desired tenderness #13
on piecing it together
A few summers back I had the high blessing of going on a beach trip with two of my closest friends, Courtney and Griffin. Despite the unofficial tagline of Charlotte, North Carolina being two hours to the mountains and three hours to the coast, the last beach trip I could recall going on at the time had been over seven years ago.
We rented a small place overlooking the marsh side of the coastal island where the three of us and Courtney’s dog, an exuberant Malinois named Otis, could shack up for the weekend. It had all the little coastal luxuries I liked : an outdoor shower, a screen porch and a rickety golf cart that we could use to quickly zip over to one of the many beach access points. Even now if you mention golf carts and this particular beach together in a sentence around almost any Southern mother and she was obligated to interrupt you mid-sentence well just be careful, it was just so awful what happened to that girl, and on her wedding day. This is in reference to an actual incident which was so tragic, had it not happened only a few years prior, would seem like some kind of urban legend.
The first thing Griffin and I wanted to do upon arrival was use a deck of cards called Live Your Values to identify Courtney’s top 10 values. This is probably not what immediately comes to mind for a girls beach trip, one might envision something more salt-rimmed, but knowing people’s values is very values-aligned for Griffin and me. This knowledge grants us the ability to give almost uncomfortably thoughtful gifts and plan uncannily considerate trips. At the conclusion of this exercise, it was determined that Courtney’s top value was passion, which felt accurate, if not a little challenging vis-à-vis future gifts.
As I settled into a beach chair that groaned and slumped far enough into the loose sand to adequately chastise me for not being 25 years old, I quarantined my phone from sand by placing it in a plastic baggie, within a small bag, within a larger bag, a sacred Russian-dollification ritual aimed at delaying inevitable granular intrusion. Staring off into the surf I considered how unfortunate it is that we collectively retired the term bathing costumes, which implies a kind of theatrical debut, in exchange for bathing suits, which suggests something involving a board of trustees. Huge downgrade. I tried to imagine myself costume-clad in a Victorian seaside scene, and wondered what exactly it would take for our gutter ball of a healthcare system to reinstate the classic seaside convalescence prescription. I know this is skirting over the much more tangibly wretched Yellow Wallpaper reality of it all, but as someone who often feels overcome by the vapors, I could see the merits of a salt water taffy co-pay.
Courtney had accidentally purchased her new two-piece bathing suit from an Australian company, meaning it had barely arrived in time for the trip. She also “accidentally” purchased a high-cut thong, so really, it had barely arrived at all. However, it seemed like an overt endorsement of climate change deniers to return such a itsy piece of fabric halfway back across the world she argued. She stood with both butt cheeks fully out on the beach, asking over her shoulder is this too much?
No, I reassured her, it is the most passionate style of bathing suit.
“You’re looking a little pink” Griffin remarked to me, which is another way of saying I’m looking out for you, I do not want your joys of today to transform into pains of tomorrow. Which is very Griffin, if you knew her values you’d understand. We are all trying to be more sun aware in our thirties but with skin like mine, it tips more into a tin-foil hat level of paranoia wherein I am almost always half swaddled in the group’s extra towels. For me, sunshine is just becoming more and more a spectator sport.
That evening we had snagged a reservation at a coveted local restaurant for dinner. After the meal had concluded we all agreed it was a values-aligned evening, so much so that we each slipped a copy of that evening’s menu into our bags right next to our haplessly sand-dusted phones. Sentimentally hoarding pieces of paper is one of the many ways we try to tell our brains don’t forget to remember, which is also the purpose of around two dozen various timers and alarms I have set on my phone to remind me of a slew of bills and pills. This is because being an adult is mostly Not Fun and consists of a multitude of Bad Things.
The next afternoon after homemade BLTs, which were truly the definition of transcendent, we sat at the edge of the marsh and listened to a symphony of undulating suckling, the strange soundtrack of the tidal recession. It was as if we stood before an enormous forest of hidden babies signaling to an unknown mother it was past time to eat. As Griffin and Courtney discussed family, or beauty, or adventure and Otis heavily panting in empty-headed agreement, I ripped off a corner of the paper towel which had served as napkin and tucked it into my jacket pocket for later. Don’t forget to remember.
I have a very serious problem which is that I need every single tile Harry has ever made.
Mary Jane did not start making quilts until the 1920s, when she was already in her eighties. I have a great affection for the stream of consciousness look this style of appliqué creates.
Enjoy this free online version of one of my favorite games. Using only 33 words explain any target word in 2 minutes. If you think you would vibe with Rocky from Project Hail Mary, I recommend purchasing the deck version to carry around.
Wonderful and witty, per usual. And now I would like a BLT.
Wonderful. 😊☀️