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Sunblock and Aloe and Pools, Oh My!

June 17, 2011

I’ve got gazillions of things to get done tonight, but the giddy excitement of being Off The Island two weekends in a row has my responsibility instinct all knotted up and shoved in a closet by the can’t-wait-squee!writing-craving-instinct.


 

My *favorite* part (y’know, if for some reason (like an unfairly selective game show, evil cross-examiner, or lack of word count) I was forced to choose only one part) of a getaway is prepping for the trip, when all the anticipation is pumping adrenaline through your body until you can’t sleep at night because you’re just smiling at the ceiling, and I was particularly susceptible to that gorgeous, fabulous, tickling, heady rush this time. I’d just gotten back from Texas when a bunch of friends got a house up in Connecticut, and really, who can say no to a quick weekend in the country, by a pool, with nothing to do but relax? Especially when the opportunity comes out of nowhere and offers all the comforts that home just can’t deliver!

Blissful.

Of course, a pool required that I pack my swimsuit, which required a new coverup, since once upon a time I managed to completely shred my old one.

No, not in the pool vent, you suspicious creatures. It was a crocheted thingy, and there was this thread one day, and I must have pulled when I should have tied off, then there was a hole, so I stuck it in the back of my drawer, where it got caught on the wheel, and LISTEN DON’T JUDGE ME.

Anyway, a new coverup allowed me to need new poolside accessories. . .

And really, I blame the next part on E’s mother. Before I headed West, Young Man, I asked mine hosts what goods ought make the trip in my Conestoga wagon*. K asked for a NY pizza, which I dismissed immediately because it wouldn’t fit in either of my carry-ons. E’s mom mentioned a weakness for Chinatown knockoffs, so I put on my brave!ali bravado**, raided a shop, and took a selection of lensed luxuriousness out for all the girls in the Lone Star State. I’d kind of planned on scoring one of the pairs for myself, but when Renee fell in love with two of them, I decided to let her keep ’em.

Of course, the very serious downside was that my never-really-dormant glasses jones, having been denied its score, went unsatisfied, and when I made my coverup run, a strange gravitic anomaly drew me towards those hypnotically spinning stands, the lights glinted and glistened and winked from bejeweled frames, each one just a little different from its friends, each teasing me with visions of the styles that could be, and. . .

Okay, listen, I’ve wanted aviators for WHOLE CENTURIES. Got that? Epochs have passed, dynasties have crumbled, new species have made their bows before scampering off into the sunset of extinction, bands have broken up and staged reunion tours. . . My gratification has been super ridiculously enormously what-more-do-you-want-from-me-I’m-only-human delayed.

And okay, so I got these amazing Jackie-O-inspired ones, too, but how can you even BEGIN to plan to play in a pool without those to-die-for cat’s-eye-meets-oval-with-just-the-right-amount-of-frame-width deliciousness?

And buying two pair of unnecessary glasses simply doubles the fun of getting ready for the getaway.

Did I mention the aviators have camouflaged earpieces? I know it means they’re not quite authentic, but I can keep looking until I find something *perfect*, and in the meantime they’ll match my new cowboy hat and make me up-on-my-tiptoes-smiling-till-my-nose-gets-crinkled-goofy-happy.

Yes, I’m willing to admit that I have a problem. (But it’s a problem that comes with fabulous eyewear, and what a magnificent problem that is to have!)

Eeek! It’s 10 already, and I still have two loads of laundry, packing, and groceries to put together. Got to stop chattering and get focused!

Bye ya’ll! Got a road trip in the morning. If you need me, I’ll wandering around singing Willy Nelson songs and smiling at nothing.

*Yes, Virginia, I am completely aware that Texas was not a part of the country settled by Ye Olde Conestoga-Wagon Driving Pioneers. Leave me my snerky if not-historically-accurate amusements (like pairing “ye olde” with “pioneers” in a footnote protesting known anachronisms).

**Seriously, Chinatown scares the hell out of me in a very real, featured-in-my-nightmares, take-the-first-subway-you-see-and-go-one-stop-in-either-direction kind of way. It’s the only place I’ve ever physically been where I can neither understand the words that are being spoken, nor read what the signs are telling me. That’s a vortex of disorientation that freaks the shit out of someone who’s both overtly verbal and has more than a few control issues.

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One comment

  1. Dude, K’s g-g grandparents totally went to Texas in a covered wagon. (From Georgia, actually) So did the g-g-gs on her dad’s side (from Missouri). I don’t know why this is what I’m pointing out here. I just did for some reason.



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