Cinderella in a Swimsuit
I get lost several times driving my cavalier through the “residents onlyâ€? signage that directs me to the main entrance of the gated community to G’s place. I can’t help but laugh to myself and think, “This is new. Sandy, you’re definitely not in Iowa anymore.â€?
The security guard asks for my name and what lot number I’m visiting….. 131. He types something up and hands me a parking pass that’s time stamped and dated. I can’t help but wonder if I stay past midnight, does my car turn into a pumpkin or do I just get towed?
I pull into the curved driveway and park alongside the fountain. It doesn’t take long for me to realize I’m the first one there. Correction: the only one there… at all.
The pool is air-temp—which, even in southern California at night in November, can be fairly chilly. We’d been in the jacuzzi a good forty-five minutes before we toyed with the idea of jumping in. He told me I should go first; being a native Iowan I’m used to frigid weather.
Apparently geography determines the warmth of blood. Which may be true, but if I’m going down, he’s going down with me. Jumping into 55 degree water coming straight out of 102 degrees can be a bit of a shock to the system to say the least.
I think he secretly enjoyed it although he’d never admit it—it was the perfect segue into a conversation about just “going for it.� Otherwise we tend to overthink what it is we’re about to do and instead of just doing it, we psyche ourselves out.
“Just go for it, huh?� That’s when he kissed me. FINALLY. A smidge of clarity.
He didn’t stay for me. Well, even if he did, I did shave for him. I think we’re even.
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