Added: Britany Knop - Date: 18.05.2022 15:53 - Views: 44058 - Clicks: 6791
When our firstborn was a few months old, we all went to Puerto Rico. When our middle child turned 2 months old, everyone flew to Santa Barbara. Neither trip imparted fond memories since we were certain, like most new parents, that the vacation would kill our baby. We spent the duration of each trip trying to fend off invisible pathogens and UV rays, like Dustin Hoffman in a HazMat suit quarantining a populace from an infected monkey. Despite numerous assertions to remain at home and useless self-persuasion that a vacation is just what everyone else needs, the instant our third child was welcomed into the world and the temperature tumbled back into the single digits, we booked a trip to Miami.
Neither Greg nor I had ever been to Miami. I had my reservations since my preconceived notion of Miami was that it was a city built for those who hear club music pounding in their eardrums even in silence and for those who have stopped hearing anything at all. Nevertheless, we were seduced by the reasonable flight time from New England, the temperate winter weather and my penchant for beans. It took us mere minutes to hit the beachside walkways with strollers and newly purchased discount sunglasses.
It may have been the rose-colored lenses in those aviators made of tinfoil, but suddenly our senses, deadened by winter, were awakened to everything in our surrounds. Their combined effect disarmed us both and immediately imparted our vacation manners. We were speaking Thong bikini story full sentences again instead of commands — Get me a diaper! Make your own dinner! We were strolling instead of marching, laughing instead of groaning.
We even held hands until that maneuver sent one of the strollers, child ensconced, into shrubbery. We were gentler versions of our typical selves.
Everywhere I turned, I spied couples heaping affection upon each other. Doors held.
Appetizers shared. Apparel coordinated. He actually lifted the lycra, and slathered sunblock in between her very ample butt cheeks. With the exception of buttock SPF, everything Greg and I consider tedious or ridiculous in real time became wondrous and magical in Miami time.
Even the tiresome antics of our children seemed fresh and novel in the glare off the ocean. But in Miami — on vacation — rollerblading seemed like a completely sensible way of traversing distance, even if one is wearing nothing but a bandana. Maybe take some lessons, but not in a rental pair. It is at the mere mention of the words bathing suit that my vacation-inspired dreams began to sunburn.
The bathing suit is Thong bikini story uniform of Miami, standard issue. It is the great unifier of South Florida; Be you male, female, going to work, using a walker or undergoing radiation for squamous cells, you are clad in a swimsuit. The only variation comes in square inches of material.
This is a horrifying prospect for a woman who has experienced three back-to-back pregnancies. In a city of Mamis, I was feeling much too Mommy.
I may have been wrong in believing the streets of Miami are littered with the carcasses of plastic surgery victims, but there are certainly scattered bodies of women taken down by the surgery survivors. Back at the hotel, while flipping through a phone book for surgeons specializing in ankle reconstruction, I looked up to see Greg vigorously rubbing aloe across his sunburned skin.
Palm trees. Ocean breeze. Waxed chests.
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A vacation horror story: wearing a bathing suit in Miami