I grew up on the beach, frolicking in the white sands in slow motion, in a tan bathing suit and Jamaican braids. Oh wait. That wasn't me. I was the one in the bikini perpetually up my ass, tripping on dead jellyfish on my way back from the snack bar to my towel, where I would lie for hours empty of thought, concentrated fully on the status of my tan, which for the record was never very impressive.  

Ah, yes. In those days I didn't even have to pack a towel. I just stripped down to my bathing suit and sprawled in the sand, face first. The beach was a place to relaaaaax. But only during the off-season. Summer was a different story. As soon as June hit, families would march down the sandbar in hoards, swarming the beach like flies on dried sea-kelp and as the day progressed I would inch myself farther toward the bluffs, where I could have *some* quiet.

Of course one could never fully escape the sand-kicking toddlers.

"Ughrrrrr," I mumbled. "Can't you keep your kids on THAT side of the checkered flag? Please?

Fast forward to.... Today when the beach is once again beneath me, but there is no such thing as "relax."
 

The beach has become a weekly activity. One, because it's way too hot on the Eastside and although it takes a lot to get me to go west of La Cienega, the promise of wet sand between my toes as opposed to the firey shit we have to endure at our local playground is enough for me to devote entire mornings to packing four HUGE tote-bags of snacks, towels, changes of clothes, diapers, swimmer diapers, swim trunks, graham crackers, cherries (de-pitted), water bottles, empty water bottles for ocean water, extra socks and sweaters (in case it gets cold), mounds of wet-wipes,  SPF 1000 Sunscreen for "little faces" and 749 sand shovels. Not to mention the great fun of bracing the 10 Freeway.

But once we're there, it always seems worth it: fresh air, vast horizon, Matthew Mcconaughy doing yoga on the beach.

"Hey dude? Wanna dig a hole?" But this (see below photo) is one of the few moments Archer was at all interested in that idea.
 

Usually, he's running away from me as fast as his little legs can carry him, kicking sand at all of my yesterdays the sunbathers on a rather ambitious quest to Santa Barbara, only to be snatched up by an exhausted mommy *ahem* and dragged back to our heap of possessions, if and when we ever find them. (It always takes a shocking amount of time, even though we have brought the entire house to the beach with us.)

Two hours of that at the beach or anywhere else isn't very relaxing. Still-- it's beautiful. I've always loved the beach and chasing Archer is not so bad once I get going. It's better than sweating on the treadmill next to the dude whose B.O. smells like Mexican food.

And so what if there's no baby-oil or sun-in (or beer! who else used to put beer in their hair?)  in my future?  I stopped bleaching my hair years ago and I never could get a tan anyhow.

 

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