We are going to the beach tomorrow.
Many girls see the beach as a place to show off their hard-earned bikini bodies. To work on their tans. To check out hot guys all day. To be in an exotic place for a week.
To me, the beach is the only constant in my life. Every year for one week in July since 1991 (since I was resting in my mother’s stomach in 1990). Except for 2004. The same house. I get the same bed every year and I stare at the same creepy fisherman lamp every night and hear the same ocean roaring faintly outside as I contemplate my life late at night. That ocean, I always think, separates me from France. Even when I was so pitted against anything French, when I took Spanish, I used to think that, and I used to think of some French kid like me on the other side, and how there is probably someone in the world exactly like me. My family sits at the same spot on the beach and the same ice cream man comes at the same time daily. We go to the same restaurants every year and it’s a real damn shame Wida’s closed, because that was a definite tradition. We buy the same fudge at Bay Village every year, because it’s rich and amazing. I have the same feelings about my body and skin every year. And I take showers in the same shower every year, too, because I love showering outside when I get the chance.
And this year will be the same. I’ll get to escape as an enlightened teenager, though, and not some awkward high schooler. Because I graduated, you know, that’s the only reason.
But I need my music and my books if I’m going to escape.
And I’ve decided that all it takes is playing with my hair, stoking my hair, massaging my scalp, and I am attached.
1 Comment so far
Leave a comment