Last in the Rat Race

MRA skipped out of work yesterday afternoon to play golf with a good friend who is a member at St. Louis Country Club. I didn’t think twice about it until he called while I was en route to pick up Kate from camp.

“They’re playing polo this afternoon, if you and Kate want to come by and watch,” he whispers. (cell phones – big no no at The Club.)

I had forgotten that little gem. The most exclusive country club in STL has a polo field. And it’s just down the street from Kate’s camp. Polo. Horses. Heaven.

Our friend’s wife called and said that she and her son were going to meet us there and wait with us for the guys to finish golfing. Perfect.

We meet up and grab a seat in the Adirondack chairs lining the hill over looking the field. Behind us is the clubhouse. In front, the polo field. Along comes a woman – a member and friend of our friend. We gals settle in, enjoy the cocktails the wait staff bring and soak it up. The kids are running around within view and out of range of the polo balls. We talk about school, baby sitters, life and the challenge the other woman faces by her kids not being able to cut through a yard to get to the clubhouse. The live on the grounds. Of The Country Club. The one you can’t even BUY your way into. (You get the picture.)

More cocktails, the evening lengthens, and a husband shows up. Both of ours are still golfing. Polo is wrapping up and more kids have joined in the fun down by the water stand next to the field.

In the middle of one of my (surely inane) stories, I spy the kids. (Just checking to make sure I haven’t lost my offspring in this orgy of wealth and privilege.)

Oh.
My.
Nooo.

Without thinking, I wonder out loud, “Why does Kate HAVE HER PANTIES DOWN?”

Everyone turns to look as she’s yanking them back up. Granted the kids are down a little hill and about 100 yards away – really – so I can’t really be sure what just happened. But, I have a sinking suspicion… They carry on with whatever game they had made up and wander back up the hill.

“Kate, come here.”

Dutifully (for once) she comes over.

“WHY did you have your PANTIES DOWN?”

“I, well, I had to go (pee) and couldn’t make it.” The look of innocence is at once laughable and endearing.

I hold her arms and stare her down, “We don’t ever. Ever. EVER. EEVVVEEERR do that.” (But we do… At the park by the beach when the porta potties are way past gross. And at the river when it’s too far to trek back to our cabin. And on hikes when we’re deep in the woods.)

Nature called and she clearly didn’t see the difference.

My guess is that those in the dining overlooking the polo field COULD see the difference. And, in fact, saw much more.