That Day By The Pool.

Who doesn’t need a pool story in this weather, amiright? Here goes…

I’ve never really understood this exercise. I mean, I have, but also, I don’t. I mostly don’t understand why the fuck I insisted on being tough and sitting directly on this burning surface rather than taking the towel that was offered me. The concrete surrounding the pool is lava hot and the surface uneven. Even though I have a generous amount of flesh on my bottom, all things considered, I am losing this battle. It feels like shit. I shift and imagine visible pilling and tears on the bottom of this overpriced bathing suit I was conned into buying by the overly made-up sales associated at Nordstrom.

That’s what she called herself.

Martha, the sales associate. Her name tag read this way as well, but she felt compelled to share it with me. It was as if this title gave her some air of authority. My name is Martha, and I am a sales associate and no bathing suit worth its salt goes for less than $120. Insane.

Guess what Martha, this overpriced piece of lycra and spandex or whatever the fuck else this is made of, is just as easily marred by steaming pool patios. Doesn’t fucking matter. You want to impress me? Don’t bother with push up cups that don’t shift and move (they do) or flattering leg holes (never) or color schemes that compliment a medium tan (they don’t). Find me fabric that doesn’t get fucked up whilst sitting next to a pool, and we are friends for life. $120. No problem. Let’s up the ante. I’ll do $200 if it works.

My feet are dangling in the pool and this is supposed to bring down my core body temperature. That’s the phrase Jenn used. Verbatim.

It totally works. It always brings down my core body temperature, and then I don’t have to work about losing my blow out.

That’s great Jenn except that the only thing cool on me is my feet or maybe my ankles and the rest of me is on fire. Also, I don’t get blow outs. I just rock this frizzy curly hair in the best way I can in the middle of the summer, like a grumpy poodle. So yes, I’d like to submerge my body in the pool. I did mention that we could go in up to our waists, but the perils of splashing were brought to my attention. Splashing?! Heaven forbid. What kind of shit hole is this place?

I mean, her house. It’s hilarious actually. They spent a zillion dollars on this backyard and missed all the elements that I would have given a shit about. You can’t sit around the pool without a towel. This feels like a fail. As you sit, kicking your enviable feet, your towel gets soggy and that sucks. Just put in a comfortable tile you can sit on- is that too much to ask? Also, the table she picked out requires coasters. Outside. Outdoor coasters. I can barely fuck with a coaster in my apartment, but outside? With the birds and bugs and grass? That’s pure lunacy.

We are drinking this seltzer shit that I loathe. It’s not White Claw but some similar variation. It reminds me of the Bacardi black cherry wine coolers I drank when I was 16. Why are we drinking this? Have we not grown beyond this point? Can we not try harder than this? I mean, is it a calorie thing? I can’t have conversations about cocktails and calories. It’s silly. It’s a Diet Coke with a Big Mac. Don’t bother. I mean if you like the taste, knock yourself out, but to conserve calories? Stop.

Anyway, we are drinking it out the slender can it comes in, with koozies that she bought off Etsy to fit said cans. It reads ‘Sun Day, Fun Day’ in curlicue script on the side. I want to ask her what she does when it isn’t Sunday, but I feel confident this will fall flat and I’m already failing today. I brought tequila and grain free Mexican wedding cookies and fruit. We are drinking chemical laden low-calorie seltzer and food is our enemy. Or hers, and so now, it’s mine.

I gently kick my feet in the water and have a sudden urge to really kick. To lift water out of the pool and onto her perfect blow out. I want to drench her asymmetrical hot pink one piece and powder gel manicure and the diamond solitaire necklace she is wearing to sit around the pool.

Yeah, jewelry at the pool is cool, but have you ever tried swimming?

She cocks her head and, in that moment, she resembles her Yorkshire terrier, Winston, so strongly that I have to bite my lip to suppress the laugh that is dying to escape.

I’m so glad you could come today. This is so nice, right? She lifts her koozied can as she says this, some bizarre mid-day toast, an ode to draping feet in a perfectly good pool that just begs for human bodies.

In response, I lift my can and cock my head in the other direction. I’m such an asshole, but she never seems to notice.

Yeah. This is great. Great. Maybe next time, we’ll even swim.

Cheers.

x

L.