La Mer

We made an impromptu trip to the beach today. I fussed a little -- none of my shorts fit, so I had to lop off a pair of khakis. I ended up looking a little like Smee from "Peter Pan," complete with red cap (bandanna). I grumped at Hubs for not packing more towels, or snacks, or drinks. Not a great start to our trip.

I had a minor panic attack when we (me, Hubs, Kid) walked over the hill and onto the beach. There were people -- not a huge crowd, but more than I'd expected. I immediately felt self-conscious and wanted to go home. But I didn't. I wanted my son to play in the sand, and the water, and have fun with his daddy. Hubs, of course, could care less what anyone thinks and walked straight into the water with Kid in his arms, not caring that he was in shorts instead of swim trunks, not caring that people were looking at us like we were kooky European tourists. I stood uncomfortably on the sand, taking pictures with my phone and trying to act like I didn't think everyone was staring at me.

And then it occurred to me that I was letting these stupid, completely ridiculous, self-defeating feelings get in the way of me having fun with my family. I felt like an idiot. Who cares what random people on a beach think of me? Really. WHO CARES?

So I put my phone away and waded into the water, getting my shorts and shirt and everything else completely soaked. It felt so good. I forgot how much I love the water, the sand, the sun, the breeze. It felt so good that I decided on the spot to come back again, and soon, and in my bathing suit, and everybody can kiss my fat, lumpy behind. I want to have fun again.