My girl MM and I sit by a pool, reminiscing about the time she once smoked a blunt the size of a dick. The sun is not out; in fact, it hides behind ominous clouds that are grumbling slightly about having to cohabit. Nonetheless, we are dipping our toes in the freezing water, perversely clinging to our one goal today; to go swimming.

It was the last time she ever smoked up. After 2 puffs (amateur, smh, haaaa) she was running behind pillars like a CIA agent; pillars she was bigger than, with no one behind them, hunting her, ha, regardless of what she thought she saw.

It made me think of my youth. I’m apparently, still in my prime, or rather, approaching it, depending on what side of menopause you fall on. I feel like there are some things I still need to be doing. Silly, youth-y things like wearing small things and showing off my excellently arranged cleavage before its arrangement is pulled down off the shelf. My cousin, who just had a baby, says I need to take nude pictures before I look too old to look good in them. It sounds like a plan.

When we were remembering this story, I felt a warm glow inside me, (definitely not the pool), as if I was watching a movie with one of those fuzzy moments (you know the ones, where the kid is being thrown up in the air in slow motion). I felt like I had a youth, and it was a good one. And it is not over, just in its middle age. And I want to be able to look back on the middle phase, and say ‘I enjoyed that immensely, and so did my boobs.’

tSN