Awkward at the beach

I recently returned from a lovely Valentine's mini-break! It was like something right out of Bridget Jones, except that I was with my mom.

But, in all other aspects (namely, ridiculousness), it really was like something out of a movie.

Depending on your point of view, this story begins in one of two places:

• In the summer of 2006, a number of men were arrested in London for attempting to bring liquid explosives on to airplanes traveling from the UK to the US. Wikipedia refers to this event as the "2006 transatlantic aircraft plot" but I believe that most of us remember it as the day that air travel became absolutely dreadful. It was also a boon for industries that produce and package small quantities of liquids.
• Alternatively, you could see the resulting events as actually my fault. In which case, the story begins on Saturday, February 14th during a pre-flight trip to CVS.

You see, my mini-break was to a lovely island off of Florida's Gulf Coast.

If you can't tell from my photograph, and you're one of four people who reads this blog that hasn't actually met me in person, I have roughly as much pigmentation as a ghost. The foundation I buy is called "Aspen", which I believe is marketing code for: "If we called this 'Albino', no one would buy it."

Even in February, a trip to Florida without sunscreen would be extremely ill advised for someone "with the map of Ireland all over her face."

Because of my obsessive need to be prepared, I decided to stop at CVS the morning of my flight to see if they had any sunscreen in 3 oz containers. This way I could bring sunscreen with me (in the event that the entire state of Florida mysteriously had a shortage) without having to deal with the unseemly hassle of checking a bag.

When I found this, however, I thought I'd struck gold:

A sunblock stick!

I was overjoyed by it's non-liquid state. I happily shelled out $7.99 for this wonder and tossed it in my suitcase.

I was now prepared for every aspect of my trip. I had forgotten nothing.

Since my flight arrived on Saturday night, I didn't actually get to hit the beach until Sunday morning.

I woke up to a landscape that appeared to be the set of the Pirates of the Caribbean movie you all know is coming, even though the trilogy is complete. It was warm, but there was fog and haze everywhere.

My mother was not deterred. We were here. At the beach. In Florida. It was not going to walk itself.

As I diligently applied my sunscreen stick, I began to notice a few drawbacks. Namely, that it doesn't spread, so you have to use quite a bit of it. While I'm sure the folks at Neutrogena considered it a "feature" that the sunscreen goes on dry and clear, it does make it a bit hard to tell when you've missed a spot.

Nonetheless, I persevered, covering my bikini-clad self with 30 SPF magical goodness. My mom made sure to get my back, I put some 45 SPF on my face and we were good to go!

Now, read the sentence back again.

Yes, on the cloudiest day of the year, my mother and I had decided to walk the beach in nothing but our bathing suits.

I felt awkward about this, but my mother assured me that everyone else would be in their suits. Plus, I had not thought to bring any kind of beach cover up. Mainly because I never go to the beach and therefor don't actually own any beach cover ups.

I briefly considered fashioning one of my skirts into a cover up, but decided I'd rather wear my bikini than look like I was trying to hide a pregnancy.

We arrived at the beach and, sure enough, there were people in bathing suits! Also in shorts and sweatshirts, but those people were obviously natives who still think that 70* is "cold".

The plan was to walk up the beach to The Sandbar, where we would dine (on the beach. In our bathing suits) and then walk back.

Now would probably be a good time for me to remind you all that I am secretly a 74 year old with hip problems.

For the first part of the walk I entertained myself with my iPod shuffle. Then I moved on to the amusing things I could tweet after eating at a restaurant where shirts and shoes were not required.

Then I gave up and realized that walking barefoot in the sand is not exactly a great idea for someone with hip problems. This was about an hour into our walk. Because of the fog, we had no idea if we were even close to the restaurant.

After a few futile attempts to stretch out my aching hip flexor, my mother graciously agreed to walk back to the condo with me. From there, we would shower, change, and drive to lunch. Obviously not an ideal plan, but it seemed plausible.

20 minutes into our return trip, I begin limping, and whining in earnest. I tried putting my flip-flops on to see if the extra inch of foam would help.

My mother, feeling bad and concerned that she might cripple me for life, suggested we walk on the sidewalk. I figured she meant some heretofore unseen sidewalk that ran between the beach front houses and the beach.

No.

She meant the sidewalk. Of the main road.

Please picture, if you will, my mother, barefoot, in her tankini, walking down the street behind me, in my bikini.

Now picture all of the cars driving by us.

And everyone around us fully clothed.

This is the stuff of nightmares, folks.

My hip, however, was feeling much better than it had on the beach, and my mother was reluctant to return there since my pace had now picked up considerably.

Finally, we ran out of sidewalk and I convinced my mother to return to the beach. We snuck through the private entrance behind some fancy condos. My mother announced that if we got caught, she would claim "emergency", which, apparently, is a legal defense in the state of Florida.

This was clearly an emergency.

Back on the beach, clouds had gathered and the wind picked up. In an effort to appear good-humored, I mentioned that I was relieved to be back on sand, away from all the gawking drivers.

My mother laughed, said, "they were all gawking at you" and then added,

"At least they weren't holding up signs. You know: 7, 7, 8."

I cannot decide whether I should be pleased, disappointed, or just plain horrified that my own mother thinks I'm about a 7.5.

Either way, we did make it back to the condo, we had lunch, and I can still walk. So if you set the bar low enough, the afternoon was a success.

Save for one thing.

Later that evening, as I put on my pajamas, I caught my reflection in one of the three (no joke) mirrors that were in my bedroom.

Despite my intense preparation and the profound lack of sunlight, I still managed to get sunburned.

In five, gash-like, stripes down my back.

I currently look like I just barely survived a fight with a tiger.

So thanks for getting my back, mom!