Summer weekends are as fleeting as the strobe of a firefly. When I get up Saturday morning, the two days appear as discrete, separate chunks of time: Saturday is errands and chores, followed by afternoon leisure and some form of Saturday night entertainment. Sunday is church-going in the morning, often a meal together out, and then lay back summering in the afternoon. But come late Saturday afternoon, I'm often rushing through more "to-do's", with various people needing my time and attention. Early Sunday coffee and the papers abruptly ends with the drill sergeant routine of rousing sleep-ins for church, and by the time we get home, my afternoon is starting to accrete into a block of concrete with layer and layer of chores slipping into the mix.

My kids know I HATE to shop on Sunday...or Saturday... or after work. In fact, pretty much anytime they say the words "mall" or "Old Navy", I shudder. There's something about the acres of clothes, concrete floors, blaring music, and the wants of an unfocused child that make my system shut down. Not a weekend goes by without one child telling me that they've now outgrown their: [insert: bathing suit, shoes, shorts] or they need: [insert phrase: clothes, bike parts, sporting equipment]. I am the Grinch of Shopping, unless they want to go to Borders or the art store, and then I'll race them out the door.

So I MADE my youngest wear the bathing suit that is TOO tight for yet another weekend, and she had to endure the heartache of shorts that rode up her waist, mismatched bathing top and bottom (come on, the top is blue and the bottom is a blue print), even though she had a GIFT certificate to spend. Sigh, I know. I'll do better next weekend, really I will. It's a four day weekend, so I'll have more flex time.

The thing is, we joined this pool. Lat year my sister joined and it seemed that every weekend was sweltering and while she and her family were splashing nearby, we were either stuck in traffic trying to go to the beach, or sitting at home resenting everyone who was swimming in turquoise waters. Consequently, this year, we scraped the money together and joined. It's not cheap. As a result, I've joined the ranks of those I've formerly been annoyed at when they tell you that they can't do [anything] on the weekend because they have to go to "the club", and only have "X" numbers of weekends left.

Unfortunately, I discovered too late that 1) my sister never goes to the club on the weekend, which is the only time I can go; 2) my daughter is bored out of her mind unless she has a friend with her, which never seems to work out, and 3) I hate the club.

All right, I don't hate the club itself. It's pretty, has a lot of pools, and is fairly user-friendly. And it's not just the appearing in public in a bathing suit. I've had decades of that and I'm pretty numb to it by now. No, it's the fact that I am bored out of my mind. Until I can figure out a way to bring the laptop and art supplies with me, it just feels like a big waste of an afternoon. And I fall asleep when I try to read. I tried drawing, but once I did the lifeguard chair, the umbrellas, beach chairs, even some tote bags, there's not much there to draw. It's boring unless you are twelve and are part otter, which my daughter is.

As my sister said: “We’re old now." We don't want to get our hair wet, the water's too cold, and the pool's too crowded. We've become our own aunts, going in to the water only once a day, getting wet and coming back out again. We don't linger, play, time how long we can hold our breath under water, or do the dead man's float until the lifeguard blows her whistle, wondering if we're really dead. Now we swim purposefully, doing a few laps for exercise. We scold children for splashing, climb in using the ladder or stairs, and watch in horror when our kid makes a cannonball leap within our splash zone. When did we morph into these elderly creatures? At least we don't wear pool shoes and a bathing cap, though I do wear the straw hat in to the pool - hey, sun damage, y'know?

Suddenly I'm remembering last vacation: temps in the '90's, beaches packed, waves rough, rocks underfoot, and my sister and I hogging the paltry shade of our umbrellas, with our books and journals falling out of our hands as we snore on the beach, eyes glazed, minds numbed. We exist just to hand out drinks, holler at kids to apply sun block, and fret while they disappear in the surf line. I'd like to sit up on the dune, at a picnic table, iced coffee in one hand, and sketchpad in the other. Preferably wearing shorts and a large t-shirt, instead of my wet suit with sand in the crotch, my old lady skirted wet suit in bright blue (what was I thinking?)

Yes, summers at the beach are a young person's dream. Now I just worry about skin cancer and sharks. I can't let myself relax past the wave line. I just keep obsessing on how I am going to get out of the water, past the crashing waves, the undertow, and the rocks that cut up my feet. I really don't want to have my husband haul me out. Really. I'm not my Aunt Lena. I don't have a bathing cap with a big, rubbery flower glued to the side of it. Just a big straw hat with a polka dot ribbon. If you can't tell the difference, you're mad!