The swings at the park squeak something fierce. It’s like a grating noise that grinds itself into your brain through your ears just like those horrible earwig animals on Ceti Alpha Five. Eventually the pack of children monitored by a sole teen move on to the baseball field in a strange game of follow the leader. It’s not an official game. The pack just follows the teen and occasionally breaks into discussion about the rights of one individual to trip another.

I dropped off the car payment (I’m paying it early, aren’t you proud?) in the mail box. <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Woods Cross City moved their mailbox to a different site on their property. It’s much easier to access from my car now, so I’m appreciative. It’s a small blessing in my day. Thanks, mailbox movers. I didn’t have to open my car door to put my payment in the box.

Now, I’m at the park to the east of the Woods Cross City building. It’s called Something or Someone Not Even Important Memorial Park. I remember reading the little plaque and looking at the little log cabin, but I can’t tell you what the plaque said. It was that interesting. There are swings (as mentioned) and monkey bars. There are picnic tables under a pavilion. Once I saw a couple there so in love, but today there are no furtive kisses, only city workers eating their lunches.

I pull my pink lawn chair out of the trunk of the Beetle and feel the eyes of the city workers on me. I can almost hear their thoughts, “A lawn chair. Why don’t I have a lawn chair to sit at the park? Why didn’t I think of that?” I didn’t think of it, actually. A coworker told me once that she used to keep a lawn chair in her car when she lived in Hawaii so that she could go to the beach whenever she wanted. It’s also a good idea for Utah. I go to the park and pull out my lawn chair.

I kick off my fabulous four-inch heeled sandals and relax on my chair with a book. I’m reading another teen novel. I need something light and fluffy and easy to consume at lunchtime. There is no Jean Buidrillard for me at lunch. That’s strictly weekend reading for me. The swings have finally stopped squeaking, but I wonder why the city workers don’t bring a huge can of WD40 for them. They spend more time at that place than I do, I’m sure.

There’s not much time for me to read. Since they’ve cut my hours, my lunch is only thirty minutes now. After dropping off my mail and setting up my chair, I only have twenty minutes to read, but with a teen novel, that’s enough time to make a pretty big dent. Serena is in love with Aaron. Blair is a conniving bitch and Jenny is considering getting breast reduction surgery. Heavy issues, indeed.

I’m in the shade today. Yesterday, I sat in the sun, letting its delicious rays caress my legs. I came back from the park with a strange tan line from my miniskirt on my legs. Today, it’s the shade for me. The game of follow the leader has temporarily been abandoned because “she tripped me.” I only have two minutes until I have to pack my lawn chair back into the miniscule trunk. I can feel the city workers looking at me, “She only sat there for about fifteen minutes. Why does she even bother?”