My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [90]
My guess is our chichi private club went back to being a quiet place for lawyers and bankers to enjoy a quick lunch before returning to their office to work another ten hours. And I’m willing to bet they don’t miss us and our raucous conversations when we’d prattle on about our go-to-market strategies and sticky content and oh-my-God-how-cool-would-it-be-to-have-an-IPO. I suspect they used to look at us over their reading glasses and think, “Kids, when you stop selling air and start doing real business, y’all be sure and let us know.”
There was one club I particularly wanted to join because they had an enormous outdoor pool surrounded by a giant sundeck. Unfortunately, I didn’t know any members who’d sponsor me—or have good enough credit—to get in. For ten years, it’s been my goal to wield the means and wherewithal to join.
As it turns out, the membership application takes two minutes, it only a costs a couple bucks more than my old gym, and I don’t even have to be friends with anyone to sign up. No one does a credit check or makes me go through any kind of awkward interview process. Pretty much they show me the pool, explain where to park, and that’s it.
I’m not sure whether to be disappointed or overjoyed.
But either way, I’ll finally be tan.
Today’s my first day using the pool. I pretty much fly out of bed and change directly from my pajamas to my swimsuit. Then I whip my hair back into a bandanna and throw on yesterday’s gym shorts and I’m on my way.
When I get to the club, I toss all my stuff in a locker, grab my well-loved old Lands’ End boat-and-tote bag, and rush up to the pool.
I’m delighted to finally have a place to wallow, yet the second I walk out onto the sundeck, I realize I’m doing it wrong. Apparently no one got the memo that this club is no big deal, and everyone’s dressed to impress.
Ladies sport the kind of bikinis that are so intricately beaded they’d fall apart if they touched water. And their hair’s done and their makeup’s perfect and no one’s wearing a ratty old gym shirt as a cover-up. Unconsciously, my hand goes to the small patch on the side of my suit where the chlorine destroyed the elastic last year as I work my way over to the corner of the sundeck.
I settle into the chair and spend a few hours swimming and sunning, yet I never quite seem to enjoy myself.
I feel awkward and out of place here, and I can’t figure out why, particularly since I didn’t even fake my way into this membership.
After a week of torrential rain, Chicago’s finally graced us with a sunny day. Today I feel a little more ready to hit my pretentious pool. Instead of wearing my usual gym shorts over my bathing suit, I’ve got on a snappy new gauzy tunic.173 Instead of my usual bandanna do-rag, I’m protecting my hair with the same kind of awesome woven straw cowboy hat you always see the Real Housewives wearing to the beach.
I set aside my old Ray-Bans and am instead sporting flashy sunglasses with sparkles all over the stems. I’ve donned some heeled sandals in lieu of Crocs and I’m carrying a little bag from the Four Seasons and not my tote.174 When I hit the sundeck, I note with satisfaction that I’m done up exactly like every other woman at the pool, except I’m not wearing a spangled bikini, which . . . no. Instead I have on a new understated black miracle suit, with the tiniest bit of decorative trim.
I choose a chair with the best angle to the sun and observe how everyone else spreads out their club-owned towels. One goes on the top of the chaise, one covers the bottom, and the third is folded up into a little pillow until it’s used to dry off after a dip in the pool. I follow suit, sit, and like everyone else in a thirty-foot vicinity, I pull out my Kindle to read my Lauren Conrad book.
And yet, once I’m settled into my little corner between the hot tub, tiki bar, and lifeguard stand, I still feel like a poseur.
Granted, I may look like everyone here, but I have the sense that I don’t belong here. I mean,