Sex, Bad Hair and Beach Sand

I don’t know about you, but as I approach sixty I find myself growing weary of things that used to delight me.

Take going to the beach for example.

Growing up in Southern California had its perks, one of them was living in a state of perpetual summer. A common side effect of that was “beach obsession”. And I wasn’t alone. Every chance we got (I admit to making my own chances by calling in sick to work or school on those particularly gorgeous, eighty-five degree February days of which there were many) me, and my friends and family would load our cars and hightail it out to Malibu.

Since I grew up smack dab in the center of the infamous San Fernando Valley, it took an hour of twisty, turny canyon driving to get us there.

First, beach gear (ice chest, chairs, towels, umbrella and sand toys) had to be assembled and bologna sandwiches and Kool-Aid had to be made. Once there, the endless cacophony of transistor radios broadcasting endless Dodger games, and when I got older, boom boxes with Prince, Foreigner and Loverboy mix tapes blared along the wide swath of hot sand known as Zuma. If you were bold enough to walk in your bikini all the way down to the water’s edge and dip your toe into the freezing cold Pacific— the rip current would grab your ankles and suck you under while the monstrous waves would pummel you senseless.

But I didn’t care about any of that! I loved the beach! We all did. That being said, even though I still live in LA, I’d be hard-pressed to tell you the last time I went.

Not only that. When the thought does occur to me to go and partake of the negative ionic benefits that spending time at the ocean provides, I have a list as long as my arm of everything that offends me about the idea.

The first one is: I have an aversion to driving an hour to get anywhere that doesn’t have decent food, comfortable chairs, and accessible WiFi.

Not only that; it’s always windy so reading anything other than a Kindle is exasperating…and the humidity makes my hair look like the Bride of Frankenstein’s…and I’ve developed an aversion to sand. It burns my feet and gets into places I’d rather not discuss. Places whose price of admission is dinner and flowers. I once took a bath only to discover afterward that there was sand in the bottom of the tub from a tropical vacation six months prior.

Don’t ask.

As long as I’m making this list—here are a few other former pleasures that test my tolerance and suck the joy right out of me:

Just any seat at concerts — Music sounds better in the cheap seats—said no one—ever! I used to just be so happy to be there, now, I want to actually be entertained. So I step up. I swallow the bitter pill that is ticket extortion—Isn’t that what money is for?

Loud music — I have things in my life I may want to hear a couple of days later. Like ambulance sirens while I drive or my husband telling me something very important…from another room.

High heels — I used to live in them. Now, I have a ten-minute rule. I will walk from the car to the restaurant in them, pivot, and sit. That’s it.

Sex — I don’t like to give sex a lot of forethought. I’m lazy that way. I enjoy spontaneity, and romance not goopy gels and creams and half-hour warnings. If it takes longer to get my party started than it does to read this essay…meh, I’d rather read a good book.

I don’t mean to sound like an old curmudgeon, I’m actually someone who is game for almost anything.

Just as long as I’m home in bed at a decent hour.

Carry on,
xox