It Was Written (Portland 9/30) :

I'm laying here in a bathing suit next to a river I have just been informed is made of snow melt, in a park in the middle of Portland, on a patch of grass, between two bridges. This is not what I was planning on when they said "waterfront", and I look ridiculous.

My bikini is bright yellow and pink floral print and is made entirely of ruffles. It's the kind of thing that an old woman might wear, or maybe a toddler, but I am so obviously neither of these things that I look cute, in an ironic sort of way. The bathing suit itself is not why I look ridiculous.

It's because no one else is wearing a bathing suit at all. I look displaced and out of sorts, like a tourist, a foreigner, or that I got dropped off here against my knowledge. I look like I don't belong here, and the writer in me notes the metaphor.

Regardless, I start snoozing in the middle of this city oasis in something that covers a little more than a bra and panties. It provides me no coverage physically, or with a defense should I be groped. "well why was she wearing that?" But for some reason that fact that it is the middle of the day and I'm on a beach towel makes my outfit and behavior somewhat acceptable.

A copy of the book I'm reading lies next to my head like a bright yellow thought bubble "No One Belongs Here More Than You" it assures. But I'm not sure if it's talking to me.

The sprinklers just came on, and I go running, so I have no time to decide.

And, suddenly my bathing suit seems practical.