Column: Skimpy swimsuits
Tribes of Girls go on hunting trips, just like Guy Tribes. My Tribe just got back from their current hunting trip all smiles, good-natured beyond belief. The Old Girl, the one who talked me into starting this Tribe, she too was mellowed out.
I bowed and offered her a cup of Caw-Fee, a tribute to Her Mellowness, and asked her if The Hunt went well.
"Oh my yes," she replied, "C'mon, we're headed for the lake. Wait 'til you see what we bagged."
And with no more to-do, they all jumped into the Wagon, which was still hot. I did as she expected, lifted the hood, and checked the oil. I then did as I expected, and added four quarts. I'm handy, or I wouldn't be here.
We - 13,15, 17 and Unknown - soon arrived at the lake. It was the best of warm summer Minnesota evenings. The water was calm. There was even a diving raft a little off shore. The Young Girls, who already had on the new swimming suits that they had bagged during their hunting trip, peeled off clothes and cut-offs, jumped into the water, and were soon pulling themselves, dripping and wet, up onto the raft.
I thought at first it was the heat of the evening sun that had blinded me, knowing that Mother Nature, another Girl with powers beyond control, had something to do with my dimming sight, but no. I looked at what The Young Girls were wearing; it was my modesty that was in flames.
"Don't you love The Girls' new suits, dear?" The Old Girl said to me, the female pride dripping from her words.
Suits? You call those skimpy things suits? If you sewed all three of them together, there wouldn't be enough to cover a grapefruit.
"They were on sale," she added. Per pound, they should have cost about three cents.
"We hunted all over town for them," fatigue evident in her words. I thought that it's a good thing They were not hunting for deer; had those suits been venison, we'd have starved by Thanksgiving.
I looked again at The Young Girls. I looked at the dock boy, who seemed to be polishing an old outboard motor for about the hundredth time. I looked to the left, along the beach, saw three leering adolescent teenage male juvenile delinquents, shoving and poking one another.
I looked to the right. Two dirt bikes ridden by contestants in the 'before' part of an acne commercial were heading our way. Canoes and rowboats were being dragged to the water's edge by what had to be a group of male high school dropouts.
I looked out there again at The Young Girls, and said to The Old Girl: Wasn't this a nice peaceful, deserted beach five minutes ago? Weren't we all alone? Weren't there any swimsuits with smaller legholes in them?
I peeked at the suits worn by The Young Girls. Some fabric engineer somewhere must have had some scraps left over from a real swimsuit. I hollered out to The Young Girls, who seemed reluctant to dive into the water off the rocking raft: "For heaven's sakes, jump into the water before one of these young males explodes from hormone overload."
It was a good thing that raft wasn't on fire, as long as it took The Young Girls to rehearse the best way to jump into the water.
"Like this?" one would say to the others, as she posed, arms over her head. I cringed. "No, like this," said another, demonstrating a completely impossible diving pose.
I said to The Old Girl: Can't they jump?
No, she replied, those suits aren't made for swimming. She sighed. She probably wishes she'd hunted a bit longer.
I know how she felt. I always feel that way after a hunting trip.
Say, isn't that a bus full of boy scouts just pulling up?