You know those idiots from the Midwest who lose their minds when they go to the beach? They only have a weekend in Florida so they hit the sand with nary a drop of sunscreen, determined to squeeze as much tanning as possible into a 48-hour period, and then act surprised when they get back to their hotel and discover that their thighs now resemble cherry popsicles?
I hate those people.
Which is why I’m all the more irritated to find that I’ve inadvertently joined their club.
My weekend in Miami started out well enough. Much to my surprise, my younger brought not one but three pairs of shoes. I found a handsome Dutchman-cum-surfer to talk to on the bus from the airport to South Beach and even though our little chat lasted only a few blocks, I was proud of myself for having had the courage to strike up a conversation in the first place.
By 9:00pm, I had slipped into my designated Friday night club outfit and was enjoying my first mojito of the weekend. By 9:15pm, I spotted my first drag queen of the evening and by 11:00pm, I was lip locked with a strawberry blonde from Baltimore.
“Did you get his number?” my brother asked as we made our way back to the hotel several hours later.
“That’s too bad,” he said.
“Not really,” I replied, “he wasn’t all that exciting.”
“But every time I looked over at you guys, you were cracking up!”
“It was all an act,” I informed him. Little does he know I’ve become quite the little thespian since the launch of my “experiment.”
Nonetheless, I was rather satisfied with myself. A mere three hours in South Beach and already a hook up? Nicely played, I thought to myself, unzipping my heels to walk the last three blocks to the hotel in my bare feet. I was afraid that I might have lost my touch but having acquired a fresh set of blisters thanks to the maiden voyage of my Carlos Santana stilettos, I decided I had met my “quota” for the weekend and could now sit back and enjoy myself.
Unfortunately I sat back on a beach towel the following afternoon and promptly fell asleep. When I awoke, my entire back, thighs and calves were as red as my nail polish.
On the bright side, my skin now matches the majority of my accessories and my digital camera. And the experience of kissing a handsome stranger might just be enough to get me through the rest of the winter without resorting to desperate measures.