February 11 – Pigs on the Beach

I still have a bit of leftover melancholy. And I’m fighting with myself. I’ve been allowing myself some very bad snacking, knowing that I have to be stricter with my diet and not yet willing to put myself through it. In fact, on Monday night I stopped in at the local market to purchase basic stuff, aware that I had no snackies at home. Good, I told myself, so you won’t have anything, as I simultaneously decided to see if I could locate the cookie aisle. If I don’t find it in the next 3 seconds… Then I heard those dreaded words – May I help you? “I hate to say it, but I’m looking for cookies.” The guy laughed and led me to the nearby aisle, and asked why. “I didn’t want to say it out loud,” I explained leaving it at that. I also didn’t want to tell him that he was now to blame for my cookie purchase, and would be further to blame after I finished the whole package, which I did. But I also exercised. I’m not letting myself get away with that. In fact, I’ve been upping the aerobics and the workouts are now longer. I’ve been doing that for six days straight. And I was going to do that tonight, after eating half of a 16oz bag of pistachios, but I’ve been thinking of Vicki, and I’ve been thinking of Amy, and of this particular story. I was so anxious to write it, that I gave myself permission to stop the workout after the half hour aerobics section.

Back when we were in our mid-twenties, when bodies were healthier, leaner and more fit, we were lying on the beach. It was one of those great summer days. Sunny and hot, it was a perfect day to play hooky and go down to Jones Beach. We were lying side by side, toes facing east to maximize the sun coverage, and bikini-clad, though nothing immodest. Of course, mine was black. Most of my clothes have been and are still black. True, it’s sexy, but also very practical. Amy and Vicki were slathered in sunscreen. I come from darker stock and never bothered. Amy covered her face with a big floppy hat, Vicki with her shirt. We lazed, yes that’s the best word for it. Lazing – when the sun is covering your mostly naked body, warming and soothing, the wafting beach smell of ocean and body oil, and that progressively muffled generic beach sound of chatter, squealing, waves and gulls. Lazing – not quite asleep but retreating further and further into yourself. I was awake enough to sense that I should shift one side of my untied bikini top to avoid any embarrassing slippage, and awake enough to hear someone say “Don’t touch your breast,” just as I did so. Wait. What? So I feigned another shift and then heard “I said, don’t touch your breast.” Yeah, okay, that was for me. I grabbed the strings of the top together at the back of my neck, sat up, turned around and said “Are you talking to me? Because if you are – shut up.” I glared for a mere moment at one of the guys and laid back down, realizing that I just saw more than a half a dozen guys some sitting on beach chairs, some standing, all facing us. Having loaded the gun, I closed my eyes as Vicki shot forth. She landed into these jerks yelling at them that they weren’t allowed to be pigs on the beach. “What, you don’t like pigs,” one said while another oinked. She went on for a bit, then returned to her sunbathing. Soon the chatter of piggy men stopped and they were gone.

Amy hadn’t stirred once during the whole thing, but was able to relate to us what they had been saying before I had touched my breast. I, they had determined, was the easy one (you know, because of the black bikini thing), and Vicki was a good girl because she was wearing a cross, a fact that Vicki disputed every time we brought up that story. It was a small gold cross, probably a gift from a relative, but it was there nonetheless. Amy never told us what they said about her.