Saturday, June 13, 2015

Beach Blanket Boomer














If there's one thing I love about the summertime, it's hitting that beach! The sand, the sun, the surf, riding the waves, relaxing by water's edge, there's nothing like it.

Except lately, something seems a little different.

"Sir, this is where you buy the beach tags," said the young guy at the entrance to the beach.

"Okay," I replied, "I know you gotta maintain the beach.  How much?"

"Oh, for you, the senior rate is only 6 dollars."

"The senior rate?!!  How do you know ...um ... I qualify for the senior rate?"

"Oh, you more than qualify, sir. The senior rate starts at age 65."

"I see. I have a question."

"Yes, sir."

"What's the best location in the surf to have the undertow carry me out to sea forever?"

I purchased the tag and, loaded down with beach chair, bag of food, and suntan lotion in a protection factor the number of which approaches the temperature on the surface of the sun, I hit the beach. Gee, the ocean seemed so much further away than it used to. As I trekked forward through the hot and shifting sand, I began to feel like Lawrence of Arabia, only without the heroics. 

No doubt about it, I realized: I am now a Beach Blanket Boomer!

Oceanside at last, I set up shop. Here's where you see hot young girls in their revealing bikinis frolicking about, lying on blankets with their tops undone soaking up the sun, and splashing about in the ocean, the waves caressing their taut young bodies.

And here's where you also see hot young girls in their revealing bikinis frolicking about with muscled blond tanned surfer types, lying on blankets with their tops undone soaking up the sun next to muscled blond tanned surfer types, and splashing about in the ocean, muscled blond tanned surfer types caressing their taut young bodies.

Okay, I realize I haven't been in the running for girls like this since Barry White was on the charts, but the pain of that realization lingers on like a fever blister. But c'est dommage, I still love riding those waves, I have since I was 12.

So, frothy brine, here I come. In a moment I'll be off splashing and swimming my way out to where the big waves break and grabbing me  some invigorating rides to shore.

I dipped my foot in the ocean water, and ....

HOLY SHIT, IT'S COLD!!!  

Maybe I'll go in a little later.

Returning to my chair, I began slathering on my nuclear powered suntan lotion when I heard a voice behind me.

"Care to join us in a game of horse shoes?"

Horse shoes?!!

I turned around and drank in a big beer belly above Speedos, gray chest hairs matching a grey toupee resembling a golf divot, and nipples so big I would have been turned on were they on a woman.

"Join us," he said. "We got five guys, we could use another." 

Please don't relate to me, I thought!  Please think I'm younger than you.

"C'mon, friend, it's the perfect thing to do on the beach for guys our age. What are you gonna do --- chase women?"

I'll tell you what -  I don't think I like being a Beach Blanket Boomer.   

Maybe I'll rinse the sand off, check for gray chest hair, and hit the casino.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

9 comments:

  1. OMG. You made me laugh out loud. I think I might have snorted. I've seen those guys on the beach!! Funny stuff.

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    1. Thank you, Beth. And I want to point out that despite the story, I look NOTHING LIKE THOSE GUYS AND I DON'T HAVE BIG BOOBS! And please feel free to snort, that means I'm doing my job.

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    2. Okay, the all caps made your case. Thank God you don't have big boobs. I'm not a fan of man boobs but who is?!!

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    3. Not me! I'll take the female variety every time.

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  2. The marketing execs at the casino are relying on it.

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    1. So that's why they're treating someone so tender and young as myself like an oldster!!

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  3. Oh, Perry, you may have fooled Beth with your man-boob denial, but there's not a college girl in Pennsylvania who'd dare challenge you to a wet t-shirt contest.\
    I agree being a beach blanket boomer is rather depressing. It's amazing how the aging thing happens in such a short period of time--like a fairy tale gone bad. Where's that wicked witch who talked me into eating the drug-laden apple? I wonder if she has any prunes?

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    1. It is no joy being a beach blanket boomer, even if I don't have man-boobs. The beach is now more a conduit to freckles on the top of my head and sunstroke than it is fun in the sun. I can't even get far enough into that freezing water to peep comfortably! Know what? Horseshoes and prunes don't sound so bad.

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