Just looking at me you can tell I am not a beach person. But I'll tell you what. You put me, Spaghetti, and Thighs together with the 'Seaside' Jersey Shore and by god, I'm converted.
Now, you have to understand. We have a routine.
The rental car is picked up. We drive down, stop at the grocery store. Buy the same ten items. Then stop for booze. Maybe dinner.
We drink, talk, sleep. Wake up.
And prep for the beach. The cooler is packed with fruit, sun chips, ice tea, water, and maybe a snack bar. Someone puts the beach chairs and umbrellas in the trunk. We lotion up and pack up. On the way to the beach we stop for a sub. Cut into three pieces. Of course.
We go to the beach, find a spot. Set out the towels, put up the umbrellas. Space out the chairs. Then do our thing.
There may be talking for an hour or two. Conversations about the trashy magazines we brought along and random publicity gossip. Catch up on the drama in our lives that takes a little more comfort to unsurface. Then silence. Relaxation. Acceptance of each other and ourselves.
More often than not we are too beat from the beach than to do more than have dinner somewhere nice and then drink on the porch of the house the second night. Not that it is a cop out. Quite the opposite. We are interesting people, time spent together is always fruitful.
Honestly, I started this post to tell you a funny story about something that happened this past weekend because we did a little something that broke the mold.
But you know what? I'll save that for later. For now I'll just rejoice in the splendor of relaxing times spent with my good friends on the edge of the Atlantic.
Because I'm not a beach person. But I am a Toms River Beach House girl.
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