dune

I went to Brighton Beach today with the lovely Jess and the charming Sean T. Conrad. Unfortunately, I now look like a pink-and-white dalmation because of my half-assed application of sunblock. Actually, no, I was responsible in lathering up but Mother Nature had other plans in store for us today. I coated myself in Coppertone before leaving this morning to give it time to sink in. Later in the day -- right about the time I needed to reapply -- an unrelenting sand storm kicked up and we were soon battered and breaded in sand. When all was said and done, I ingested about 1/2 cup of it and carried off half the beach with me in my bag, cleavage (butt and chest) and hair. As soon as I could wipe it off, it would blow right back on me. These are not ideal conditions for applying sunblock. So now I'm speckled and a wee bit sore... and still trying to force all that sand down the drain. My bathroom looks like it belongs in a shore house complete with the sandy skid mark on the floor of the shower. I've been trying to wash it out of the tub bit by bit since returning home but it's holding its own in the battle.

Brighton Beach is an interesting place. Unlike the Jersey Shore or Long Island, there is no indication that you are anywhere near the ocean as you approach the beach. There aren't signs for live bait or advertisements for reasonable dry-dock rates. Instead, typical city storefronts and large apartment buildings populate the streets leading up to the boardwalk. But that's part of the charm. What's not charming are the "fashions" on display at the beach. Everyone is entitled to sun themselves and frolic in the surf but if your legs are lumpy and riddled with varicose veins, kindly choose a swimsuit with a more flattering cut. How about giving a sarong or some lightweight pants a shot? It's the responsible thing to do.

Naturally, there were quite a few banana hammocks to be seen which is always unfortunate. I didn't think there was a worse bathing suit out there for men... until I saw the man wearing what looked like his wife's underwear. They were high-waisted granny panties quite possibly made of cotton. Apparently, Hanes Her Way is now trying to horn in on Speedo's share of the god-awful men's swimwear market. It's just wrong.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go extricate several more pounds of sand from my inner ear...