I walk early in the morning sometimes on Siesta Beach. I usually go with a writer/friend of mine. It’s funny, isn’t it, how if you have a friend and she’s a writer, you never just say “she’s a friend of mine,” you always say, “she’s a writer/friend of mine.” Same thing with guy writer friends. Why the heck is that?
But I digress. Sometimes I go on my own too. Sometimes I wear my shades … even when it’s not sunny!
Sometimes I run into beach beauties cast in sand.
Sometimes I run into real, live gorgeous beach bodies — girls and women who rock their bodies and their suits so fabulously that I want the sand to suddenly swell up around my ankles and pull me down quick into the nether regions of a sandy abyss where no one can see me in my mournful black tee shirt and old-as-the-hills capris. No such luck. I have to just keep walking and sweating and wondering why the heck I had such an obsession with Ben & Jerry over the past year.
Sometimes, I run into real beach bunnies … and they’re the best sights of all. They make my morning. I speak in French to them “Bonjour, mes petits lapins!” And they singularly ignore me.
