiation. The rest of my body absorbs the full spectrum. Just me and said third grade girl. Enter said third grader's father, the patriarch, provider of all of this. I am surprised to see him. I can only imagine his surprise in seeing me. Strange shirtless twenty-something boy in his deck chair, by his swimming pool alone with his 3rd grade daughter. Talk about awkward. I quickly remove the shades (both literally and figuratively), introduce myself, and explain my connection and reason for being there. He returns to the interior, and out emerge said babysitter and boyfriend. Great timing guys. Thanks for that. I think they were lurking, watching, listening. Perhaps they even instigated the meeting between myself and patriarch. Whatever. The worst was yet to come.

We are about to depart. Matriarch has returned home, so said babysitter is no longer needed. So typical family, dad provides, mom nurtures/cooks, etc. Got it. Mom enters pool area.

"Hi [said babysitter], thanks so much for coming. Sorry about connor pushing you into the pool. He is just in that phase."
"Oh no problem, thanks for letting me borrow your clothes. Do I look like a Highland Park mom? Oh, you've met my boyfriend Doug, this is his friend Thomas."
I am moving said deck chair back to its proper location, flanking its twin in the shade. I am now fully clothed, deshaded, and not alone with any young children.
"Hello Mrs. Olson, good to meet you. You have a great home.
blah blah blah small talk blah blah blah
Mrs. Olson: "Well I'll have to see what flights I have next week. We had two legs today and a pilot rode in the jumpseat on the last leg because the flight was so full."
"Oh, are you a flight attendant?" (at this point i was very proud of myself for not saying "stewardess." I am so PC!)
"No, I am a pilot for American."
"Oh..."

Wow, I am a chauvinist. So awkward. Good job me. Bet she doesn't get that all the time. At this point i figured I should have just buried myself is misogyny with a comment like "Oh, you mean a copilot?" or "You mean like a navigator, right? Because women are good at giving men directions."
Thankfully, Mrs. O. is very graceful in the situation and my friend Doug helps me out my mentioning that I want to be a military pilot, etc. Crisis averted, but I still feel like a tool. Good times.