Sun, Surf, Sand and Strip Clubs

As the Summer season races toward us--thank the Lord, 6th grade didn't kill me--I'm reminded of my all time favorite beach story.

I've always loved to travel. Love to check out new places, but there are also tried and true trips that can't be beat and plenty of places I gladly return to time and again. The beach is easily one of those places. I say "the beach" in general terms since living in Georgia offers plenty of opportunity to hit any number of nearby beaches. So I can't even pin point one particular favorite--but just about any beach will do.

Naturally my son has been quite the traveler in his 12 years as well. He took at cruise at three--his first beach was one in the Caribbean. Not too shabby. And he, too, is a lover of sun, surf and sand.

All this is background info to keep in mind for this, my favorite beach story, which doesn't even involve sun, surf or sand.

Now for the actual story: there is a stretch of roadway that we drive along near my home pretty frequently. It's a six lane highway that leads from my house to the infamous I-285 perimeter that circles the city of Atlanta. This highway has an access road along it filled with apartments, restaurants, gas stations, corporate buildings and more. One particular exit is crowded with establishments loaded with brightly colored signs: a QT gas station, a Barnacles seafood restaurant, a shopping center with a gym and other storefronts, a Waffle House (can't throw a stone without hitting one of those around here), and more all clustered tightly together, fighting for space and passerby attention. Wedged among the hub-bub also sits one cement building painted with palm trees and beach scenes and adorned with neon lights, all designed to brighten up a windowless exterior. Hmmm, you say. Lively scenes, no windows, neon. All of that translates into one type of establishment: a gentlemen's club, nudie bar, shoe show, strip club.

So we pass this establishment along with all the others off this exit fairly regularly. And one day when Chase was about eight, we'd returned from one of our summer excursions and he pipes up from the back seat: "I know what's in that building."

"Oh really," laughed my husband. "You know what's in there? What is?"

"The beach," said my innocent son, very sure of his answer.

"You're exactly right," I jumped in, shooting my husband the evil eye. Palm trees, sunny scenes...what else could it possibly be?

From that point on, each time we drove past that exit with the cornucopia of facilities, that colorful, eye-catching building was the one Chase zeroed in on. Of course, John helped this along by pointing it out and reminding him that the "beach" was in that building--wink, wink, nudge, nudge in my direction, laughing all the while. I'd sigh and roll my eyes. Man humor.

After awhile, the novelty wore off and the infamous building ceased to be a topic of conversation every time we drove past. Fast forward a year or so and one day, when Chase was about 10, we were driving by and out of nowhere he questioned from the back seat: "What was it that was in that building, again?"

Before John could pipe up with his beach references and start another multi-month extension of the nudie club humor, I spoke up quickly, thinking to myself: You know what, he's 10 years old. I'd heard that it was an age where you should stop giving kiddie answers to important questions like "Where do babies come from" and just give the facts. Time to stop sugar coating reality and just shoot straight. So why not in this case too?

"You know what's in that building, Chase?" I said, before John got a word out of his mouth. "Women take their clothes off and dance around for men in that building. That's why there aren't any windows."

Chase's eyes were the size of golf balls and he was all ears.

"That's right. Men like to look at naked ladies so women in there take off all their clothes and dance around to music. Men like to see that and they pay them money."

Silence greeted me. You could hear a pin drop in the back seat as Chase absorbed this dose of reality.

And then I heard him: "But the sign says Barnacles Steak and Seafood."

Ah yes, plenty of good stories have stemmed from vacations to the beach but none quite so memorable as that one.

Blue-haired Epiphanies

There are those among us who are fair of skin with nary a blemish on them. Me? I grew up in the land of Freckles--a place that still haunts me today. No Ruby Slippers getting me out of this place. My arms, legs, back...you name it and I could offer you up a multitude of tiny brown dots. And these were exacerbated by days in the sun sans sunscreen as a child and then--worse--oiling up and crisping in the harsh rays as a teenager. Horrible I know--when you think of the permanent and potentially serious damage that kind of sun causes but who knew there'd be an issue back when baby oil was the logical first step in stepping up my popularity since pastey white girls were never in favor at my school? Sprinkle a little Sun In in my hair and voila! Brassy, bright yellow hair to complement my charred skin. Very natural looking.

Now, me and my freckles pay the price. The dermatologist loves me--sends me Thank You cards from her visit to the Islands. She should. I paid for the trips. But when you have abused your skin the way I did, have to take precautions now. So I trot off to be examined regularly.

Funny side story--the first time I did this, I assumed there was a machine that examined your body. Nope. Turns out, you get to stand in just your birthday suit while you're humiliatingly scrutinized from head to toe and crevice to crevice by a human being who is undoubtedly collecting memories to entertain guests with at dinner parties.

Anyway, a couple weeks ago I endured my first freezing process on not one, not two but three spots on my legs. I was assured by the nurse ahead of time that it wasn't really painful--just really, really cold.

She lied.

I discovered this about 5 seconds after she put that torture device against my skin. Expletives might have escaped my mouth. She apologized throughout the entire 30 seconds that thing sat against my skin but it didn't help a bit. And there were two more of those to do to go along with one tiny spot in the middle of my back.

After receiving bandaids and polysporin that really do not "make it all better," I was sent merrily on my way. I was on fire. Freezing is more akin to burning, right? We all know that something so cold can burn you. It's unpleasant. And I had to figure out how to drive myself home.

My legs didn't want to move. I hate a burn more than any other kind of pain and I found myself taking no more than half breaths. I started envisioning how much it would hurt if I had to make a sudden stop and hit the brakes. On the way home, I had planned to run into a grocery store. That was before I realized the condition I'd be in, yet I rationalized that I was really making more of a deal of this than it truly was. And it seemed a waste of time to go all the way home and then have to go back out again later. So into Publix I went. Only I wasn't "running" anywhere. In fact, I moved at a snail's pace, leading on my cart like a crutch and trying not to wince with every shuffle forward but failing miserably.

It was during this excruciating 20 minutes (what grocery store trip can be accomplished in less than 20 minutes no matter how few items you think you're going to get?), that I realized what it will be like when I'm 80ish and moving impossibly slow, regardless of the fast pace going on around me. Speaking as one who is always going 90 to nothing these days, it was a unique perspective: forced to slow down because you physically cannot move any faster. It was not awesome--this glimpse into my elderly self. My hair was an odd shade of blue/purple/gray and I had shrunk so it was a struggle to see over the steering wheel. But I tell you what I learned from seeing that slow-moving, blue haired future old me: we need to stop racing around long enough to appreciate the health we have now because there'll come a day soon enough that we're not moving anywhere quickly.

Yes, through a pain-filled haze I had an epiphany. Rein it back a little before you have no choice about slowing your pace. Oh, and always wear sunscreen.