My stocky frame sinks in the sand as far as it will let me. It doesn’t depend on my weight like I depend on it. My eyes go blurry at the sight of the sand enveloping each toe as I concentrate on trying not to concentrate. I continue to walk along the crowded beach in attire unsuitable for the weather. In long pants I have rolled up all too hastily to avoid getting soaked. A t-shirt that is much too thick and long to let any sunlight hit my pale, sensitive figure. I forgot a hat, so my Sunday hair has to remain in a hair tie because I can’t tolerate hair blowing in my face. At least I applied sunscreen before I left because in the car a few minutes ago, a panic set in, like I wasn’t going to have time to enjoy what I came here to do alone. ‘Alone’ being the relative word here, since I have two pre-teen girls walking up ahead of me reminding me days long ago.
It’s maddening to feel alone among hundreds of sun-baked individuals with their tiny bikinis and funny sun hats. I can literally see skin burning in the hot Seattle sun. One doesn’t hear that much around here, but today was different and according to the weather gal, it’s going to get worse.
All walks of life must have come here today to enjoy the same thing. Parents making sandcastles with their kids, not really knowing how, just mere servants of toddlers hauling sand back and forth, wondering how much laundry this day is going to cost them. All the little kids with dirt sticking to their faces like summer war-paint, and oh, don’t forget the woman-does-everything-father who appears by their child intermittently so as not to miss a smoke 25 feet away.
Young promising beauty queens with their perky tan breasts bubbling forth and their lean bodies bejeweled in naval piercings and anklets. Box-blonde hair swaying in the wind and eyes that flirt at any given moment to even those who are otherwise spoken for.
The elderly and the otherwise homeless variety shuffle on by eating ice-cream, dripping sugar-laden dairy product all over the hot cement. Dogs taking every chance they get for shade and a quick drink and maybe the clumsy kid who drops a treat.
Families and friends uniting for BBQ’s stuffing their faces with heavy caloric food and cheap beer and wine, excusing all inappropriate behavior, while young boys and men strut their stuff smoking, drinking and smelling of cheap cologne and cheaper thoughts as they parade around looking for loot to drag home. Their toothy grins and chagrined attitudes are enough to make anyone nauseated.
Then I arrive and find no place to call my own, but under a partially shaded spot just on the outskirts of the well-populated beach. I take out my book and the real fun begins: People Watching. I capitalize it because if someone was clever enough, you could make a living out of it. It could be an official title.
However, the tattooed woman talking about how alone she has been for 13 years as a single mother amongst her married friends with 3 healthy plump kids gets me thinking…will I be that tattooed mother in 13 years sitting among my married friends discovering how alone I am and is it all my fault?
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