Buoyancy

Where we live, summers are hot.  Crazy hot.   Couple that with menopause and you’ve got (or, worse, my husband’s got) a steaming cauldron of  bitch.  Thankfully, in our back yard, stands the remedy:  our circle ‘o steel-and-vinyl bliss.  Our 24-foot-diameter, 4.5-foot-deep liquid heaven.  Our big-ass-redneck-above-ground pool.

Husband got the faux-Doughboy off of Craig’s List, nearly free, about six years ago.  “It’s a deal,” he’d said.  “Pools this big go for a couple thousand dollars new.”

Thing is, when he got it home and put it together, all of the brackets were missing.  So, Husband made brackets out of flat, metal rectangles he bent with a vice and drilled holes into.  Also missing:  the “end caps,” the tidy plastic shells that top the brackets, thereby making an above-ground pool look more “finished” — less like a can-opener had its way with it.

But when it’s 105 degrees outside, you don’t give a damn what your “water feature” looks like. You don’t care that crabgrass manages, somehow, to grow along its top edge.  And when it’s nighttime, still 90-ish outside … and you’re sweat-drenched from your nightly power-walk … and your yard is dark enough so bathing suits are optional (despite the neighbor’s second-story window) … and the stars twinkle and sprawl out above you as you let the water cool the back of your neck … you thank those stars and the universe that holds them for your 24-footer and its capacity for full-immersion.

Last night, while CC and her friends were at a concert, Husband and I employed the 24-footer for what may be the last time of the season.  After our walk, we shed our sweaty clothes and dove in.  Bliss, I tell you!  Chlorine-and algaecide-scented rapture.

Six summers we’ve spent in our can-o-pool — countless nights in naked buoyancy beneath the stars (and our neighbor’s window), but only last night I noticed this:  my boobs.  My boobs the way they’d been when I was twenty.  No, better than when I was twenty.  Boobs that no sweat (or pencil, Chris) could lie beneath …because there was no beneath.  Boobs that jutted out into the cool water, sans gravity.  Renaissance boobs, the kind that present themselves like babies butts from the tops of corsets.  They were glorious.  How had I not noticed this before? I couldn’t keep my hands off of them.

“Damn,” said I to Husband, “check these out!”

He complied, reaching to where he would usually find them, and missing … because they were bobbing  a good distance higher.  And when I say bobbing, I mean heaving.

“I like your boobs in or out of the water,” he said.  But what else would he say?  Our marriage contract mandates allegiance to my breasts.  If he were to say, “Wow, yeah, they’re so much less dangly” … the rest of the evening would go badly for him.

Still, I felt he was patronizing me and the girls.

“Feel them.”  I moved his hands up a good four inches.

He chuckled, gave them a squeeze that seemed a tad obligatory, but he wasn’t nearly as impressed as I thought he’d be.  Perhaps because he knew they wouldn’t stay that way.

“I think that’s Orion’s Belt,” he said, transfixed by higher things.

“Maybe,” I said, re-cupping my fabulously buoyant breasts.  Breasts that were even fuller north of the nipples than south of them.

“You really like those,” he noted, looking at my face — my face, rather than my awesome Marie-Antoinette rack.

I ran my fingers along what would, in gravity and heat, be a sweaty crevice where I could sprout mung beans —  replaced now by a slope so gentle and cool and true it could have been the nape of a dove’s neck.

Like them?” (more like revere).  “Here, maybe you didn’t get a good feel …”

In Buddhist meditation, they call this “grasping.”  Trying to hold onto that which is impermanent.  In porn, I think they call it something else.  Either way, eventually, I let go and got out of the pool …

So much of that lately:  letting go and getting out of the pool.  So much that’s not where it used to be.  So much gravity to be defied.

Note to self:  You’re getting too philosophical again.  Get back in the pool and grab your tits.

20 thoughts on “Buoyancy

  1. I know exactly what you mean, but I can’t very well delight in their awesomeness in public. The only pool I get near is the therapy pool I workout in twice a week. I don’t think the other ladies—most of whom are in their 60’s and one 86 years-old, would mind me fondling my breast as much as our 21 year-old male attendant. Charmed as he is by us old gals, I think that might creep him out.

    • Thanks for stopping by and commenting, Lynne. Why is it when we grow comfortable with our bodies … others (21-year-old male attendants) grow uncomfortable with them? Sigh. A mystery of the ages.

  2. This is hysterical. Yes. Ain’t gravity a bitch? We had one of those pools when I was a kid, but I had no boobs back then. Men… poor things. They’re just so utterly clueless. ;)

  3. I loved your post! Soooo true too. I am on Funny Women and found your reference to this there. Thanks, Julie

  4. i’m back from a mini break to the mountains. oh sunshine you so funny. i had my breasts out over the weekend, showing them off for some free medical advice. do you think it was the same night you had yours out?
    you inspired me to blog about my boobs. yay terri. xxx

    • The mountains are among the best places to whip out the girls! We must have been on the same wavelength! I will check out your boob post asap. Yay, Bev!

      • i’m finding it very comforting and a bit eerie that you and i are going about doing the same things at the same time (boobs and accessing my blog). do you think that we are so cosmically connected or do all ladies around our age synchronize their movements

        as for the rembrandt or the cat. i would save the the rembrandt. i would tell the cat “you must evolve now, shit is approaching quickly. now, i did not save the painting for it’s beauty but sadly for it’s value. i would sell the rembranent, tell the cat “i told you so” whilst paying his medical bill. then i would use some of the money to buy art supplies so i could create my own rembrandt

      • Maybe. Do you have two dogs staring at you right now? What are you wearing? (heh – heh, heh) Damn, you’ve got the Rembrandt/Cat thing all figured out. Please notify the art world, so they can prepare (financially) for the purchase of my next work. xo

      • if i glance out the window at any given moment, 3 dogs suddenly turn to look at me. its not me they love, its the table scraps. i am wearing rolled up sweats and my hoodie – hood up. this is my eminem look, since i homeschool my 14 year old daughter this ensemble helps me connect with the homies and explain algebra at the same time. i’m having meatballs, rice and green beans for supper. just putting that out there.

      • I’ve got two dogs who just like me for my thumbs … and their ability to clean up pee. WTF? You’re a writer and you can explain algebra? I’m sorry, that’s just over the top. I don’t know what I’m having for dinner b/c CC isn’t here and I’ve taken that as an opportunity to not make any. I’m hoping for a subway sandwich with part of the bread picked away. I’ll be wearing my one pair of shorts and a tank top because it’s too damn hot here for a hoodie.

  5. I couldn’t stop giggling! It’s been so long since I was in deep water that wasn’t a therapy pool, I forgot about the whole floatation effect. (Ah…reminders of breast-youth.) Thank you for the morning laugh!

    • You’re welcome, Chris. Prescription: get thyself into someone’s redneck pool and set the girls free!

  6. I was wondering where you were going to go with that title :) I love your posts. They are like descriptive, contemplative (somehow you managed to make ‘boobies’ something worth reflecting over) manifestos. I also love the description of the ‘red neck pool.’ Great post as usual.

    • Thanks so much, Katherine. The upside of too much thinking, maybe. When southbound boobs suddenly are north … its worth reflection … or at least a grope.

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