i’m playing volleyball on the beach. i haven’t played since PE in high school. somehow i still serve well.
there’s sand on the bridge of my nose under my sunglasses. itchy grit.
and sand behind my ears. crusted into my forehead and eyebrows, in my hair. on my shins and torso from a few dives i took trying to return the ball.
and instead of an ugly PE uniform, i’m wearing an old bikini for the first time in years. i try not to care that leggy Cynthia (pronounced SEEN-TEE-AAH), the Canadian from Quebec, is wearing a teeny cobalt bikini that i could’ve *maybe* worn when i was ten. she’s on our team and we’re all trying to guess her age. We decide on 19.
i try instead to be proud of my pooch that carried twins plus one. scars from 3 different hernia surgeries. i’m 36 and maybe i don’t belong in a bikini, but screw it. wearing one anyway. no one in Mexico knows me. and why should i care even if someone did?
the wind is blowing, the palm tree fronds are shaking with laugher at our antics on the sand court. “Rotate!”
D is surprised i can play a sport. i tease that i may even be turning him on with athletic ability he’s never seen before from me.
as the sun leaves her mark on my sweaty back i lunge to return the ball. i miss and chase it to the water’s edge where i rinse my sandy self off.
i should put on more sunscreen, but i’m having too much fun.
in this moment, i am happy.