SKIMBS

Re: my real summer away from the punitive state (abject humidity) and hypothetical summer with the jawbone of an ass

Water does no more than get you soaking /
But people act as if they’re going to drown

Bridget St. John, “To B Without A Hitch”

The diving well is the best place to swim. The underpaid undergraduate lifeguard moseys on over to spectate, clutching one of those hot dog rescue devices as if I’ll forget how to breathe. Aquatic supervision is a silly necessity. Everyone should mind their business and know not to sink without the pretense of control.

The sink is the best place to eat a plum: my sanctioned mess, my tried and true experiment in containment. I pretend the soft landing will save me from stickiness. My peaches have never been worse, which is not to say they aren’t great or that I don’t eat them often, with tomatoes of course (faring far better), feta (swimming in brine!), fresh mint, balsamic, olive oil, salt and pepper. This summer, I sit 577 miles from the Georgia state line.

The bath is the best place to watch It’s Always Sunny, the balcony is the best place to read Miranda July, the 9th floor of the Main Stacks is the best place to find lost freshman enrolled some ridiculously adorable costume history class and needing some really big, old books. I feel old around her, just as I feel old at the art bar’s “indie sleaze” DJ night (particularly in the women’s girl’s restroom), an event that’s been milked to death and should’ve ended last summer. “Brat night,” take note.

Recall Samson’s boast in the Book of Judges, “With the jawbone of an ass, I slew 10,000 men.” No sweat if nothing comes to mind as I have never read that silly book! First semester of tenth grade, Hope and I lunched with a very nice gaggle of girls who gladly took from the little men passing out new age-y pocket bibles on the front steps of our high school (posted up with disturbing dead plastic baby posters, as well as real life babies and small children dubiously registered with the state). These girls highlighted verses before school started! Before! School! Started!

So thank God the conversation arose one fall morning regarding whether animals have souls (majority leaned nay on this one, unfortch), prompting my fearless leader Hope to stand the fuck up, declare that “my dog has a soul!” and march me the hell on out of there. “Sadie, let’s go.” I went!

But I like Regina Spektor’s “Samson” enough to look up the story, and I like that line. My sister called her Webkinz cow Delilah. All things Webkinz piqued my interest. I once used, like, a cartridge and a half of my mother’s ink to print my entire Webkinz wish list and carefully cut and paste the 72 DPI images to my bedroom door. You’re printing a regular wish list twice over because of the way each pet came in neat categories: big and little. Mama was not happy. I pretended not to notice the big and fat and bright red “cancel” button. More decor for me, more dominion over my tiny world.

With the jawbone of an ass, I slew 10,000 men. In Waterworld, I might consider a harpoon, trident, or perhaps the 26-pound jawbone of an orca. The jawbone of an ass would better suit my semi-robust stamina and weak wrist support gifted from a long line of little arthritic ladies, but I’m afraid donkeys might not hang around Waterworld. I shan’t need a boat, just a few friends with boats for perching and snacking and napping every now and then. If I ever drown, I’ve been killed. My competence may not be absolute but it’s damn comforting.

I like sorting people into categories this summer: gay v. pervert (everyone is either gay or a pervert) or fork v. spoon (everyone wants to be a fork but not everyone makes the cut). Category is a great pool game, of quick thinking, of unwittingly expressing your truest self. Summer or winter? You better be quick. You may have two seconds of dedicated brainstorming before your feet are up in the air and off the diving board. I am a summer, a spoon, a pervert, but sometimes gay. Up to interpretation, really. You can’t exactly sort yourself. These things fall apart as fast as you make them, but the game demands negotiation, not certainty.

Peach v. plum: a ripe plum is more violent but a ripe peach feels more earned.

Brat night v. indie sleaze night: does it really matter if Charli xcx is played either way? I choose the purchased authority of Buffalo Wild Wings Touch Tunes.

Drowning in Waterworld v. slaying 10,000 men: it’s unfortunate, but many of you would drown. Those little babies on my Instagram Reels that are launched into the pool face first by a quasi-swim instructor/rage bait influencer? By God, they will slay 10,000 men.

Now there’s an October chill in the air. I’ll up my SSRI. I’ll order a wetsuit soon for more rewarding lake swims. I’ll wear the orange buoy so I don’t feel obligated to stick to Charlie’s right side, where he breathes and makes sure I’m still there. I’ll stay afloat not because I’m unsinkable, but because I remember how to kick my feet.