I don’t like the beach. There. I said it. Call me crazy, but on a steamy summer afternoon, there is nothing that appeals to me less than treading across mounds of sizzling sand dunes just so I can roll out a towel and uncomfortably lay myself out to bake for five hours like an ant under a magnifying glass or a pale, Irish child under a lamp. It hasn’t always been this way. As a kid, I adored coastline excursions as they often signaled a day of innumerable fun activities. But the older I got, the less I seemed to enjoy many of the things that once made the beach so wonderful.
I wore a one-piece bathing suit for as long as a person can wear a one-piece but, like overalls, you can only wear them for so long without being judged. (According to a the collection beach pictures I just Googled, one-pieces are reserved for toddlers and grandparents, neither of which I am right now.) The day I relinquished my one-piece for another swimsuit was also the day I was forced to abandon boogie boarding. This is because in trying to boogie board with a two-piece, I learned two things: waves are perverted, suit-snatching creations of nature and the rate that my face goes from pale white to Clifford red stands at about 1.56 seconds. I’m comfortable with my body and all but I’d prefer not to share it with the entire beach. This isn’t Europe.