Some rules were made to be Laminated

So I decided to hit the pool this morning. You know—clear my head, escape my inbox, and float away from the 47 “we’ve decided to move forward with other candidates” emails currently haunting my Gmail like passive-aggressive ghosts.

I brought my towel, my dignity (what was left of it), and a firm intention not to think about LinkedIn. I was ready to vibe. Maybe even do one of those slow-motion intros where you walk into the pool area like life is a rom-com instead of a résumé graveyard.

And that’s when I saw her.

Karen.

In full business casual.

At 8:06 a.m.

Arguing. With. The. Pool. Attendant.

He looked about 19 and very emotionally unprepared for the intensity of someone who speaks exclusively in workplace jargon.

She was holding a laminated paper (naturally) and pointing to the pool like she was filing a zoning complaint.

I slowed down. Because obviously, bonus points if chaos is included with your pool pass.

Karen was saying, and I quote:

“Per community guideline 7.3 subsection C, no one is permitted to reserve chairs before 9 a.m.—this chair had a towel on it at 7:52.”

I swear the pool attendant blinked in Morse code for help.

She then followed up with:

“If this isn’t resolved, I will escalate. I have documentation.”

And you know what? She did.

She pulled out a photo. Time-stamped.

Of a beach chair.

With a towel on it.

Like it was crime scene evidence.

Meanwhile, I’m in the corner trying to quietly melt into the pool like a sad popsicle with a LinkedIn profile.

She wasn’t done.

Karen marched around the pool like she was inspecting a corporate merger.

She paused at the snack bar and said,

“Do you have a breakdown of nutritional content for the nacho cheese? Just asking for transparency.”

Ma’am. It’s 8 a.m. We are not interrogating the nacho cheese.

She spotted a dad holding a floatie and said,

“Just a reminder—no oversized inflatables unless they meet community safety regulations. Page 12, bottom paragraph.”

Then she turned to a group of teenagers laughing near the deep end and said,

“Let’s keep the noise respectful. Some of us are here to relax professionally.”

Relax.

Professionally.

At one point she took out a mini clipboard and wrote something down like she was building a PowerPoint on water-based infractions.

I half expected her to turn the lifeguard chair into an onboarding kiosk.

So there I was, in the shallow end, trying to breathe through chlorine and emotional burnout, while Karen reinvented the entire concept of community pool governance.

It actually helped.

Because suddenly my job rejections didn’t seem so bad.

At least no one had created a Google Doc titled “Unacceptable Poolside Behavior – Alex Edition.”

Eventually, she left—after filing what I assume was a Yelp review and a follow-up ticket with the HOA.

And me?

I floated.

Finally.

In peace.

Until I heard someone whisper,

“She’s coming back tomorrow with a binder.”

Pray for us.