Before we begin, let me say that the way you read that title–meaning the word on which you put the emphasis -(go on ahead, say it out loud, we’ll wait)- will probably dictate the way you take this musing of mine. Please note that there is no judgement in these lines, and if you take it as such, I’m sort of sorry but not, because you might be one part of one problem of what’s wrong with America: offensiveness. I have no intention to offend here, and those that know me know I enjoy poking fun of others but mostly poking myself in my Pillsbury dough girl belly, so please laugh along with me. Or lighten up!
God bless America. I mean it. This past week I had the pleasure of taking a seat on my observation deck, better known as a beach chair, and people watching. On the Fourth of July. The birth of our great nation. Now, I know that we have many problems in America and there are many things that indeed need fixing (kind of like ourselves, if we’re honest), but by the grace of God we have had another year to live in freedom. So we (should) celebrate this day with joy in our hearts and hope in our future. (More side note: I’m all about freedom of speech but I don’t want to hear or read any political commentary here. This isn’t what this post is about. Read on. ) Happy Birthday, America!
But you know what, nice lady…it’s not YOUR birthday (or maybe it is, but still), so that birthday suit you’re wearing is inappropriate attire for this day out on the (family) beach. I’d prefer to leave my lessons for “how to floss” with my kids as a conversation for, I don’t know, the bathroom?? You know, someplace a bit more private? I see more rumps than a meat counter, and more cottage cheese than can be found in the dairy section at Publix. And to be clear, I’m not making sport of your cottage cheese ’cause Lord knows I store a container or two, and I’ve got enough meat here to make an Angus cow shake in its hooves, but don’t you have a mirror? Or even a significant other that might gently nudge you in a “swim skirt” kind of direction (like mine did?)? It’s fine if you’re cool with letting your meat hang out, really. I just choose not to do it (purposefully, that is-ha). And to the girls who had the nice bums–I’m a little salty, yes. But, let’s cover up at a family beach, k? If not for the sake of my husband’s children’s eyes, for us poor moms’ feelings sitting in our swimsuits that are as close to yoga pants made of swim wear that we can muster. (Can you wear Spanx under a bathing suit? asking for a friend…) You cutie booties make us feel…hungry. Pass the bag of Doritos, dangit. Oh, you don’t know what those are? Ah, that’s why…that’s why…I’ll work on that for next summer.
Behind my shades and cover up (I’m doing research, people), a bright piercing catches my eye on another human — OUCH. Just ouch. Who did that to you? And how do you even clean that? With floss? And dear girl that looks just like your mother…I’m not so sure you should have gotten that butterfly tattoo where you did. How can I make that assumption? Well, you look JUST like your mama. And give or take twenty-five years, but the placement of that butterfly is gonna accordion fold back up into a pupa based on my observations. Because LOOK at your mama. I’m just saying. Nothing says “I was a young girl with a free-spirited butterfly tattoo back in the day” like a cocoon wedged and suffocating in a fold. Might want to think about how to rectify that, or don’t. It’s your perogative. Because ‘Merica. You do you, Boo.
I do love those adorable rainbow Pegasus floats. I do. I tried to talk my husband into buying one that swung from the rafters at our local Sam’s. He wasn’t digging it. Anyhoo, that float can fit approximately 17 people on it and you, adorable college coed with good flossing skills, are commandeering about an acre of ocean in a sea of about 53,000 people. And there is just ONE of you on it. It’s sort of, um, excessive, no? Nobody likes to have to punch a unicorn, but you are making us do so to move it to and fro and out-of-the-way. Besides that, you are smothering the fish. Can you save that until another day? Not the U.S.A.’s biggest beach day? We appreciate that.
One last observation: I have noticed all of these Americans sitting around me are doing a great job of hydrating, but not a one of ’em has moved from his or her spot except to gallivant into the ocean waist deep for a minute or two (or four so as not to look too obvious) and sauntering smolderingly through the waves Baywatch life guard babe style back to his or her chair. Myself included. I guess that’s so they (we) can “cool off.” In other words, don’t drink the water people, not that you would (hmmm…is that sea salt or pee salt I’m tasting?) I cannot even think about it. It makes me want to go brush my teeth and rinse with Scope and —
floss.
As the sun moves a little farther west, my skin a little more red than the white it was, the cacophony of blue tooth speakers wailing everything from Alabama to Lee Greenwood to Tone Loc to Cardi B. (that’s me, but it’s the clean version), and my kids’ eyes bloodshot from a day of opening their eyes in the large toilet known as the sea, I sit and smile with a satisfying grin. We are Americans, God bless it. We have freedom thanks to the brave. Because of the brave. And for those that call themselves American but swim in the seas of negativity on the reg, I’ve got two words for you on this sacred day:
Beach, please.
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