What will Maggie do without her Owen for five days?
Well, I just did something I have never foreseen doing in my life. I wrote my grandson a letter for him to get at camp. It brought back so many memories of writing camp letters to my kids. I always made sure they had one tucked away in the stuff they took to camp with them so that they would have one from the get-go. And I believe I always mailed one before they left, too, so that they'd get one on the first or second day. And they wrote me. Lord, I wonder where those letters are. I'd love to read them again. In Owen's letter I mostly just told him that I'm so proud of him and that I hope he has the best time ever and that he makes some new friends. I tucked a little feather which came from Babette when she was a little chicken into the envelope along with the letter. I hope he likes it.
Ay! My boy is growing up. I asked Lily if he was sad when they left him but she said that no, he was too excited. It looks like just an amazing place. St. Paul Newman had a lot to do with the founding of this camp and others like it for children with medical issues and it is free of charge.
My god, but there are some beautiful and wonderful things and people in this world, despite...well. You know.
And let us not forget that, okay? I mean it!
Enough of that. I cry enough these days.
So. Here's something I'd like to discuss- bathing suits.
I would pay $200 dollars for a bathing suit which was comfortable and not too hideous and wasn't constructed like body-squeezing armor. And... I DON'T WANT A BATHING SUIT WITH BOOBS BIGGER THAN MINE! WTF? Why do bathing suits now all come with freaking cups? Why are we so afraid of nipples? I'm not afraid of nipples. I'm a sixty-three year old woman and I have nipples. So do you. So does everyone, men included! What the hell is going on that our bathing suits have to be made of such thickness of foam and polyester that it could stop a shark? I ain't going through the agony of that mess.
I went to the mall today for the first time in probably years because Mr. Moon's birthday is tomorrow and there's a store there that carries Big and Tall clothes and I wanted to get him some new shorts and shirts. And I did! Nice ones. All on major sale. So I felt pretty cocky and happy and decided to go look at bathing suits. I recently ordered a bathing suit from Garnet Hill and the top came today (bottoms in a separate package-puleeze!) and it's made of that poly-armor. No. No, no, no. I am sending it back. I think that the theory is that thick, tight bathing suits with built-in bras will squish in our fat and make our bosoms look bigger.
Fuck that. After a certain age you can't camouflage the reality of what's there. You just can't. And I'm cool with that. As I mentioned, I'm old and I have very little pride left. I just want to swim in comfort and in this country, nudity in public places is frowned upon.
So obviously, I didn't get a bathing suit.
I did get anxiety so I came home.
I've made my husband some chocolate chip cookies for his birthday fishing trip. He's leaving tomorrow evening to drive over to Apalach to go out early on Saturday and fish for grouper and snapper and whatever it is that's legal right now. We'll have a family birthday lunch when everyone gets back to town next week. He's thinking about taking tomorrow off work so that he and I can go down to the river for a swim and maybe out to lunch. That suits me fine. And speaking of suits- the bathing suit I've been wearing for years is pretty comfortable but I'm afraid that at some point the elasticity is just going to absolutely disappear. And when I say "at some point" I mean "maybe tomorrow."
Thus the search for a new bathing costume.
Anyway, la-di-dah and so it goes and I am brewing a post about the government and Trump and so forth and it's going to make me sound like a conspiracy theorist but so be it.
I'm deadly serious about this.
Tomorrow my husband will be sixty-four years old and for one month that will make him a year older than I am. Not really but you know what I mean. Our birthdays are one month and one day apart.
Just as with writing my grandson a camp letter, I never really considered the fact that one day I would be turning sixty-four years old and so would my husband and that yes, I will still need him and I will still feed him.
I'll be older too.
Although, if he stays out 'til quarter to three, I probably will lock the door.
Sometimes I think that the Beatles, like Shakespeare, said everything that needed to be said.