Mrs. Yoy and the Model
I stretched out on a pool chair. I took a big, salty air-filled breath, and dove into Gone Girl.
After blasting through a few chapters, I closed my book and scanned the pool area.
On the people watching scale, I give it an eight out of ten. I'm always fascinated by people's pool attire. Not like I'm one to judge, I've poured myself into a Spanx bathing suit with a ruffle skirt. I'm hiding all of my childbearing scars.
I spot a young lady and her young boyfriend hanging out in a private cabana a few feet away. I'm going to name her Modelzilla. She was super tall and super skinny and super accessorized, which led me to believe she was a model.
Modelzilla looked miserable. Like, I'm about to have all of my teeth pulled out without Novocaine miserable. Except she wasn't.
She whined about needing to be in the sun. She slinked over to an unshaded chair and threw herself down. Scowling. Her lame boyfriend followed.
This was so fascinating to me. You are at an awesome hotel, on the beach, relaxing, so my question is, WHAT THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM?
As she pranced around the pool, making sure to check out her reflection in anything she could, a feeling of panic arose in me.
I know I don't have daughters, but how do I avoid raising such a sullen and shallow human?
Another friend asked her joyously if she wanted to go down to the restaurant and get french fries and drinks.
YES, I DO! (That was me, responding to her friend, in my head)
YUCK! (That was her answer.)
Maybe if she ate a little, she'd be a more pleasant person. That was my verdict.
I grew bored of her act and returned to my book. I was going to relax and enjoy the beautiful day.