By Henri Pera
My buddy Michael finally finished his pool last month. Texted me: “Dude, you gotta see this thing. Come over Saturday.”
I should’ve said no.
The Curse of Knowing Too Much
Look, I’ve been in the construction business for almost two decades now. It’s what I do. And apparently, I’ve broken something in my brain where I can’t just be at a pool anymore.
I show up at Michael’s place around noon. Nice backyard, decent-sized pool, stone deck, the works. He’s beaming like a kid on Christmas. “What do you think?”
What do I think? I think his coping is slightly off-level on the east corner. I think whoever installed his return jets didn’t account for proper circulation. I think his waterfall pump is probably oversized and killing his electric bill.
But what I say is: “Looks great, man!”
Then I spend the next twenty minutes crouched by his equipment pad like I’m defusing a bomb.
“Henri, what are you doing?”
“Just checking your… uh… nothing. Getting another soda.”
My Wife Knows
Karine’s seen this before. Too many times. We’re at Michael’s for maybe thirty minutes when she gives me The Look. You know the one. The “you’re doing it again” look.
“I’m not doing anything,” I say.
“You’ve been staring at that tile line for five minutes.”
“I’m just—”
“Henri.”
“Okay, but seriously, why would anyone use matte finish in a pool? Do you know how hard that
is to clean?”
She walks away. Takes my soda with her. Fair.
The Intervention
Here’s the thing nobody tells you about getting really good at something: you lose the ability to not notice when it’s done wrong. Or even when it’s done okay.
Michael’s pool is fine. Actually, it’s better than fine. The contractor did a solid job. If I were a normal person — a civilian — I’d be having a great time right now. Swimming and enjoying the Florida sun.
Instead, I’m mentally redesigning his whole backyard layout.
My kid comes over, dripping wet. “Dad, you getting in?”
“Yeah, buddy, in a sec.”
“You said that an hour ago.”
Had I?
I look around. Michael’s got maybe fifteen people here now. Everyone’s in the water or sitting on the edge, laughing, having actual fun. His neighbor brought burgers. Someone’s kid is doing cannonballs. My wife is floating on a raft, ignoring me on purpose.
And I’m standing by the pump house. Alone. Like a weirdo.
The Realization (Sort of)
Michael walks over. “So, real talk — how bad did I screw up?”
“What? Dude, no, it’s great.”
“Come on, Henri. I’ve watched you circling this thing like a shark for two hours. Give it to me straight.”
So I tell him. The circulation thing, the oversized pump, the tile choice. He’s nodding along, taking mental notes
Then he says: “Yeah, but do you think people are having fun?”
I look around again. His kids are racing their friends across the pool. His wife is showing my wife the new outdoor kitchen. People are everywhere, and nobody’s standing around awkwardly making small talk. They’re just… being.
“Yeah,” I say. “They’re having fun.”
“Then I think I’m good, bro.”
The Ride Home (And the Awkward Truth)
Karine doesn’t talk to me the whole drive. Ten minutes of silence. Then:
“You know what Michael has that we don’t?”
I’m thinking she’s gonna say a pool. We don’t have a pool. Which is insane because I literally build pools for a living. It’s like a chef who doesn’t cook at home, or a barber with a bad haircut.
But that’s not what she says.
“He can enjoy things.”
Ouch.
“That’s not—”
“When was the last time you went somewhere and didn’t mentally critique it? We can’t go to restaurants. We can’t watch home improvement shows. We definitely can’t go to other people’s pools.”
She’s right. Obviously she’s right. I’ve turned into that guy. The one who can’t turn it off. Who sees problems instead of possibilities. Work instead of fun.
“I could probably fix that,” I say.
She starts laughing. “See? You’re doing it right now.”
So Here's Where I Am
I need a pool. Not as some big profound statement, and not even to show off what I can do. I need one so maybe I can trick my brain into relaxing. If it’s my pool — built exactly how I want it, with every detail perfect — maybe I can finally just… swim.
Or maybe I’ll just find new things to obsess over. New angles that aren’t quite right. New ways to
torture myself.
But at least my kids will have somewhere to bring their friends. And Karine can have her Saturday sunbathing at home rather than the community pool.
And if I’m standing by my own equipment pad, muttering about circulation patterns?
Well, at least I’m home.