I somehow got away with spending my entire yesterday in a bikini.

I somehow got away with spending my entire past week like I was still in high school.

Monday night I went to spend time with my oldest friend. I saw clips from the movie he wrote and directed. It’s the biggest thing he’s ever done, and it’s good to see him so proud of something.

We looked at his baby pictures, watching him get older and older, going through sad phases, grumpy phases, one unfortunate tryst with a mullet.

I turned the page and smiled.

“That’s the boy,” I said.

“Yeah, look how young I am.”

“I can’t believe we have known each other that long.”

“Look how good I look in this picture.”

“I know. That’s why I was a moron for you.”

We stay up dissecting just about every relationship we’ve had in the years we’ve known each other. There are apologies. There are confessions. There are all kinds of things we don’t have to say to each other, because everything is so past that. We talked over beers until the bar closed. In the morning, we email each other a thank you. Sometimes you need that long night of checking in with someone who has unconditional faith in you, to make sure you’re still who you think you are.

The boy I dated between my junior and senior year had both a pool table and a pool. The summer before my senior year we were constantly playing some kind of game — either 9-Ball, or a particularly sexually-frustrating water sport only two virgins could come up with called WarBall, where the object was pretty much to make sure our bodies were constantly touching under the guise of throwing a ball or touching base or… I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I had a great tan, and could run a table well enough that boys were impressed. And at seventeen, all you want is for boys to be constantly impressed with you.

This past Wednesday night I’m out with Dan. We’re playing pool, sharing a pitcher of Shiner, and dumping all of our cash into the jukebox, hijacking the music for the rest of the night. Dan has played a combination of songs after my heart and songs to remind us of the Palm Springs “Now That’s What I Call Un-Offensive” collection. I teach Dan how to play 9-Ball. We discuss how pool is the perfect game, because you never have to stop talking. This is why it’s the only game we should ever play together. We stay up very, very late. And while our bodies hate us the next day (What’s with the sweating?), we still decide we need to play more pool on a weekly basis. I hope we do it.

My mother calls yesterday morning about four hours after I went to sleep because time zones are a gigantic mystery to her. (Dan: “I mean, you just moved to California.”)

So Mom wakes us both up with good news, and the news is good enough that I can’t fall back asleep after I hang up. We’re up and it’s early and we both know the lawn needs some serious tending.

“It’s too hot to go for a run,” I say. “No more running.”

“You’d have to get up at five or six in the morning,” stee says. “And that’s no fun.”

“No. And in our neighborhood, that hour is a little scary.”

Eventually we make it to the living room. And this is where I begin dancing to “Feel Good, Inc” in my bikini because I’ve been sitting in front of a computer for about ten hours a day all week. I’m having a good Tom Cruise moment with loud music and a warm breeze flowing through the house and cats dodging my feet and it’s like playtime. stee joins in. Fuck the neighbors.

I never garden in a bikini top. I am not one of those women. But again, I’ve been cooped up working, and the sun was out, and my Hawaii tan is completely gone, and I just needed a little vitamin D. And we live on a quiet street where there’s rarely a car passing. I figure I’m safe to get a little sun on my back while I do some yard work.

I’m pruning the rose bushes when stee says, “You’re very popular.”

There were gardeners working across the street, standing on a ladder, cranked around at the waist and staring at me. I wish I knew a little Spanish, so I could shout, “Don’t fall!” I tried to ignore them at first, but eventually the three of them were just openly staring at me, leaning against their truck and watching from thirty feet away.

stee stands at the top of the stairs for a while. He shakes his head and says, “There’s a lot of work in the backyard, too.”

“Yeah, I’m right behind you.”

I didn’t want to get out of my swimsuit, because it’s so hot all I want to do is go swimming. I put on a different bikini top (I bought a few for the honeymoon — thanks, Ross Dress for Less!), a t-shirt and jeans, and headed to the coffee shop. “I like this whole thing,” Dan says, pointing at me from pigtails to flip-flops. “You look summery.”

“I’m pretending we get to go swimming all day and don’t have to sit here for five hours, working.”

We sit there for five hours, working. Dan has built us a little workstation, and the three of us zone out, iPods whirring and fingers flying, as we send fifty-seven emails and work on whatever the hell it is we can do for five hours straight over a latte and bagel.

Blynch calls. We’re supposed to join them for an arty-farty thing at MOCA, which sounds all so fantastic. “Darling, we’re going to Basquiat party at MOCA. Wear something slutty chic, would you?” It was dancing and drinks at the museum, which combines my love of… everything. But we had been downtown the night before, Dan is an enemy of art, and stee has probably never gone clubbing in his life. I knew I was dragging them. Blynch says, “Well, we’re going to sit here in the hot tub before we go to the thing.”

And right then I know our evening will consist of sitting in a hot tub and swimming in a pool. And that’s exactly what happened. For ten hours. I can’t believe my fingers aren’t still pruned.

[scripty]
STEE
…yeah, I think that guy has an Emmy.

BLYNCH
For what?

PAMIE
A daytime Emmy.

BLYNCH
Oh, yeah. It’d be a daytime Emmy. That’s why I couldn’t think of it.

RAY
Gah. Why don’t you let me compete in the Olympics with soap operas, and see if I win something?

[BEAT]

STEE
Wow.

BLYNCH
Somebody needs a blog.

PAMIE
Where’s my sitcom? dot blogspot dot com.

RAY
Fuck you guys.

BRET
“And I have something to say to you, NBC!” Send.

RAY
Hate all of you.

PAMIE
Aw, he’s just mad because he has a blog.

RAY
All y’all motherfuckers have blogs. Shut up.

STEE
www. here’s-what-i-know-about-this-business dot org.

RAY
Get out of my pool.
[/scripty]

There’s beer and gossip and laughing until we feel sick.

[scripty]
PAMIE
Thank you for playing this song!

BLYNCH
Thank you for your hot tub dance.

PAMIE
I’m awesome.

BLYNCH
I love how your elbows never touch the water.

PAMIE
They wouldn’t, even if I wasn’t in this pool.

BLYNCH
“I’m Pam! When I dance, my arms never touch the water.”

PAMIE
Do it.

BLYNCH
No. I’ll spill my beer.

PAMIE
It’s hips, and elbows. Hips, and elbows.

BLYNCH
Good lord.

PAMIE
Advanced move: Hair, hips, hips.

RAY
I want Pam to teach a class.

BLYNCH
Hot tub bikini dancing.

RAY
Hips, hips–

PAMIE
And dip… the elbows. Dip… the elbows.

BLYNCH
I love everybody here.
[/scripty]

The pretty ladies who are supposed to go to MOCA with us show up, dressed to kill.

[scripty]
RAY
Oh, shit.

PAMIE
Ray! You are not ready to go to the museum.

INDIA
Ray! Why are you not in pants?

BRET
Go get in some pants, Ray.

STEE
Shit, you are in trouble.

PAMIE
You have pissed off the pussy, Ray.

BLYNCH
Pam!

PAMIE
What?

BRET
Jesus.

PAMIE
Oh, I went too far?

BLYNCH
No. Nice use of the word “pussy.”

STEE
Ray, you are going to be in so much trouble.

BRET
Look how hot they are, and you’re standing in your hot tub.

STEE
Go put on some pants!

PAMIE
The panocha est cerrado, homes.

RAY
I hate you guys.

BRET
Pam, I have to tell you. I know we haven’t seen each other in seven years, but I really used to think you were such a sweet girl. You are twisted.

BLYNCH
Fucking Carlos Mencia did that shit.

PAMIE
You wish.

BLYNCH
I know. You were always fucked in the head.

BRET
I mean, it’s awesome. But Jesus Christ, you called those girls “the pussy.”

PAMIE
I missed you too, Bret.
[/scripty]

And Ray is a good, dumb man, so he leaves us his house, puts on some pants, and takes the pretty ladies to go do what they want to do. Jessica shows up when she gets off work, and we stay in that pool and hot tub for the next six hours, floating and goofing off, playing like kids. We’re laughing until we feel so sick, until we’re loopy from the heat, and our heads were hurting and every single syllable made us lose it all over again.

This morning has been nice and lazy. There’s a break in the heat. We watched a geeky documentary about Scrabble. I’m on the couch, stee’s working by the window, and Ben Folds is playing on the stereo. Tonight we’re going to a party with free beer and bowling that is walking distance from our house. My maturity level has remained right at giggling high school girl for so many days now, I don’t know if I’ll ever bounce back. For now, I really don’t care. I’m having a very good time.