The Beach Is A Bitch

In spite of my protests...my wife insisted on my presence at the beach for the required weekend vacation with all the grandchildren, assorted friends and cousins.

After setting up the canopy...I washed the sand from my feet and rode the elevator to the sixth floor…took a refreshing shower then I spent the day on the couch in the air-conditioning.  Occasionally I looked out the window at the beach-goers sporting their lobster red sunburns.  I couldn’t help but think that I was also young once and had no idea how much time I would spend sitting in the dermatologist's waiting room.   

My view of the beach differs from most of those who crowd the sandy shores and don't seem to mind the nasty contaminated salt water.  Personally…I don't like sand in my shorts.  Furthermore…I spend most days working outside in the heat, dirt, sand and sun...dripping with perspiration and the thought of spending the day on the beach is not my idea of fun.

After a weekend of being a total jerk…I've been excluded…unceremoniously drummed off the beach.

A Brer Rabbit smirk crept across my mug as I contemplated my punishment…banned from the beach…barred from that briar patch of seaweed, salt, sand and sun. Uncle Remus would be proud.

Thank you, Lord,for answering my prayers.

Amen.