So it’s the last day of vacation and it’s hard to believe something you wait all year for is just about over. Sometimes it feels as if the anticipation of vacation is better than the actual vacation itself. But that feeling mostly occurs only after Thursday arrives. Not so much on a Saturday, Sunday, Monday, or even Tuesday.
I used to share this feeling with some of the others we’d spend the week with in the past. I would do a reverse psychology thing by announcing I couldn’t believe it was “Thursday” already, when it was only Monday…sometimes Sunday.
At first they thought I was suffering from heat stroke and was delirious, but they soon caught on that it was just me being me; something they were used to and, for the most part, wished I’d be somebody else, someplace else.
One of the other beach goers I was vacationing with at the time, had wondered—as she was prone to wondering, all sorts of things—what day of the week I would say my life was at if it were comparable to a Saturday thru Friday week of our vacation?
I immediately answered “Tuesday!”, since I sincerely believed that while I’d been around the block a few times already, I certainly had a lot of blocks left to circle, not to mention waves to ride.
She responded in a straightforward, yet slightly sad tone of voice; sitting, alone, in the backseat of my car, on our way to listen to a group of faux Beatles perform at a park by the harbor.
“I’d say I’m on a Thursday or maybe even Friday.”
I looked back through the rear view—to be honest, a little numbed by the coolness with which she spoke—and caught her eye.
“I really do,” she continued.
The saddest part was I couldn’t argue the point with her, which was odd because there weren’t many points we couldn’t find to argue about at that time.
Of course, I poo pooed it, since it was just the kind of situation that begged a poo poo-ing, but I somehow understood where she was coming from.
Not too long after that, her life slowly did begin to take a new direction and for the most part, the life she had been living up to that point, by her choice, did eventually end and a new one began, again, by her choice.
We don’t keep in touch as closely as we once had so I couldn’t tell you what day she feels that she’s on right now, but I’m hoping it’s at least a Tuesday; if not a Monday.
Most of all I hope she’s happier now and remains that way for a long, long time to come.
She deserves that.
She deserves that.
What? You thought I was going to tell you she took a header off the Tappan Zee.
Nah…not her; she’s much too stubborn, and much too cheap to waste the toll.
Anyway, that was certainly not how I had intended to begin summing up vacation week, but they say you’re just supposed to go with whatever pops into your head with these things, and that’s what popped up into mine.
Fridays at the shore are kind of melancholy and reflective, anyway. Like I said, you wait and wait for this and then poof, it’s over. But the reflection makes the time that’s passed easier to absorb. Let’s face it…a week is a week is a week, no matter where you spend it. And you almost never get any change.
Some fog rolled into town about mid-week. Someone said it had come over from Philadelphia, because, hey, even fog needs a change of scenery once in while.
It was a nice fog, however, very well mannered, and for the most part it allowed the sun to cut through its delicate mist and kept us power bronzing; except for the woman with very milky Irish skin who had cultivated a very nice shade of crimson throughout the week.
At night, the streets had this very cool Transylvania vibe going on, and I couldn’t help but think of the Ax Murder and how much he would have enjoyed this; not to mention the lobster rolls at Buckalews.
By Thursday morning the fog had gone wherever fogs go—Newark, I think— and we were back in full sunshine…and inappropriate thongs, which are bad enough on some women, let alone this guy.
That evening, we enjoyed a nice sunset with Old Barney, the local lighthouse, and a quick crab cake dinner, at a nearby crab shack .
Friday morning brought us to the beach for one last abbreviated visit, albeit an 8 hour visit, yet curtailed none the less by some nasty storm clouds that snuck in behind us, late in the afternoon.
I never saw a beach clear out so quickly.
It was as if someone had spotted Snooki vomiting down the beach.
I know…I’ve mentioned Snooki several times over the course of these retorts. Perhaps I'm secretly in love with her. I mean with that semi beehive lump thing on her head, and her delicate ways, how could I not be.
For the most part Z’s okay with it, but all week long she refused to indulge me by semi beehive lumping her own hair, which I found unreasonable.
So the storm, which ultimately never came, denied me my usual opportunity to dwell on the beach until the sea gulls had picked all the trash cans clean, as is my wont.
I did what I'd gotten pretty good at, which was have a cocktail on the deck, and thought about going back down, but at that point I felt as if I had been spared that sad experience and left well enough alone.
Besides…there’s no boo boo face on vacation.Not for this Beach Buckaroo….