my god. i knew it would be hard to give up meat. i knew also the difficulty in giving up booze. but i had no clue how the issues would compound one another. though cheeseburger-laced picnics required an amount of self control i could always buffer my sacrifice with two or five tallboys. somehow i didn’t recognize one entitled pleasure had been snugly filling in for the other.
the beach is hard. all this sunshine and no limes sloshing around in my skunky sauce. grilling with a diet coke in my hand feels like driving a convertible with the top up, and there is something sickeningly wrong about tofu n’ grits. not so wrong that i couldn’t ignore it with three gin n’ tonics, but like i said, i don’t have three gin n’ tonics. i have a twelve pack of diet coke. just like a forty eight year old baptist pastor’s wife. (but then again, she’d be eating shrimp.)
all self-pity aside, i could live on the ocean forever.
things i do not need to survive are: cell phones, laptops (irony noted), personal growth requirements, a sense of “home”, winter, or dry land.
required: spontaneity, adventure, a sense of “history”, sunshine, and really short shorts.
days feel like weeks 