The Queen of Caramel She looks like a salad that has been overdressed: once fresh and desirable, now ruined by too much oil. Well past six decades of prime, she’s a bleached blonde bombshell that’s been detonated on a regular basis judging by the wanton sway of her thong bikini and the ropes of gold bling around her stair-cased neck. Her face reminds me of the rogue baked potato I found in the back of my oven last week. It had been re-baked so many times that it was a rock hard leather ball on the outside, yet hollow on the inside. Her eyes have that same hollow look as she gazes past you, never connecting. Two exhausted breasts hang over her bloated reptilian torso like a pair of drenched tube socks. They are the kind of mammary glands that could easily be tied into a knot, tied into a bow, and entertain a whole platoon of continental soldiers-- all at the same time. Her toothpick legs barely support what might have been a beautiful woman before too many sunrises branded her skin with the timeless logo of ridden hard/put away wet. My fellow guests are both fascinated and repulsed by her, riveted by her every move as if they are watching a train wreck in slow motion. I am now watching her everyday; she appears to be a long-standing regular here, always the first person at the pool, always in her same strategic hot spot. It’s the flash point intersection where all paths lead and all guests must pass through to pick up a towel. She wears a different bikini each day: head-turners in jewel tones of fuchsia, emerald and aquamarine. She parades in them with the pride of a princess and the ease of the twenty-five year old she still believes she is. Every so often the Caramelized Queen rises from her throne to stretch and salute the sun in a yoga dance that makes her chocolate pudding body appear surprisingly lithe. Following salutations she checks her make-up in a postcard sized mirror; when she is satisfied with her grooming, she begins to scan the pool, her eyes ricocheting around to each section voraciously seeking a morsel of acknowledgement from the strangers she is surrounded by. Her adopted subjects return poisoned crumbs of cruel criticism, openly joking about her, often within earshot. I hear open mouths and closed minds in the ridicule: “crazy old crocodile”, “aging eye candy”, “granny gone bad” are bandied about with hoots and sniggers. My blood pressure rises past my eyeballs and I suddenly feel very protective towards my Lady of the Light. In this surge of empathy, an epiphany of ageism, I begin to see her for what she truly is: a rebel in latex, a refreshing slice of humanity among these puffy, preppy, wonder-bread bodies that loaf and laugh. Beach bullies, their arrogance fueled by their own fears of expiring youth. These brats remind me of the Pepperidge Farm goldfish crackers that bloat beyond recognition when they are immersed in water: flaccid, brainless pulp without an ounce of irreverence in their soggy souls. Not so for my Bronzed Braveheart, for she has the wisdom of the ages baked into her bones and the warm embers of self-confidence illuminate and distinguish her. I love that she glories in her self: this valiant crusader in the war on ageism has shown me the light, and I marvel anew that she is so disturbing to others. I make a silent vow to join my Grand Dame of Daylight in her eternal sundance, I will wear my bikini forever, too, for it’s a state of mind I never want to relinquish. I now wish I had spoken to her. I wondered so many things: why was she here? Why was she alone? I speculated about her past: she could have been anyone and this, for me, is the oyster of travel: everyone has their story and every story has something to teach you. I imagined my Pool Diva as a former off-Broadway star, a retired brain surgeon from Vienna, or an heiress whose family had quietly tucked her away at the Loews Hotel to bake for eternity. Beauty may be in the eye of the beholder, but for me, beauty is grander, it is really about the energy and the essence one shares with the world. I was reminded of this as a waiter carried a huge tray of fresh pineapples by me on the way to the poolside bar. ‘Look at those things!’ I thought to myself, how did anyone ever think they could be appealing? They have scary, tough, ugly skin, they look weird and unapproachable, and it takes skill to open one and enjoy it. But oh, thank you to the brave one, the one who saw the potential, who took that leap of faith and reaped the rewards of a sweet, delectable fruit for all of us to enjoy, for all of us to share. Kim Dannies ©2008 |