Now that's my kind of beach!

I’m counting the weekends between now and Labor Day, crossing them off as they pass.  Even though I love the summer’s long days, the glimmer of fireflies rising from the grass as evening settles in, I’ll be glad when I no longer have to find new excuses for why I don’t want to go to the beach.

Every year in May I realize that I ought to look for my bathing suits, if only to remind myself of what size I used to wear. More than any other single clothing item, a woman’s bathing suit tells her where she is in her life cycle. And the consequences of what have been euphemistically dubbed “lifestyle choices.” I am everywoman.

When I was 20 years younger, I had physical therapy for a bad back. The young male physical therapist demonstrated what he wanted me to do. “Do this,” he said just before… More…

Watch out, boy, she'll chew you up.

At Cape Cod in August, my girlfriend and her ex-boyfriend say they want to go to the beach. It’s her birthday weekend, and he’s visiting from St. Louis. He’s tan, like she is, and blond, and taller than I am. My skin is pasty white. He also has big hands, which he uses to fix complicated things. He knows the best way to install a transmission — a tranny — while I know the best way to cut an avocado. Slice through the peel till the blade touches the pit. With the blade against the pit, rotate the avocado 360 degrees till you’ve divided it in half. Strike the pit with the blade. Twist the blade, extract the pit, and then scoop out the meat with a spoon.

 

In our motel room, I look up from my copy… More…