I love you but seriously, stop calling me over. I can hear you but I’m not listening because I am not going into the pool with you
Not even you, dear friend, can get me in the pool. I have blissfully farmed my child off to the loving and sugar-overdosing arms of my mother so that I don’t have to bow down to the demands of anyone today, especially you.
Yes, I know it’s the perfect temperature and I am super curious about your work gossip and how that date with your weird neighbour went. I would love to bob beside you and quietly offer assurances that the hat you’re wearing doesn’t make you look like a Gran but rather a sophisticated and sassy single woman gracing us harried Moms with your mere presence at the public pool.
But I’m busy.
Can’t you see I am carefully and exquisitely positioned in this pool chaise so that my stomach pooch is stretched as taut as possible?
I just finished applying the second fudgy white layer of SPF 100 to every inch of exposed skin.
My stack of slanderous magazines is not going to thumb through itself.
I don’t want to lose my sunglasses in the pool. When I wear these sunglasses I can spy on people around the pool who think I’m reading these magazines.
The couple right beside me is fighting and it’s like a reality TV show on cable but I don’t have to pay for it.
I don’t have a noseplug and you know if even a teardrop’s worth of water gets near my face my nasal instinct is to snort it like fine cocaine. I always end up a spluttering mess after douching my sinus cavity with chlorinated piss water.
Those kids behind you are splashing. Or they’re thinking about splashing. At the very least they have splashing intentions. They’re just lying in wait for me to carefully step into the pool while keeping my head above water because I wore mascara and then they’re going to splash so much that they won’t hear us passive aggressively wondering out loud where their shitty parents are. Goddamn splashers.
At the ripe old age of 38, and after six separate sets of childhood swimming lessons, I still cannot swim. My patented move in a pool is to bob around hesitantly, get distracted by a huge weird bug dive-bombing the water inches from my face, think I’m still in the shallow end, suddenly reach down with one trembling foot to feel nothing firm under my feet, and then frantically doggy paddle to the nearest side.
Just let me enjoy the only water I really give a shit about right now – the ice that is making this smuggled in sangria taste like sweet summer heaven. If you stop bugging me, I might even share some with you.