The sun beat down hot
Hours to knit
and I forgot Sock.
Thank god for it, too, since Jesslet (formerly known as Jessica's Blanket) deserved the attention.
I've ventured to Jones Beach in years past, but Rockaway was a new discovery for me (thanks, Andre! ~ look at this cute picture of Cheryl and Andre, not at the beach but frolicking at Central Park after dark, just before the Rangers yelled at us to leave) and proved quite lovely, for a city beach. We found no palm trees or dolphins or glorious pink sands or covert little coves where a sly couple can lurk for a cuddle (not that this lack of obscure cubbies stopped the 60-odd year old couple lying behind us from making out with each other for 3 hours straight, all hail Viagra!) The Ramones no longer walk the boardwalk, of course, but we were so overwhelmed by the lack of used syringes, condoms and stinky deadness that we hardly noticed the haze and the occasional discarded thingy.
We convened on our beach
blanket sheet and enjoyed the ritual Eating of the Doritos, Bonding of the Friends, Tossing of the Football, Gathering of the Shells, that time-honored version of Sleeping in the Sun and our NEW hit, Knit Knit the Blanket (Cheryl even chimed in with her own rendition of Weevera!) In all, it was a grand feast of the Having of Fun.
But there will be no bathing suit pictures (other than that first photo with the risque bare shoulder peek-a-boo) because, in reviewing my photos, I just realized that I have made much of the Scarfing of the Food and the Guzzling of the Wine and now must battle the Creeping of the Fat that is far too evident. Evident enough to drive me to the gym this morning. At 5:30am. Which oughta tell you something.
While my pallid pale pallor reveals my distinct
loathing distrust of sunlight on bare skin, I do enjoy the beach and the waves and the warm and breeziness on my parts. Next time you're at the shore, you'll recognize me as that strange person swaddled head to toe in aluminum foil blankets baking basking in the heat; probably you'll notice the distinct oder of Sunblock 65 wafting from under the giant umbrella that prevents me from actually sizzling in the juices of my own sweat and sunscreen. Behind those sunglasses? Beneath that hat? Yep, me. I assure you that one toe will be hanging out somewhere getting sunburned as it strives in vain to find a speck of the aforementioned breeze. Try not to step on me ~ chances are, I'm unconscious asleep.
Aside from the sun that burns my eyes and roasts my skin and does nasty, nasty things to my hair (and kinda makes me itch, is that normal?), I do love the beach. If I only had a happy little Eeyore cloud to protect me, I'd lounge all day in the whisper of the waves, staving off gulls with Dorito crumbs and dragging my cotton through the sand. When my toes grew numb from the bite of seawater and broken clam shells underfoot, I'd sprawl beneath my cloudling and safely soak up the shielded warm rays.