I should begin by telling you that I’m writing this post while eating leftover cold pizza and feeling really great about my body. /snark
That aside, I’d like to say, “Congratulations, fellas. We did.” Did what? You may ask.
We made it through swimsuit season.
[Cue Sarah McLaughlan’s “Angel”.]
You see, millions of gays around the world for the past three months have been swearing off carbs, drinking gallons of water, flirting with bottles of Trimspa at the grocery store, and running treadmill marathons – not for the betterment of their bodies, but for weekend pool parties. Honestly, Labor Day isn’t just an excuse to drink a martini (or two) on a Monday, but it also signals the end of square-cut shorts and sun tan oils, and heralds in new collections of flannels and sweaters. A truly remarkable day, indeed.
Aw, c’mon. That doesn’t sound so bad, right? Wrong. There a couple of reasons why pool parties are such a bittersweet symphony (yeah, I did it).
1. This guy.
I mean, there’s one of these at every party. It’s fine, okay? I get it. But this is public enemy number one when it comes to making myself do nothing but eat celery sticks and sunshine.
2. This year brought an interesting new guest that frequented many socials I attended, including pool parties: the tank top.
As I see it, there are really only two camps where tank tops are concerned; they either work for you, or against you. There’s seldom an in-between, which makes them really confusing at a pool party. It’s a gay man’s Macbeth. To don, or not to don the tank top. Then, what’s more, do we leave it on…or take it off? (See item number one.) This year, however, we saw the mass appeal of the men’s tank top, from weeknight bar outings, to pseudo-hipster hangouts in coffee shops…and yes, at the pool.
3. And last, but not least, the dangerous temptress herself: the buffet table.
Ahh, the buffet table, in all it’s carb-loaded glory, is horrible torture device to lure young men in speedos to consume its chicken-finger-cheese-and-cracker goodness, like a Siren lures sailors, or drag shows lure bachelorette parties, simply to destroy all of the gym hours and salads we’ve amassed. They’re truly a test of willpower. And it’s one that I fail. Every. Single. Time.
Now, obviously I say all of these disparaging criticisms of the gay pool party in satire. Mostly. They’re a hallmark of summer, and they’re not going anywhere, any time soon. Well, until next year at least. Pool parties are, in some masochistic realm, a good time. And that’s why we throw them. But I do welcome, whole-heartedly, say, a holiday party where I can wear a cable-knit sweater that will so handsomely hide the olive tapenade and water cracker I will most likely be consuming…without apology.
So, cheers to you, boys of summer. We made it.