Most people that know me have accepted the fact that I am not a beach-loving-gal. I love the sound of the rushing waves, the beauty of the endless miles of water, the velvety appearance of the sand, but that is where the love affair ends. Put me by the pool near a beach and I am one happy girl. I am not sure when it happened, but the hanging out on the beach has never been my thing. I detest the sand sticking to places that it shouldn’t be, the uneven terrain that makes me walk like a penguin, and the murkiness of the water where I can’t see what may be swimming near me. Even in the Bahamas, where the water is crystal clear, I am hesitant.
Imagine my surprise, when my orthopedist told me NOT to walk the beach due to my meniscus tear in my knee, that I was actually bummed. It was similar to the feeling a child gets when they are told not to put their finger in a socket……it makes them want to do it all the more. So, this trip, I WANT to go to the beach, simply because someone told me not to. Of course, I won’t because I am forty-eight years old and a rule following Catholic, but there is the rebel inside of me that wants me to try and get a away with it.
While I battle the beach demons within, I would love to acknowledge the fact that the sound of the ocean soothes me. Like a cranky baby, it seemingly relaxes those frayed nerves and unleashes some of the pent up stress that I like to carry around like excess baggage. It lulls me to sleep at night and bids me good morning like a long lost friend. We have a love-hate relationship, but like many of my relationships, I can simply love from a distance.