THE CONVERSATION

By Michelle Railey

Said Brinzleigh to Aiden, “I think we should do a lifestyle thing on the beach. But pretty. And with the kids.”

Said Aiden (her husband, likeable, maybe 80 percent hunk with 15 percent nerd to level it, and then an indefinable five percent whipped or wanting, who’s to say), to Brinzleigh, “Yeah, yeah. Like on the beach. But pretty.”

Brinzleigh sighed. Quietly. Photogenically. (Practice makes perfect.)

”We’ll have Chloe and Brick join us! With their kids.” She thought for a second. “And the dog…maybe we should rent one. Two would fill the camera so well and everyone likes dogs. We could rent one, borrow one…I don’t know, should we call a shelter?”

Aiden gulped and then reached into the stainless steel fridge for a seltzer.

Brinzleigh thought that a second dog was an option, reconsidered, then replied, “No. You’re right. The four adults, the five kids, and the dog are perfect. The most important thing is to Set Up the Scene.”

Aiden thought he might be getting laid later, maybe. Brinzleigh seemed both relaxed and creative and the kids were going to sleep early. “Set up the Scene” usually resulted in him going to Target and then carrying things and then driving the things and then her pointing at the things while he adjusted the things. But. That being said, clicks were clicks and Brinzleigh seemed to be pretty good at getting them. And also, he might be getting laid. So, he wondered (briefly and with neither commitment nor comment) what the “Scene” entailed.

So, Brinzleigh sat on one of the perfectly placed bar stools at the perfectly granite breakfast bar with the perfectly perfect bowl of perfect fruit (she had tossed the “uglies” earlier that morning. Why did the women have to do all the work, she had wondered). And she talked and imagined, while only occasionally posting a selfie and, also, only occasionally, managing her (their) likes. (Okay, she thought of them as her likes even if the “A&B” lifestyle –yeah, she could say it- empire was theirs, but mostly hers, hers, hers.)

She looked at her husband, thought of the charming, if messier-than-photographed-and-infinitely-needier, children upstairs, hopefully sleeping and then, like meditating, slid her mind into a beach photo shoot of astounding gorgeousness: rattan and wicker egg-shaped chairs, a banquet table with cloth and a mix of tastefully normal but sorta-extravagant food stuffs spread across it. ‘We’ll need a cooler, but a nice one, one of those vintage steel or plaid things, to set in front at a 40-degree angle. We’ll need a hammock or two for sleepy—they’d better be sleepy—kids. Oh! And a wicker basket for the damn dog.’

She painted, in her head, color schemes. She discarded green, then hot pink. She envisioned yellow and biscuit and champagne tones against the ocean, against the green, green parkland; against the grass, against the potential make-up scheme.

She thought it would work. If she could find the right yellow. (And the right lip color, ring light, and angle.)

And she smiled at Aiden and he smiled back and life was good.

Well.

Aiden did, in fact, get laid. (Good for Aiden.)

And soon, plans were made with Brick (born Brian) and Chloe (a reasonable Skipper to Brinzleigh’s smug Barbie) and their two kids (unimportant) and their dog (Spot? Goldie? Who cared? His hair was clean and he did dog-like things).

They arrived.

At. The. Beach.

Phones had been charged.

Ring lights had been tested.

Careful diuretic and water planning had happened and tanning and mirror practice sessions had occurred. Aiden had been coached, in fact. (“Aiden, goddamn it you will, will, study every issue of Magnolia; and you will, will do everything I goddamn say. Oh, and by the way, you’re doing an AMA on Instagram on Wednesday, so I bet I’m going to help you with that, too. Jesus. Fuck. Get the kids out of the car. And don’t let them spill anything!”)

But the beach!

It was glorious, even if no one noticed or photographed it.

The public park next to? Green, with birds and trees, and the amazing light that comes only from sun, sea, and proximity to both.

Brinzleigh and Chloe had Aiden and Brick (née Brian, so sad the way their site wasn’t quite taking off. Maybe they should add religion or drugs or an eating disorder?) adjust a cheap fold-out table and then drag eight hundred dollars worth of egg chairs and wicker chairs and ottomans; and beach towels and blankets and oh-so-carefully chosen tasseled throw pillows on top of the faux plastic grass rug on top of the actual park grass lawn. And Brinzleigh and Chloe (after careful coaching to Aiden and Brick) parachuted the tablecloth (tasseled, champagne and yellow—but the right shade, you know) onto the fold-out (we’ll photo shop it later) table.

The photo was immaculate. Brinzleigh and Chloe, slim and tanned (but not too tanned, skin cancer and aging, no thank you), perfectly in symmetry, sun-lit, ocean-sprayed. Placing the perfect blanket on the perfect (once photo shopped) table. The sound (for the video, obviously) sounding like ocean and child giggles and one dog, ralphing violently under the table (Editing is Important).

The photo of the tablecloth, like a parachute, like a wish? Got, like, So Many Likes and Clicks. Immediately. And about a dozen new followers. (Just for the tablecloth photo. Brinzleigh, later, justifiably smirked.)

Aiden thought about cancelling the Ask Me Anything on Instagram. Like, he was going to be asked about The Tablecloth. And, he still had some pride and hated that. It was just a tablecloth. I mean, wasn’t it?

Maybe he could make Brick/Brian join him. Maybe he could be sick that day. Maybe he could…

Well, ad revenue was ad revenue. And Brinzleigh would be on the other side of the camera, guiding him. He’d be okay. He could manage, he guessed.

The light was perfect. The sea was there— and, with some digital manipulation, it was there for them. Same with the grass and the sky, the dog (two really would have been too many) and the kids.

The cooler, dammit, remained imperfect and difficult to AI into acceptability, so whatever, plastic Coleman. They threw a cloth on it, surrounded it with pillows and a tastefully arranged child sipping on lemonade, playing with a wooden sailboat. Which the kid hated (the lemonade and the toy). But no one had to know that, now, did they?

They spent hours, Brick and Chloe and Brinzleigh and Aiden— on the beach— well, on the fake grass they brought on the grass next to the sand on the beach by the sea. (Oh! And with the kids and the dog.)

They didn’t sit in the fancy furniture long; they dumped out the trays of aesthetic food and drinks they had brought (Don’t eat that. It’s for the pictures!). In fact, they all drank warm water from the car; they changed diapers and tried not to be annoyed when the kids fought or got sunburned. They frequently changed power banks and charging ports. (Re-packing the perfect life on the beach took, well, long enough for the kids and the dog to unhelpfully fall asleep and for at least one wife to have smeared make-up and sore feet. A husband or both may have cursed. Publicly. Loudly. Glaringly.)

But the photos? Spectacular.

The sea, sparkling. The grass (and the fake grass on top of the real grass)? Green and, well, grassy. Very fresh (except for the fake one). The throw pillows, blankets, hammocks, vases, food stuffs (don’t breathe on it, don’t move on it, certainly don’t eat it), and appropriately photographed wives and husbands and children… Well, it was enough to sell a dream.

The comment section went on for weeks and weeks. And Brinzleigh played impeccably cool and bashful. And Aiden managed his AMA. Brick and Chloe had a big fight, took the dog to the vet, and resolved to do more podcasts with Brinz and Ai.

Have you ever been to the most beautiful beach in the world? Have you ever seen it embellished with the most extravagant set-up of colors and foods and furniture and textiles you’ve ever seen?

The Influencers nailed it, dog vomit and kid behavior aside.

It was mostly not real. But my god, it was aspirational.

The perfect life. The perfect look. On the beach. “An easy family picnic with friends.”

The ad revenue was not inconsequential. Aiden even got laid again.

And, oh, said The Beach, Every day should be Influencer Day.