Georgia on Her Mind(24)
“Are you excited about tonight?” Lucy asks.
“Actually, I am.” I anchor the phone between my chin and shoulder and wriggle into my suit.
“I’m coming over to help you get ready.”
I laugh. “You just want to check him out.”
“Well, I don’t have a date tonight.”
“First time in what, forever?”
“Please. I didn’t have a date last weekend either.”
“Okay, forget this weekend and last. How many dates have you had since January first?” I run upstairs for my beach towel and flip-flops.
She evades my question with one of her own. “What time shall I come over? Four-thirty?”
“If you insist.” I let her off without an answer, but I know she’s been on at least five or six dates this year.
I grab the novel I’ve been reading, which by no means keeps me awake until 2:00 a.m., my journal and a pen just in case inspiration hits.
I jerk my minicooler from under the sink and stock it with water, Diet Coke and grapes. At ten forty-five I head for the pool.
By eleven o’clock I’m slathered in coconut-scented oil with an SPF of four. I plan to be out here only an hour or so. The low SPF should get me a nice glow while protecting me from those nasty UV rays.
I recline, slip my shades into my hair and welcome the warm sun and cool breeze on my face. This is the life.
Two minutes later I sit up. Now I remember why I never sunbathe. It’s mind-numbing.
I pick up the novel, drop my sunglasses over my eyes and start to read. One sentence later I trade the book for my journal and pen. I am not in the mood for other people’s words.
Opening to a blank page, I wait for inspiration to hit, though it’s all around me. Blue skies, golden sun, thriving oaks and green palms. The breeze carries the scent of orange blossoms, the song of the birds and the laughter of children. I realize how blessed I am, even in light of recent events.
I open my journal and scribble at the top of the page, “Things I want in a husband.”
Thumping my pen against the paper, I ponder just what exactly makes a man husband material. What qualities did Chris have that made me consider him for a lifetime commitment?
Well, he’s handsome, intelligent and has money. Shame on me for not digging deeper. I write my first requirement.
“Committed to Jesus.” I underline it for emphasis. Deaf, dumb and blind by the ringing of my biological clock, I overlooked that aspect with Chris. But I won’t the next time.
Good-looking (at least to me.)
Sense of humor
Sense of seriousness
Kind
Rich
Poor
Somewhere in between rich and poor
Love fast food
Love my family
Nice teeth (I have a thing about teeth. Ever since junior high hygiene class.)
Loyal (Chris was not)
Smart; common sense
My best friend
I pause and review. While Chris fit most of the requirements I jotted, I’ve learned to go deeper and ask the hard questions. Sometimes we can want something so badly we refuse to look at what we see.
I’m in a list mood, so I turn to a new page.
Things I want in a job
Attila-free zone
Mike-free zone
Respect
Respect (worth repeating)
Opportunity for growth
Challenging and creative environment
More money
Good money (as long as the work is satisfying)
Cozy office
Decision maker
God first, work second
There. Straight from my heart. I like my lists. They make me feel content and focused. I settle back and close my eyes. The sun is warm and the breeze refreshing. In a few minutes I’ll take a dip in the pool….
I wake with a start. Something’s not right. Why is the sun on the other side of the pool? I snatch up my watch.
Two o’clock. I scramble to my feet. Oh. My. Word. I’ve been out here for three hours. And the spring sun is the worst—I am so burned.
I slip my feet into my flip-flops and stoop to gather my unread book, unopened cooler and unused towel when Drag strolls by in his wet suit, surfboard tucked under his arm.
“Whoa, Macy. You are fried.” He falls against the pool gate and I see pity in his eyes. “You really should use sunblock.”
“No kidding.” I grimace. “I didn’t mean to be out here so long.”
“You look like a candy cane.” Drag points out, laughing like Goofy. “The red is red, and man, the white is white.” He shakes his head and pushes his sunglasses down over his eyes.
I offer a crushing retort. “Har, har!” and I shuffle home in pain, the cooler banging against my burned thigh. When I fumble through my front door, the air-conditioning in the condo hits me like an arctic blast. I drop my stuff in the foyer and run to the downstairs bathroom mirror. Oh, no.
I look like a slice of red velvet cake. Worse yet, I fell asleep with my sunglasses on and white rings circle my blue eyes. Everything else is red. Lucy will never let me live this down.
I go upstairs, hop into the shower hoping to wash away the redness. But after toweling off, smearing on what’s left of a two-year-old bottle of aloe lotion, I am redder than ever. And freezing. I turn the air up to eighty.
I slip into my pink robe and, catching my reflection in the dresser mirror, I can’t tell where the robe ends and my skin begins. I hope Austin likes this color, because he’s going out with Pinky Moore tonight.