Of my many time-wasting pastimes, I think coming up with imaginary outfits to wear to imaginary pools (see: exhibit A; exhibit B; exhibit C) may be my favorite. Imaginary swimsuits fit perfectly and look amazing, and imaginary pool decks have the best amenities: no splashing children, an endless supply of plushy towels, a vast and empty pool of perfect blueness, someone invisible to deliver sour candy, pretzel rods and bottled Coke whenever you like, stacks of whatever you like to read and a totally guilt-free atmosphere for reptilian, sun-basking laziness.
Here's the part where I think I should write something more. Maybe share a memory of the only summer I ever got tan, when I went to the pool every day to monitor lifeguards and paint my nails. Or segue into some sort of thoughtful musing on escapism, pretzel rods and chlorine. My mind traffics in the expected and the pleasing, and the words fall into obvious patterns, which makes me crazy. More and more, I feel like the only thing I can do is point. Try and direct attention to some fragment that matters to me and hope that somehow it triggers a connection. Or maybe just situates us on lounge chairs on the same pool deck, seeing the same things in the same place, but making whatever we want of it.
*As ever, you can click on the image to see the links of all the stuff if that's your jam.
