Beach Bum
A beach bum is the next role called for on the stage of life - a role that I shall enjoy and have found to be eminently suited to my personality. I use the term "bum" loosely in this context as we will be inmates in one of those resorts where you are processed like cattle as you arrive but instead of a staple through the ear you get a bracelet that is then used to procure all that you might need of life's necessities including watery drinks should you be able to make your way through the queue to the bar.
This is all part of a scheme of my daughter's that has been years in the making. It is an annual event somewhat like the increased activities of the little birds here abouts where they flit around playing tag and looking over potential nesting sites. Every year my daughter would plead to be allowed to go to Mexico with her buds who seem to make the trek each spring to one of those all inclusive resorts that would be hard to distinguish from Miami Beach except there are probably more Anglo's at the resort. And each year I stare at her like she has grown a second head and explain that such a vacation is a huge waste of money and we would be missing one of the finest parts of the year here where we would be able to see the glacier that is our driveway slowly melt into mud (unless there is one of the usual late season snow storms that dumps about a foot of heavy, wet snow the consistancy of oatmeal on god's own country as we like to think of it).
This year she must have hit me when I was off my meds (or on them, or something) because I said, "OK." So here we are, 10:30 at night (on a school night), packing our bags for an early departure tomorrow with about 3,000 of our closest personal friends who have succumbed to the same lunacy as we have. The fins, snorkel, and mask are in the bag, as are the sandals, wet socks, swimsuits, books, enough sunblock to last three years, spare shoes, wet suit, all of my tropical shirts (thanks Barb), and about twenty DVD's (Joe, it's the BEACH man).
The dog is visiting her other family (thanks, guys - you know who you are) and hopefully will be able to provide a bit of healing therapy to them as she does to us.
I have gone past the point of wondering what I have forgotten. I need only to concentrate on making sure I have the passports, the boarding passes, and a couple of credit cards. The rest is gravy.
I plan on laying under a grass shelter or a palm tree with a book in one hand and an umbrella drink in the other while I peruse all of the politics of beach bed territoriality. I plan on taking the trusty laptop and hope there is a connection down there. With any luck, you will see me embarrassing my children by wearing my much maligned speedo that I found laying on the ground at the Winnipeg Folk Festival some decades ago. Lucky you.
This is all part of a scheme of my daughter's that has been years in the making. It is an annual event somewhat like the increased activities of the little birds here abouts where they flit around playing tag and looking over potential nesting sites. Every year my daughter would plead to be allowed to go to Mexico with her buds who seem to make the trek each spring to one of those all inclusive resorts that would be hard to distinguish from Miami Beach except there are probably more Anglo's at the resort. And each year I stare at her like she has grown a second head and explain that such a vacation is a huge waste of money and we would be missing one of the finest parts of the year here where we would be able to see the glacier that is our driveway slowly melt into mud (unless there is one of the usual late season snow storms that dumps about a foot of heavy, wet snow the consistancy of oatmeal on god's own country as we like to think of it).
This year she must have hit me when I was off my meds (or on them, or something) because I said, "OK." So here we are, 10:30 at night (on a school night), packing our bags for an early departure tomorrow with about 3,000 of our closest personal friends who have succumbed to the same lunacy as we have. The fins, snorkel, and mask are in the bag, as are the sandals, wet socks, swimsuits, books, enough sunblock to last three years, spare shoes, wet suit, all of my tropical shirts (thanks Barb), and about twenty DVD's (Joe, it's the BEACH man).
The dog is visiting her other family (thanks, guys - you know who you are) and hopefully will be able to provide a bit of healing therapy to them as she does to us.
I have gone past the point of wondering what I have forgotten. I need only to concentrate on making sure I have the passports, the boarding passes, and a couple of credit cards. The rest is gravy.
I plan on laying under a grass shelter or a palm tree with a book in one hand and an umbrella drink in the other while I peruse all of the politics of beach bed territoriality. I plan on taking the trusty laptop and hope there is a connection down there. With any luck, you will see me embarrassing my children by wearing my much maligned speedo that I found laying on the ground at the Winnipeg Folk Festival some decades ago. Lucky you.
Copyright ©2003-2007 Phaedrous
posted by Phaedrous at 10:20 PM
5 Comments:
We went to one of those a few years ago. I was definitely a beach bum.. I laid in a lawnchair under a tree and let the waitresses bring me banana daquiris :)
Speedo! Speedo! Speedo!
Have a great trip!
Oh man I have to wait till June to use my passport! Safe... fun filled trip to you and yours---
Hope you have a great book.. Any luck finding the one I suggested??
Don't forget the SUNSCREEN!
LOL, you are just oozing enthusiasm out of every pore! safe travels and have fun horrfying the kiddies...that all by itself should make the trip worth it. hehehehe.
Beach bum sounds nice about right now. Hope you don't go crazy in the sun :) They are predicting one of those late winter storms you are talking about here.
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