Crabs. Better on your pants than in them. Allegedly.

We are spending the summer on the coast of New England. A lucky girl indeed, I am wearing seersucker and learning to drink white wine with ice cubes in it. Preferably in a monogrammed glass, or better yet one bearing the flag of my yacht club.

Sadly, I am working at a disadvantage, because I do not have a yacht club.
Because I do not have a yacht.
Or Topsiders, which I think are mandatory. More on that later.

One of my favorite things about summer in New England is the long evenings spent outdoors, eating lobster and steamers and hotdogs in their special New England style rolls, a sweaty drink in one hand with the ice cubes clattering, the strings of lights overhead, lounging on Adirondack chairs, the waves crashing in the distance. It's pretty fucking epic.  These are my people. This is where I come from. But every summer, I return to the fold, and I always worry that I don't fit in - that maybe I never did. For starters, no one at the yacht club would describe anything as "pretty fucking epic". But I really am trying to blend in a bit because for some reason I really really really want to (at the very least) not look like I am trying so damn hard. Oh, irony.

The thing about being here is that, without even realizing it, I become incredibly uptight - a fact that was pointed out to me last night by my incredibly NOT uptight friend Zard, who has known me since I was hiding kegs in bushes and sneaking out of the house after curfew to drink them. She manages to live here and remain totally true to herself - and I wonder why I can't do that. Instead, I feel like a chameleon trying to blend in. It's not a conscious decision - without even realizing it I begin to clench my jaw and revert to my ancestral Puritan self. I find myself doing, saying, and wearing things I wouldn't even think of "in real life". I pine for a Volvo station wagon and a monogrammed tote bag. I ride a bike with fenders and a wicker basket on the front. I order Dark and Stormys and carry a lobster pick in my glovebox.

I feel like a fraud - but here's my conundrum: Is my New England self the authentic me? Or is my Maui girl the real deal? In Maui, I have no worries about embarrassing my family or fitting in. Everyone there is so unique, so totally their own person. I have never felt pressure to conform, and certainly never felt like I needed certain material things in order to do so.

It's just......different for me here.
Here in New England, I wear one piece bathing suits to cover the tattoos.
I go to the salon and get subtle blonde highlights.
I wear sheer pink lipsticks and shimmery eyeshadows.
I go out for the evening sporting dresses in shades of lime and stripes of navy.
I leave the stilettos at home - I am on the hunt for a pair of these fancy sandals that are, apparently, de rigueur for the ladies.
I even bought some special red shorts.

 The other night, I crashed a yacht club party and lounged on the deck in my cute dress, barefoot (no heels!) and sunburned. And then I looked to my left and saw THE SHORTS. This man was leaning against the railing in full glory: his polo shirt and Topsiders, RayBans and.....the shorts. The shorts to end all shorts - and all conversations about shorts. Shorts, covered with tiny little embroidere- "Does that guy have crabs on his shorts?" Zard leaned forward and nudged me with her elbow, tipping her glass in his direction. "Um, yes. He certainly does. What the fuck is that all about?" "Well," Zard said reasonably "better on your shorts than in them." "Can't we just not have them at all?" "No. You need to have crabs. Obviously." You see the problem I am facing.

An intimate moment in the ladies at MOMA

We're on the East Coast for our annual celebration of freedom, explosives, and lobster (not necessarily in that order).
To get here as quickly as possible, we have to fly overnight from Hawaii. And it is physically impossible for me to sleep on airplanes because I am absolutely terrified of flying. If I fall asleep, how am I going to clutch the armrests and will the airplane to stay aloft with the power of my mind? RIDDLE ME THIS.
We arrived into New York City's JFK airport at 5:44 am. As we approached the runway, I saw a light flashing outside. I assumed it was a light on the wing, visible in the pre-dawn shadows. But it wasn't flashing in any sort of predictable pattern, and at the very last moment, as the ground was rushing towards us, I saw a huge bolt of lightening across the wing.
The ground crew had retreated inside, and so there we sat, in a metal tube, on the runway, as lightening flashed around us and rain pelted the windows. It was totally not scary AT ALL.
When we finally got off the damn plane, we made our way to an apartment I had rented for the weekend. By 8am, the temperature had passed 80F, and the apartment didn't have air conditioning - it was probably 10 degrees hotter inside. I was not pleased. The kids were wide awake, and it was way too hot to nap, so we decided to clean ourselves up and go to the Museum of Modern Art, which may not have beds but at least has air conditioning. We got a little lost en route, getting on express trains, and local trains. and trains that had labels that were the same color and shape as the train we needed but a different letter, which I guess is  the most important part - I can't explain it, exactly, except to say that we spent almost 2 hours trying to get to 53rd and 5th Avenue, which apparently is only accessible by the E train. Or something.
All was forgotten when we exited the subway and saw the beacon that lay before us, a shining light that made everything okay. The lack of sleep, the extreme heat and humidity, the 90 minutes riding the NY City subway back and forth like idiots. It was all going to be okay. It was all worth it. Because of this. Because it brought us here, to this magical place.
Of course I am talking about Dunkin Donuts.
Anyone reading this who was raised in New England is nodding sagely right now and saying to themselves "Ah, yes. That's good. Dunkies."
I stood on the ramp leading to 5th Avenue holding my first iced coffee of the summer between damp palms and closed my eyes for just a moment, enjoying the feel of a 32 ounce plastic cup of goodness. The weight, the cup sweat, the 1/4 inch of sugar on the bottom......it was perfection. And as we exited the subway I saw the MOMA flag off to my left. My parents were walking full steam ahead towards the entrance, and my father had no intention of waiting out in the heat for us to nurse our beverages and engage in whatever bizarre reverie I was enjoying. Which explains why I chugged a large iced coffee in about 3 minutes flat and immediately felt kind of sweaty and sick. We bought our tickets and headed to the second floor, but I could feel the waves of nausea rising. After a few moments I leaned in and said to Sam in a low voice "I'll be right back."
The women's room was almost empty and I leaned back against the stall door as I locked it behind me, hoping that I was not really about to get sick in a public toilet, which is just not something that my OCD can handle. I decided that if I *was* going to get sick, I had to be careful not to touch the toilet in ANY WAY and to stand as far away from it as possible. I couldn't risk a splashback, not even in a classy place like the MOMA. I waited a few moments with a hand over my mouth, trying to postpone the inevitable. As soon as the last voice faded and the door thudded shut, I leaned forward and let go. "Hoooooagh!"
Simultaneously, there was a noise from another stall. "Blaaaaaaaagh". I froze mid-heave, grabbed on to the toilet paper dispenser to steady myself, and waited a beat. Had I just imagined that?
Silence.
Screw it. My stomach heaved and I leaned forward again. This time, I heard it, clear as day.
Someone was taking the dump of their life a few stalls down.
And there we were, engaged in the most fucked-up duet possible:
"Hoooagh!" "Blaaaaaargh!"
"HOOOOagh" "BlaaaaaaarGGGH"
I finally straightened up, grabbed a wad of paper, wiped my mouth, and ran to the sink. I splashed water on my face, pulled a handful of towels out of the dispenser, and made a beeline for the exit just as I heard the lock on the other stall clicking open.
There was no way I was making eye contact. No way.
I slipped out the door and disappeared into the crowd, vowing never to return to that bathroom again.
And also, to savor my iced coffee next time. That was $2.78 I am never gonna get back.