Summertime

Oh, Vermont. You continue to charm the pants off me, sometimes quite literally. This weekend, once the green slime had moved beyond critical levels, we hit up one of our area state parks, of which there are a legion, and — I can hardly say this without trembling with excitement and shock — went swimming. Like in an actual LAKE and stuff, surrounded by mountains — literally, giant peaks of mountains all around us — and then returned to our blanket to lay in the grass and bake in the sun. I’m a swimmer; Adam is not. And it was perfect, if entirely pedestrian for normal people, but for me — and in particular, for my very water-phobic husband — an entire afternoon spent flat on our backs in a crystal-clear lake was something quite special indeed.

Oh and I totally took pictures, but you’ll have to insert your own image here, for I CANNOT, for the life of me, find my stupid camera downloader doohickey, and I am embarrassed to tell you that I think it’s buried somewhere in our bed clothes, because our bed is like an upstairs coffee table. Last night, for example, I awoke nose to bottle with my thyroid medication and discovered a pen had lodged behind my ear. And to be honest, I just dislodged one of the dog’s bones from my rear end. This is what happens when you’re crammed into the lone air-conditioned room because of heat reminiscent of the underside of Paul Pierce’s scrotum for nearly an entire week. Also? I came a little mentally undone last week, having a lot of work to do and one room to do it in, and for the first time, I fully understood why solitary confinement is so effective.

One of the best things about my part of Vermont, in my admittedly limited experience, is that people truly have their heads screwed on straight. There are no proverbial Joneses, at least that I’ve encountered — competition and status has almost entirely disappeared, save for certain academic circles, and it might be the most freeing thing I’ve experienced in a long time. Certainly there are far more far-reaching implications stemming from this — raising kids here would be a rare pleasure — but in the practical sense, any fear I had of getting into a bathing suit dissipated the second I hit the park. Perhaps I’ve simply been to the wrong beaches, but between the Caribbean, Boston-area and Naples — the three beaches I’ve hit most often — I’m always self-conscious, no matter how in shape my thighs are. But here, people were focused only on enjoying themselves, no one even GLANCED at my thighs, and God, was that awesome.

Also awesome? Racing swimsuits. I swam competitively back in the day, and amassed quite the collection of them, and because I was so in shape (see: competitive swimming), failed to notice their best quality: Dude, they suck you in like a pair of SPANX, man. I threw on a Nike one I’d forgotten I had and lo, I was nipped, tucked and, for the first time in DECADES, sporting a perfectly flat stomach, albeit one held back like a dam of lethal amounts of Spandex and perhaps some kind of cement-mimicking nanotechnology.

And finally, three things that are in no way related:

1) I have taken to using a pill case with the days of the week on it, because I can NEVER remember if I’ve taken my medication for the day. Ever. And yesterday, I interrupted a conversation with a friend to marvel, “Look! LOOK AT THAT BIRD! It’s BEAUTIFUL!” Next up: binoculars and a variety of mysterious bathroom products for corn prevention.

2) Dinner this evening included herbs — basil and cilantro — from my own garden. And earlier, I had a salad with lettuce I grew MAHSELF. Honest to God, you’d think I’d just shit GOLD the way I was carrying on about it. Which reminds me: would anyone like some lettuce? Because I realized I planned this garden VERY VERY POORLY and in a matter of days, will be saddled with (oh my God) THIRTY LETTUCE HEADS maturing at precisely the same time. I like salad as much as the next girl but even I have limits on my leafy greens consumption.

3) I am deeply, incredibly saddened by the death of Tim Russert. I am among the nerdiest of the nerdy, and watched Meet the Press religiously every Sunday — TiVo-ing when I couldn’t catch it live — and Russert was the best television journalist I’d ever seen. Dude was BRILLIANT. And though I am heartbroken for his family, friends and everyone else who actually knew him, I am personally crushed that I’ll no longer get to invite him into my home every Sunday. This disappointment will be further underscored if David Gregory is invited to fill his seat on a permanent basis, if only because he looks like a Muppet, and Muppets have no PLACE in Presidential election coverage.

Happy Monday!

*oh God, who DOESN’T sing “Summertime”? In my personal collection, I can think of Jesca Hoop, The Sundays, The Samples

26 comments June 15th, 2008