I’m not a big fan, but I’m looking forward to the trip this year. We’re going with family members we love and enjoy, so I expect the trip to be both relaxing and fun.
I might even tan my big white butt. Doubtful, since the only color on this pale body comes from freckles, but there’s always hope, right?
What I sure as hell won’t do is step foot in that water. I realize I’m in the minority here, and that most beach-goers love not only the sand, but the surf as well. I’m so not into all that.
I don’t love, or even like, the briny deep. Where you see a majestic oceanic display of God’s wonder and glory, I see his ultimate death trap.
Yes, death trap. And not of the gentle persuasion.
It’s not that I don’t like water. I love the water–the kind that takes Clorine and you can see all the way to the bottom. God wouldn’t have made pools if he didn’t want us to use them, okay? Seriously. If I drown in the back yard, someone is bound to find my body sooner or later–and in one piece. In the ocean? I’m a meal.
Morbid, I know. But let’s be honest–every large body of water has it’s share of decomposing flesh. Whether by accident or design, many people have become fish food. Their remains, no matter how miniscule, are not something I want clinging to my chassis.
This is the crap I fret about while watching my children frolic in the waves…
Discovering the perfect seashell…
or building sandcastle dreams…
Yes, I realize the ocean is vast and the possibility of a corpse washing ashore to rub against my bum is highly unlikely, if not downright impossible, but I’m not one to chance it.
Now, I’m not a complete ninny–I did wade in a few years ago. My sister-in-law dared me to accompany her out to waist-deep water. I did. And all went well…until she yelped, claiming she stepped on a sharp shell. Or something.
I was outta that water faster than a cheetah on crack.
Through gasps and fits of laughter, my hubs said he clocked me at Mach 1.
So be it. This whale has beached herself.
If God wanted me to find Nemo, he’d have given me gills.