As a girl, after hours of jumping salty crashing waves, handstands under water, going surfing and all the other joys of the ocean I often found solace and comfort in my mama’s multicolored striped cloth beach chair. I would sit all cozy wrapped in a towel shaken free of sand, handed a cup of juice or a slice of watermelon, lips all purple and shivering despite the warm summertime sun and it was lovely. All the mom’s had them. They sat in their chairs and chatted while us kids ran wild.
I have yet to go out and get such a chair. I can’t say why exactly. I suppose it’s because I am a product of playing at the shore. If I can’t swim underwater with my eyes wide open spying out fish and shells and legs of unsuspecting people than what am I? Really.
So these days, regardless of my adult status, and despite denying my boys of the memory of such a seat, I claim freedom from the confines of a beach chair. Delightful they may be, I am not ready for this giant step in life. No, for now I will use it as an excuse to shake and bake for a just a tiny bit longer. (you know where you go in the water and then roll around in the dry sand)