I don't mean to beach, but...

... I'm just not that enamored of spending more than an hour by the sea's sandy edge. I did this today, for the first time all summer, at the behest of my family. We only walked around searching for shells, so the experience was somewhat bearable. Trust me, any more of a commitment on my part would benefit no one.

For starters, the thought of my bare torso is enough to send the Pawleys Island Police Department into a frenzy; what with my decided stoutness of shape, not to mention a golf shirt-shaped tan line (my fair Greek skin needs no sunscreen, so my bronze arms are the only evidence of outdoor activity) that would send onlookers to area hospitals with cardiac troubles resulting from either uncontrollable laughter or crippling fright.

Another part of the beach which does not at all agree with me is sand. While the idea of walking barefoot in the sand, feet sinking in at every step may be a liberating one to some people, I just find it annoying. The whiteness of the sand did not help either, as I found myself waddling (more pronounced than usual) along, expending a great deal of energy in the unstable sand, squinting and sometimes closing my eyes altogether.

Perhaps I will eventually see in the beach what others see; they're nice to look at, but after a short while, my eyes are ready to find some other stimulation. But for now, I'm content to make a once-a-year pilgrimage to the sandy expanse, just to confirm that nothing has changed. Today, my favorite part of going to the beach was my footlong hot dog and onion rings afterwards. Besides, if I wanted to go nearly blind and come home sticky, there are probably other, less common alternatives.