At Kai’s instruction, they’re stretching onto their stomachs on the blue soft-top surfboards resting on the sand. Kai motions for them to inch forward on their boards, and as the girls creep forward, I notice how their Brazilian thongs ride between their tanned butt cheeks, reminding me uncomfortably of a beach peep show: “All Live! All Ass! All the Time!”

Kai must hate his job.

I press my lips together in disapproval. I hate the disapproval, too. The truth is, I don’t disapprove of them—or miserable, long-suffering Kai—I’m just jealous. I’d love to have the girls’ confidence. But not just their confidence. I want a firm round tan ass that doesn’t dimple and sprawl like well-worn cushions on a thrift store sofa.

Kai kneels in front of his lesson, thighs hard, quads flexed, and he cups his hands, shows them how to paddle. The girls mimic him. He then shows them how to push up on the board, kind of a football straight-arm thing, and the girls copy that, too.

This is who Kai should be out with. Young, toned, tan. I’m none of the above.

I wrap my arms tighter around my knees, feel my tummy bulge, and have never felt like such a single mom. I don’t feel girlish, or feminine, or physically appealing. I just feel… maternal. Asexual. As if I’m a workhorse and not a woman.

And I’ve pretty much felt that way since William was born.

I can’t do this, can’t go out on a lesson, can’t make a bigger fool of myself than I already have. Sure, women surf. Lots of wonderful, athletic, tennis-playing, golfing, volleyball-loving women surf. But I didn’t grow up near the ocean. I grew up in Spokane, and our version of summer vacation was heading to the lake and floating on rafts and inner tubes.

Kai’s got his lesson on their feet, both girls giggling and pretending to balance Gidget-style on their surfboards.

As I watch the beaming Gidget girls show off their stuff, the two Asian women from the Halekulani pool settle into lounge chairs close to mine.

They’re talking loudly as they spread their towels on the blue lounge chair cushions.

“My life,” says one of the slender Asian women, pausing dramatically, “would have been so different if I’d taken a different path.”

I don’t mean to listen in, but their voices carry. Glancing over my shoulder, I see they’re both in tiny one-piece suits, wearing high heels and gigantic designer sunglasses; but they’re oblivious to me, hidden behind their sunglasses, immersed in conversation and contention.

“I had a job in London,” the one continues. “I could have ended up in London. Instead I stayed with Jason in Houston while he finished his studies.”

“Did you change your last name when you married?” the other asks.