Back In My Skin...Mostly
I have a rash and I smell like fish. It was a great vacation. The last time that I had a rash and smelled like fish, it wasn't such a good time. This, was totally different. Totally.
It turns out that I am very, very good at vacationing. I would venture to say that I am almost like a professional vacationer. I don't take it seriously enough to be a professional, but that's what makes me so good at it. On a scale of one to five with one being Sucks at Vacationing and five being Remarkably Comfortable With Housekeeping Finding Me in Compromising Positions, I would have to give myself a five.
I find the ocean to be incredibly therapeutic. The rising and falling tide romance me. The warm water soothes me. The crashing waves remind me to be humble, I am a mite here on Earth and much, much larger things surround me. Mostly, I find the ocean to be a really good place to be completely drunk and mostly naked. This is in stark contrast to the rest of my life in which I am mostly drunk and completely naked.
For the last week, each morning, I strolled the beach of Sanibel, Florida. By the rosy sunrise, I scoured the sandy beach for my bikini top and my room key. From the position of the sun, I calculated the number of hours before the poolside bar opened. I showered, rinsing sand from parts of me that looked remarkably like the seafood that I had consumed the night before and dragged myself to my bed. I slept. It was bliss.
By late morning, I found myself at the pool. I nestled my towel and sunglasses and magazines and beverages with umbrellas between the drinkers and the tanorexics. It is a thin line between the two groups. Drinkers who pass out in the sun, rapidly find themselves the envy of the tanorexics. We formed a strong bond. The drinkers admired my ability to drink and the tanorexics admired my tan. I miss them sorely already.
The American Cancer Society stood watch, poolside. Their awareness personnel are a bit like the United Nations peace keeping forces. Their presence did not go unnoticed and we appreciated their vast knowledge on what was a melanoma and what was most likely a laceration or bruise or hickey. They handed out samples of sunscreen to those who requested one but, they were ordered to stand down and watch us slowly bake ourselves into our own preconceived notions of the perfect shade of gold.
By the second day, the skin on my forehead had a new texture and I began to think that maybe I should invest in a floppy hat. But, on the third day, when my forehead peeled and revealed new skin, baby soft and in a brand new shade, I decided that I my skin is an incredible, mysterious organ, best left to it's own devices. Plus, my hair doesn't always look it's best in a floppy hat. As I type this, I am sitting in a flaky mound of my own shoulder and back and bridge of my nose dander. I cannot stop peeling myself. It is disgusting and gratifying all at the same time. I cannot stop picking at my shoulders. I think that peeling negates all of the daiquiri and fried crab cake calories that I consumed over the last six days. Surely, I have shed five pounds of skin and surely, I consumed five pounds of fried calamari. The ocean has a way of taking and giving.
Next week, if I can remember, I will write about how I was attacked by an inflatable whale or how I narrowly escaped death by angry mobs of cheap airline travelers but, for now, I am content to be back to blogging.
I Mist y'all. It's good to be back.