Once upon a time, one sunny summery day, I attended the Shrine of Lisa, my lake (yes I link to this photo a lot I like it so there). It was one of those perfect days ("An American of the best sort--so rare!"*) (or that Laurie Anderson song, maybe "Smoke Rings," with the line "so rare")(anyway, one of those rare days). Blue, clear sky; trees in late summer leaf; cool clean valley lake. All worries left behind, all jiggled out of me on the rutted access road. I luxuriated in the beautiful day, in my state of mind, in the long swim I'd just finished, in my swimming prowess and condition. My ego-cup sloshethed over.
I lay, still breathing hard, in my beloved green swimsuit on my beloved green stripey towel on my green stripey blanket. I stretched out my neck and tilted my face to the sun. I savored the moment: life doesn't get any better than this. I was so perfectly happy I didn't even get bored just lying there in the sun and so didn't listen to my book or even read my other book. Not yet. I wanted to capture every sensation and nuance, like Francie Nolan as she reads the first extra announcing the outbreak of war.
Eyes closed, I saw red, the sun beating through the blood of my eyelids. Eyes open, I saw blue to my left, green to my right, blue above, and just where leaf and sky met, my very favorite color in the whole wide world, sunlight through deciduous leaves. Birds twitterd, children played, talk flowed in low ripples all about. A light breeze cooled the lake water from my skin and dispersed smokers' smoke as ultraviolet radiation baked agreeably into my flesh, oiling sinews and tanning my skin. Even the water warm in my sipper bottle tasted sweet.
Eventually the conversation of two women sitting above me on the beach registered in my ears, distinct from other, lower voices. Gripe mutter whine, they moaned, each sounding so caught up in her own complaints that she couldn't hear her companion. I smiled with my own delight, in such a good mood I didn't disparage them, even silently, for their foolishness. With such a sky, sun, lake, valley, before them and all around them, could they not be happy? Apparently not.
Abruptly their voices dropped. "That girl," hissed one, "she
doesn't shave her pubic hair."
"Ewwwww," agreed the other one.
My grin spread from ear to ear. My private self, fully sated and not needing to defend itself, conducted a fierce three-second debate with my public, prickly self. Prickles won. I bent myself up--those are abdominal muscles, ladies--on one elbow and opened my eyes at them. I made eye contact with both--I wasn't sure which had spoken first. "No, I don't shave my pubic hair, but I can have sex with the lights on. And I don't smoke and I'm not fat and among the four, I've made my choice."
I heard an unsuccessfully swallowed snort from another blanket. Good. I do love a witness--when in my favor. The women's mouths hung agape, at first. They were probably the type who seldom close their maws anyway, the loose-lipped gibbering stupid sort. As I lay down--abdominal muscles, ladies, useful things, these!--and closed my eyes, I was half feared one would step on me and smoosh me flat. Mostly though I was grinning. Understand that I am the Great Five-Minutes-Later Repartee-Thinker-Of-er. Not this time though. This time I got to squash them instead.
* I can out quote anyone from "Room with a
View." Just try me.
* Betty Smith, A
Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Read it. Learn it. Love it.
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Last modified 28 January 1999
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