Cats' Play

Sunday late afternoon, and although I had left the laundromat three hours before, only now was I feeling happier and accomplished. A grande Starbucks cup was near at hand, and I sorted through the t-shirts and loose socks and undies that had not been folded.

"Connor's, mine, Andy's, mine, mine, mine, Connor's, mi-, uh, nope, Connor's...." When the youngest still at home changed their brand and cut of underwear every six months, gender aside, the sorting task got tricky. My husband's brand never changed. And I usually bought whatever came in the biggest quantity for a discount. While I could've saved myself the confusion by loading their hamper into it's own separate machine, the $6 for use of just the one eight load washer persuaded my thrifty mind. The downside to watching every expenditure is what caused me to put off the trip to the laundromat one too many weeks. I regretted during the hour or so of drying how I was feeling more sweaty and unbecoming, just as all my clothes were becoming more clean and fresh smelling. I did stake out the best spot by the open doors for the final stage; the breeze keeping me from visibly perspiring.

The depressing part of it was being aware of the start to the "new" batch of laundry currently on my body. The bottom of the drawer sweats I was wearing out in public felt too tight, topped by the black blouse with blonde dog hair amassed on it. Plus, even before I'd left the laundromat, I was thinking about the white towel festering in the tub at home, which I had forgotten. That might have to be soaked and I'd borrow my neighbor's copious supply of liquid bleach for it too, so it wasn't a horrible oversight. It needed more attention than I was willing to attempt here. I'd need to covet enough quarters to use a dryer at some late hour before it could rejoin its brothers in the linen closet. I decided that needed to happen, and not let it become a disgusting problem to solve days later.

Coffee was perking me up now. I started to feel more in balance. Currently, I was not being attentive to or protective over anyone else's demands on me. This organizing of "our stuff" was actually comforting if separated from the whole of "our stuff." It didn't feel like a chore to me when it was private, and on my own terms. I could feel amazement and gratitude at the number of and quality of the clothes that was each of our assorted armor in the world. The August Silk thermal top that I wouldn't wear again for many months -- I needed to promise myself that I would repair/replace it's fraying collar ribbon, so I could put it away for a few seasons and be amazed anew that I owned something that I had long ago told myself I wanted, no matter its impracticality in Southern California greater basin/sea level weather. As a young bride, now thirty years past, having honeymooned in the local mountains, the catalog for August Silk seemed much more my style and practicality than Betsey Johnson. But how I longed to be that stand-out to flaunt Betsey J fishnet stockings and red patent leather three inch heels. Of course, my husband, Andy, whether at that time or now, would've wondered what I'd been watching or reading, if he came across me lounging seductively in those. And lounging would be all I could do with such heels. All the more reason to have them as an enticement. It was rare that I let myself be that incapacitated and wily. But for him, because we had that kind of trust, I'd definitely play the helpless beauty.

This got me to thinking about runs to the beach with my school pal, Maureen.

Funny that with all the time that had passed and, now, the miles keeping us from spontaneous road trips, when I was thinking about surprising ways to act around the opposite sex, that having Maureen at my side would come to mind. You'd think we'd been awful, if I bragged on this much, but really we'd always been schemers, and not much more. We'd definitely look at men; long and ridiculously. The thought of conquest, or what it would take to even get to first base, rarely if ever accomplished. Both of us seriously just private about true matters of the heart or anything beyond longing.

It also might've made a difference if we'd ever tried to travel further than Ventura, CA.

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"Suits, three o'clock," Maureen had already craned around and snapped her gaze back forward before I looked up from my book.

"Three o'clock from North, or from you?" I looked to the left and over my shoulder, lazily.

"I don't know which direction is North from here; the compass is in the Jeep. No, to the right, back there, on the bike path." Maureen was either trying to give me a chiropractic manipulation or turn my head in the completely opposite direction of where I thought she meant.

"Jehovah's Witnesses," I determined. Turning my sunglassed gaze back to my novel.

"What?!" Maureen squealed and shot her gaze rapidly back over her shoulder. "Not them; they are wearing suits, I'll give you that."
"Them!"

Maureen jabbed my right shoulder and nearly slapped my cheek trying to turn my head further than it would comfortably twist to the right on my stiff neck.

"Blue. Royal blue and baby blue. Speedos, I think." Maureen clarified.

Luckily for me, by the time Maureen redirected my attention on the pair, they were headed up a walking path behind the main beach, likely back to the parking lot. I was able to arch around and gaze a good long time at the toned butt cheeks and tanned muscular thighs and calves of the men. One of them had short dark brown hair, slicked back, and the other had a longer mane of sun-bleached brunette-blond, and I may have caught a glimpse of a beard.

"One of them have a beard? I think you saw more than I did." I admitted.

"Because it took you forever to look," Maureen admonished. "Yes, a little more than stubbly blond beard. But even better, green eyes. Although that may've been the sun playing tricks."

"Wish they were coming back this way, instead of going away to their car, girlfriends, or gay bar...." I added as a knowing tease.

"I could call them back over here," Maureen challenged. Maureen never let anything go easily. "Hey!" she began to take a deep breath in, and considered what to say next."

"NO!" I nearly flipped out of my folding chair trying to yank Maureen down, while simultaneously crouching, and hoping to be blocked from sight.

Maureen laughed out loud, projecting the laughter for many moments, and casually turning back around to fully take in my discomfort. And then I laughed. I really didn't care what those two, or anyone passing by saw. We probably looked like a bowl of kittens being taunted by a feather toy. And no matter what had sent us into such a fit of laughter, it was good, and maybe everyone could use a little, "I don't know why I am laughing along, but I may as well."

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Why couldn't we just once have been disciplined enough with money to save up for a trip to a European beach, preferably clothing optional?