July 1, Part Three

So sometimes you walk to the bathroom, and dammit if it isn't a long way from your cabana. And so you look at everyone and they're all fat and hairy and reading pulp novels or picture magazines, and yes it's comforting to realize that 90% of everyone is dumb as hell, so you smile and wistfully regret spending most of the last four hours wondering if everyone was judging you for wearing shorts to the pool.

But then, sometimes, as quickly as you start to relax you notice that everyone you're looking at is looking back at you. Every single one. Usually the best thing to do in these situations is to stop looking at people, so you try that for a while but it's fucking crowded and you left your sunglasses on your lounger so inevitably you keep looking and they keep looking back and you're pretty sure a kid to the left actually woke up his dad so he could look at you, too. And so sometimes, when too much beer and sun and a lingering hangover and probably something genetic combine with a whole bunch of motherfuckers staring at you while you're walking splay-toed towards the john, it becomes clear to you, finally, that all the big life-shading anxieties you've cultivated so meticulously over the years have been one hundred percent justified. And pretty much every time this happens, you feel kind of deflated.

But then, sometimes, I'm not really sure how often about this part but if I had to guess I'd say probably not that often, when you finish waggling your dick back into your shorts and look casually into the mirror while you wash your hands, you suddenly stop wondering if there's a way to return to the hotel room without anyone seeing you and start wondering if all this insecurity hasn't maybe been a little exaggerated, if maybe no one in the entire pacific time zone gives a shit about your shorts or your suntan or your posture, if maybe all the bizarre attention you're getting might instead have something to do with last night, when you let your buddies give you a mohawk.