life's a beach, then you cry.

duh... why didn't i think of this? i even had my ipod.

i'm experiencing post-big-event depression. times like this i wish i had an embroidered hanky so i could weep into my monogram.

sniff.

sniff.

sniff.

dab a tear.

sniff.

sniff.

sniff.

dab a tear.

i just got back from a long weekend in block island, rhode island where i managed to don a swimsuit, sip mudslides (basically chocolate milkshakes laced with rum - yum!), and "practice random acts of cartwheels" in the sand without experiencing the bouts of extreme self-hatred i'm accustomed to in such situations. wowza. growth doesn't always have to hurt. it can actually, egads, be fun sometimes. eventually, after all the unsightly nobs and buds and growing pains, a flower actually bloooooms:

oh, look! it's pink, it's pretty, and it has no thorns!

i digress into some sort of free-verse poetic reverie...pardon.

so, yes, i had a lovely time, but i have to say...i was jealous if only a weensy bit. jealous of the people i was hanging out with. why? b/c they romped about on the beach while i laid there, supine and looking decidedly literary with my New Yorker magazine because, let's be honest, i felt less...er, exposed. (laying down, i don't look skinnier so much as i look well, flatter, which seemed preferable.) now what made me so different from the others? the group i was hanging with was mostly male, and there was not an Adonis among them.

now, don't get me wrong, i love these boys. they are cute, handsome gents. they dress well. they behave well. they open doors and let me steal sips of their pina coladas. they are disgustingly talented. great catches all of them, but let's just say that none of them will be starring in the next Bowflex commercial. (and, for my part, thank God. i don't trust nor am i attracted to any man who wears that much body oil and that tan? puhleez. screams tanning bed.)

here's the thing though...

they

don't

care.

the fact that they don't have a six-pack to rival Marky Mark's or biceps comparable to crazy-wack-job Tom Cruise's doesn't keep them from having fun and fully enjoying their life. some of them may well have 'body issues' of their own, but they manage to enjoy their beers, french fries and whiffleball matches anyway, damn them.

one could go into why poor body image affects men less...cultural standards...they differ for women. women are supposed to be The All - thin, attractive, and beautiful - plus smart, intelligent, talented and able to hit the whiffleball just as far as the boys, blah di blah di blah di blah...we've heard it all before on Oprah, read about it in Oprah magazine, talked about it with friends during the commerical breaks of Oprah...

now, i loooove me some Oprah, but i don't really want to do that anymore. conjecture. analyze. not while i'm on the beach, anyway. i mean all of that Socratic introspection is fabulous and useful in it's own place, but sometimes ya just gotta put down your floral cloth-covered journal and dive in. life is too short, and so, unfortunately, are beach trips. it's not like the sunlight, the sand, or the sea feels any better on a "perfect" body than it does on an imperfectly perfect one anyway.

so watch out, fellas. because next time, i'm gonna kick me some whiffleball ass.