Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Note to self:

I don’t wear bikini’s. Not because I’m ashamed of my awesome mom bod, but because the epidermis on that bod spent the majority of the last 32 years hiding under long winter underwear in Utah. Romance novelist’s would describe it as alabaster, while fellow beach goers would probably call it “a crime” and have to double up on the eyewear to survive the glare from that much exposed “alabaster” skin.

SO… next time we go to the baby beach, let’s make sure there is something a little more substantial than a cheap plastic clasp between

“mom in cute conservative swimsuit”


“mom in conservative swim skirt and no top”

shall we?

Fortunately, though I had many adventures that day with hands full of squirming kids when I would have been unable to do anything but stand around doing my best impression of Janet Jackson at the super bowl (minus her six pack and Justin Timberlake attempting to look surprised), at the moment the plastic snapped and my halter top began to unfurl , I was building a sandcastle with Alice and was able to spare pretty much everyone except Russell. Who, bless his soul, had the grace to just look surprised and didn’t point and yell or anything.

Thank you, universe.

I would feel embarrassed except as I was walking back  to my car (with my halter suit knotted so tight around my neck that it was cutting off the flow of blood and oxygen to my brain) I saw a small rotund man facing me as he was loading up his beach gear into an old dirty Toyota pickup. He was unremarkable except the woman he was with was Heidi Klum. Or her twin. Or someone Heidi Klum wishes she could look like. They could not have been more mismatched than humpty dumpty and a disney princess. So, I’m kind of watching this out of the corner of my eye while trying to pleasantly threaten my children within an inch of their lives that if they let go of my hand and head toward the street one more time… when he turned around.

I don’t know if I can describe this.

Start with the back of his head, balding and only about five feet away from the ground, below that, a faded blue t-shirt stretched like a canvas and exclaiming down the back in a great white font:




and under that, though I was more than 40 feet away and questioning the anatomical possibility of this, what can only be described as 6 inches of hairy exposed butt crack.

Followed (of course) by gym shorts that appeared to be doing a poor job of still covering a fair amount of cheek.

No shoes.

Normally I wouldn’t tell you something like this, but see how you’ve already forgotten the part where one lone mom attempted to turn a baby beach in California into a topless beach in France? I’m not writing this to be rude to that strange man and his rather unbelievable beach date, I’m writing this to thank him. No one that was around long enough to see me scramble from the beach to my car went home and blogged about ME after they saw THEM.

And I appreciate that.

1 comment:

Brookelyn said...

Just when I was starting to feel alone in the universe as to the absurdity of my life, this gem of entertainment shows up. Thank you Alissa. Thank you.