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Pondering pedicures




   Oh how times have changed. My girl is here now. I have one girl and she’s almost 23. I’d say I see myself in her but she’s about five feet eight inches tall and about 115 pounds on a heavy day. I see a zipper in her instead. I was more like a tufted sofa at her age. Anyway, she’s here and it means a different dynamic that’s for sure. Not worse, just different. And I did finally get her to say that when she lies on the beach she gets a sort of buzz from it. Now that’s like her mama.  So here we are.
   You’ll  be glad to know that my swimsuit finally arrived from Lands’ End and they have a great slimming contour thing going on. I’m here to tell you if you’re “heavy set” and you need a swimsuit you need to do no more than Google “Lands’ End.”
    Now my new dilemma is that I’m in dire need of a good pedicure. I dared not investigate this possibility on the Vineyard until recently when I heard there was a lady off Main Street who did them for cheap. I shall let you know because I plan to visit the spot perhaps tomorrow if I’m lucky. Besides, anyone who touches these piggies for a living deserves to be compensated fairly.
   My part-time job is running along fairly smoothly. I threw a wrench in the works last week when I was assigned a 350-word piece and I turned in a 1,100 word novella instead. And I somehow thought it best if I didn’t mention this snafu to anyone. Let’s just say it wasn’t completely appreciated on production day at the ol’ newspaper. It’s all fine though. I think they sort of agreed that my subject deserved more than a blink of an eye. She was a cool lady.
   So I’d love to know if everyone else’s summer is moving along as nicely as mine. Summer has always been my tricky season. It started when I was in fifth grade and I realized my thighs rubbed together and my classmates’ thighs didn’t. I had these cotton polyester shorts that came to mid-thigh and when you live in a St. Louis suburb and it’s July and your thighs are rubbing together there’s going to be some moisture involved. This I found culminated in a sort of pimply outbreak between my thighs every summer. Needless to say, summer is still not my favorite season, even with the slenderizing swimsuit.
   Summer just means I can look forward to fall when I can pull out my sweaters, typically found in the men’s section of the Salvation Army thrift store. I’ve always found men’s clothing much more comfortable. No one cares how men look in little black trousers. No one cares if their thighs rub together and no one cares if the back of their filmy shirt is missing the hook-and-eye. Whatever.  
   I find one of the best parts of living on Martha’s Vineyard is that I never have to get a haircut again. I can wear shoes made of rubber year round. I could probably pick grass out of a West Tisbury yard and eat it by the handful and everyone would think it was tasty. Basically, anything goes here. And you don’t judge, you don’t criticize – at least not when anyone is really listening – you wear whatever you want and you work as much or as little as you want. It’s unlike anyplace I’ve ever been. Sometimes I think to myself that I’m comfortable here because I’m such a weirdo and I wouldn’t be as comfortable anyplace else.
    Oh you’ve got your Oprah sightings and your Bill Murray run-ins. But hey, if they’re here doesn’t that mean there’s a reason? One of them being that no one here actually cares that they’re here. All this is fine and dandy but at the end of the day I’m still wondering where the hell I can find someone who will cut my toenails for cash. I shall let you know how that works out.

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