Bandaids
I can scarcely imagine life without Bandaids. I have walked through all 50 US states and 21
countries and territories in my travels to date. Never have I done so without getting blisters
on my feet. It’s not the shoes or
sandals. It’s my tender feet. My friend Michele once told me Virgos have a
secret obsession with their feet and appreciate when a man pays homage by
rubbing and tending to their feet. Oh so
true. I am so obsessed with making my
feet happy that I import my socks from Germany because they’re the only socks I
have found that are soft enough.
In the space of twelve hours, I went from early spring
clog-wearing weather in Utah to balmy, sandal weather in San Juan, where we
boarded a cruise ship. My feet didn’t
have time to adjust, and I got blisters in a hurry. Each day of my vacay, I slathered my feet
with a couple Bandaids to defend against the sand rubbing in between my sandals
and feet, and to address the blisters that were showing up anyway.
Bikinis
I became Mormon at age 19 and as part of my religious
devotion, I swore off bikinis … til this year, over a decade after I abandoned my adopted faith.
After going on beach vacay after vacay and seeing women of all shapes and
sizes in bikinis, I was determined to sport one on this trip. I found the perfect bikini but not in my size
at Ross Dress For Less (I skipped my favorite DI store for this purchase). One
Saturday morning, my daughter and I were at the ice rink in Provo, and
fortuitously, on our way back home, I found my size at a Ross store in Orem
just before we got on I-15. Gotta love
Utah County. It’s the best place in Utah
to buy immodest clothes. On sale.
I’m sure my parents thought it was a little crazy that I was
pulling my prize bikini out of my suitcase to show them in the Phoenix airport
where we stopped for two hours on our haphazard journey to Puerto Rico via
Philly, but they are getting used to my surprises. At least it was purple, my mom’s favorite
color.
The first bikini re-wearing was on day one of the cruise, at
Magen’s Bay in St. Thomas. I took off my
cover up. I looked down at my belly
button. Then I looked around. No one was even looking. I’m not sure what I expected would
happen. Lightning didn’t strike. And I didn’t blind anyone with my fluorescent
white abs.
Before the trip, I also bought a new one-piece: a royal blue
tank with shirred waist. It’s pretty and
flattering, but I loved wearing my bikini, and I saved the one-piece for hot
tubbing on the cruise ship.
Soon I realized it will be kicking and screaming that I go
back to a one-piece. Maybe when I’m
really old I’ll wear one of those bathing suits with a skirt to cover up my
drooping body. Ummm maybe not.
Barbados
We spent day three of the cruise in Barbados. I won’t pretend to be knowledgeable about
this delightful tropical island. It
seems like there was reggae music playing from the moment we walked off the
ship, and I drove my daughter crazy singing “we’ll be jammin’” over and again. No doubt it was a big improvement over
“Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,” which I hummed on the flight from Philadelphia
to San Juan.
We were in Bridgeport but nine hours, all of which was spent
on a beach, the name of which I don’t even remember. We went to an establishment called “The
Boardwalk.” The only reason I remember
the name of the place is that I looked at my credit card statement this week. We paid The Boardwalk $12 each for the
privilege of being on the beach, laying on their well padded chairs, accessing
wi-fi, and otherwise enjoying all the creature comforts we’re used to at
home. Actually, I’m not used to that
much sea and the softest sand I’ve ever felt, but I could get used to it
stat. My daughter had been to Barbados
on her honeymoon and was secretly hoping we could revisit all her travels, or
at least some of them, but our adventures took other directions.
Burial
My best friend Michele died in late 2008, and we’re just now
getting around to spreading her ashes.
The day before I left for the cruise, her widowed husband Corey came to
a restaurant near my office and brought me an aspirin bottle filled with some
of her remains. It was a touching and
comical lunch hour. I was preparing to
take my best friend to the Caribbean, in an aspirin bottle.
I’d done all the leg work on how to get through airport security
without delays and I packed some of what was left of Michele into my main
suitcase. (If you have ever had a loved
one cremated, you know that the box of ashes is maybe 6”x6”x6”, so a more considerable
volume than an aspirin bottle holds.
This is good as Corey still has ashes to spread in other places, most
notably her beloved San Francisco.)
Michele’s daughter Celeste works on the cruise ship we took. This wasn’t just an “ohmygosh!” coincidence
that my daughter and I ended up on her ship.
We didn’t even consider any of the other options. I knew by the Facebook posts of the last
couple of months that Celeste needed a visit from someone back home. And I was itching for the beach. And my daughter had vacation time that had to
be used or forfeited. So we made
reservations and three weeks later, we were off on our little adventure. A win-win-win.
When we boarded the ship, Celeste and I discussed possible
locations for the spreading of her mom’s ashes.
She only had portions of two days off while we were on the cruise (don’t
get me started on the LONG hours for cruise ship employees, it’s completely unjust):
a day in Barbardos and one in St. Maarten.
Celeste decided to rent a jet ski in Barbados. She drove and I held on as we sped along the turquoise
waves to a spot reasonably far away from the shore with Michele’s ashes. All of the sudden, Celeste stopped the jet
ski and cried as she talked to her mom.
One last and final goodbye and “I love you,” and about half the ashes
were spread into the warm waves. We
decided to save the rest for another beach.
My Best Friend
In her last few years of life, Michele craved physical
warmth and was so at peace when she was near the ocean. To her, being in Utah was like a prison
because the weather was cold and the nearest ocean was hundreds of miles
away. That day we took her to a tropical
place of rest that was as balmy as it was beautiful. As we scattered the ashes, the clouds gave
way to a bright and sunny sky. Michele would
have been pleased that we were together and that we buried her in such
unconventional fashion, wearing bikinis and life jackets. Since her death, she has been our angel on
the other side and while we have missed her tremendously, we’ve welcomed her
influence at the most unexpected of moments.
Michele hoped Celeste would have an education, an illustrious
career, and the chance to travel the world.
I have oft said to Celeste that her mama would have screamed with all of
her accomplishments, especially the opportunity to work on a cruise ship in the
Caribbean. Celeste has handled herself
well, and she seems very confident in her work and demeanor despite the long
hours and other challenges of living full-time on a boat. She always looks so beautiful and has such an
engaging smile. Her attitude so reminds
me of Michele.
Michele wanted me to have more men and love in my life. She was a woman who made love to many
men. 73, she had proudly told me many
times. I, in contrast, well, my
confessions on this post aren’t going to mimic “Eat, Pray, Love.” I was married a long time ago. And I had a boyfriend who wanted to marry me. Also a long time ago. And then came a seemingly endless dating dry
spell, broken every so often by a gentleman who couldn’t decide what he wanted. I distracted myself with motherhood and my
career. I couldn’t kiss and tell if I
wanted to because I never got too involved.
Sheer insanity.
Only last year, I finally figured out how to make men smile. Then I kissed four men in a single week. That is probably something I should’ve
accomplished in high school, but I’m a young soul. I can see the text coming onto my phone now. Was his kiss the best? Yes.
Of course. That for which you
have to wait longest is sweetest. As to the
others, shrug. And this year? The love
gods are sending someone my way in 2012.
He’s kind, honest, and intelligent.
A decent guy who can make me laugh. And someone who yearns for adventure, because
I don’t seem to be able to escape it, even if I might try.
PS: One Beach Removed From Bikini Beach aka “Bare Nekked”
I know. This post is
too long. Tough darts. I have a lot to say. The French side is better in St.
Maarten. Should that be any
surprise? We took a tour of the entire
island and ended up at Bikini Beach. If
you have not been there, go. Besides
soft sand that melts into your feet, the water was translucent aqua, and the cheeseburgers
were divine. Considering that I’m a
vegetarian five days a week, that’s quite a compliment.
As my daughter and I were strolling after lunch, the sand,
surf, and sea lured us across the informal rock-line boundary which delineated
the beginning of the nude beach. Well,
that’s the official excuse, not that we needed one.
No, no, a thousand
times no, I didn’t bare all. As you
read above, moving back to bikinis from one-piece tank suits was the feat of
the trip.
About midway, there was a huge handmade sign: “No
Photos.” Like we would have wanted
to. I have one piece of advice based on my
nude beach experience: if complete buff (or for the ladies even topless) at the
feet of the ocean is on your bucket list, please do the world a favor and check
this off when you are still squarely in your prime. Waiting til you are a sagging mass of
cellulite held together by wrinkled epidermis is … well of questionable
taste. Just sayin’ …
