Dangerously self-indulgent

I stole something from Value Village the other day. I concealed an orange-printed halter top among the cotton summer work shirts I legitimately rang through the self-checkout.

I dislike shopping, so that I stole it is actually less surprising than the item itself: tiny, summer-orange, run-your-hands-up-my-midriff, and sexy as hell.

I like pragmatic things, pants with pockets, sturdy shoes. I like fucking, too.

But the stolen summer-fuck-me halter top is not the dangerously self-indulgent thing of the title.

*

I swim several mornings a week. Swimming is a deceptively technical sport because gravity is whatever-times stronger in water. Good swimmers replicate the movements of fish. Or torpedoes. Hurtling through the water, rocking from side to side on the long axis. The arms—or fins—really only begin the propulsion. The real forward motion and thrust come from the hips.

This morning I swam, and as usual, I became self-interested in how my body moves through the water.

I thought about the language I use to process my movements. I grab the water and haul my body across it. I get a purchase on the water. I own it.

The aggression I feel when I swim is not the dangerously self-indulgent thing, either.

*

I had sex last night. I walked to my lover’s house, which is about 400m from my tiny house. I wore a short skirt and no underwear. I wore the tiny orange-printed fuck-me top.

We went straight to his bed. I came once with my own hand and sucked his cock. We listened to music, and after about an hour, I put my clothes on and walked home. I went to sleep in my own bed, which was fucking great. This morning, I woke and made coffee. I drank coffee in bed as is my habit. The sun was orange and beautiful. Then, I went to the pool.

Nor is this the dangerously self-indulgent thing.

*

My son sucked on my breasts until he was two years and two months old. He used to say to me, de udder boobie, mama, when he wanted to change sides. He slept in my bed and curled his little scritchy toe nails into my belly. I used to floss his teeth with a pronged device. I used to brush his hair, which was long and light and airy. The toilet became plugged one time, and I had to put my gloved hand down into the hole where the poop goes and pull out the tooth flosser and comb.

My son died.

This is the dangerously self-indulgent thing I have been accused of. It is mine.