Do I envy them and their blasé attitudes? Wish for the ability to shrug it off with an “it’ll all work out” and truly believe it?
Of course I fucking do. But it’s kind of like telling me the moon is just a short rocket-ship trip away. Maybe not impossible, but a destination that requires heaps of planning and effort. And no, I can’t relax on the ride over, because everyone will expect me to set up camp once we land, so I might as well figure out how.
“Your generation’s always in such a tizzy,” Grandma Helen continues, “shouting about this and that, rushing through the minutia to get more work done, not realizing you’re missing out on a lot of the best parts.”
“I really don’t have the bandwidth for a generational debate right now.” I hunch over the coffee table to gather and collate stacks, and ah, there it is, the original thing that sent me intoa tizzyat six-thirty a.m. “But if you and your cohorts aren’t creating a fuss, then why is this on the front page of theHerald Sun?”
Grannies Gone Wild! This group of senior women leads the pack on activism…and STIs!
A picture of the protest I’d witnessed my first day here emblazons the page. It’s farther away than the news crew wanted, I’m sure, leaving features slightly grainy.
“What? It’s no fun when you go to jump in and swim, only to have a single square foot of space to yourself.” Grandma Helen stands, shifting Fifi to her shoulder as she does so, which offends the cat so badly she leaps to the floor and sashays away. “That’s why we were protesting in our underwear, if you’ll recall.”
“Because of that fact, I’ll nevernotrecall.”
“Well, you’re about to get a refresher course anyway. Get on your swimsuit, Mama Mia, ’cause like it or not—”
The doorbell interrupts, ringing at such a high volume it resounds through my head for a couple of extra seconds, but it doesn’t stop her from adding, “You’re coming with me and the gals to the pool.”
…
I angle the screen of the laptop, rubbery slats of the beach chair pinching my booty cheeks as I crank up the brightness and attempt to read the words through the glare of the noonday sun. As a kid, I lived for summer. Now that a waterslide of sweat forms between my boobs and along my spine, I’ve rethought my adoration.
Droplets splatter my shins as someone jumps into the pool, the residents here as serious about their cannonballs as the whippersnappers they wanted to keep out. Diving into the crystalline oasis for a swim could totally be their middle ground, but the fogies are too damn stubborn to evenconsidersharing.
But they’re fine with me, and have been for over a decade.Same went for all the grandchildren, who were immediately folded into the protection of the family.
Water sluices and laps at the sides of the pool, and several of the Cronies call my name and holler at me to “Come on in already.”
While we compromised on bringing my computer along—and by that, I mean they said I couldn’t, I informed them they couldn’t tell me what to do while slathering on sunscreen as instructed.
The last thing I want to do is hold another seminar, but maybe if I format it into more of a workshop, where we’re all teaching one another and the material comes from my heart rather than slides from the CDC…
I want to groan at my own suggestion, but statistics show that people with higher self-esteem practice safe sex more frequently. Self-love’s also a subject I’m passionate about, even if it’s far easier to apply to others than myself.
Shadows fall over me, two dark profiles that drip water, andfinally, I can see my laptop screen clearly enough to read the words I’ve typed in. “Stay right…” My fingers fly furiously across the keyboard as I input “Workshop on body positivity?” to my list of to-dos. “There.”
“You’ve got thirty seconds before you’re going in the water.” Grandma says in the same tone she uses when she whips out my middle name, which hasn’t happened in years. “If you’re still holding the computer, don’t think I’ll spare it or you.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I say, my heart skipping beats as I rush to save, save,save. “Besides, it’s not like you could actually lift me.”
“Damn,” Wanda adds, playing her role as hype woman to perfection. “You’d better listen, Mia Bo-bina. You poke Mt. Saint Helens again and she’s likely to blow her top.”
They hoot and holler, Tia Rita taunting and teasing my grandmother in a way that’ll only fire her up and workagainstmy favor.
A yelp escapes as Grandma Helen lunges and manacles my ankle and, realizing she doesn’t need to lift when dragging’s an option, I slam my laptop closed.
Thirty-two seconds later, I’m waist deep in the pool, a fruity drink with an umbrella in hand. While it’s melty from waiting for me, it hits the spot without freezing my brain. “So, what are we chatting about?”
“About how you promised to spend time with us, and you’ve missed every event this week,” Grandma Helen says, and I know I asked, but haven’t we fully covered that subject already?
It certainly chases away the Zen she’s been shoving me toward. “What can I say? My client has some very naughty tenants, and anytime I turn around, they’re giving me more to do.” I smile so hard I’m in danger of cracking a molar. “The attendees at my safe sex seminar, for instance, were less than helpful.”
My grandmother’s mouth forms a sarcastic slash, her voice echoing her smugness as well. “Isn’t that something? Because I seem to remember you telling us you didn’t need our help.”
Wanda studies the ends of her hair. “We also told you what we’d require if you want our full support.”
“I don’t understand why you’re fighting it so hard,” Rita says, gliding her arms through the water. “It’s not like you’re using your social life anyway. It’s a beautiful, lazy Sunday afternoon, and we had to drag you out here with us. Ay, mija”—she tsks—“you were still trying to work.”
