Last weekend I was at the beach when two young lads walked by brandishing fishing poles and a bad attitude. One was particularly unhappy and it was all the sand's fault.
"F*ck the sand. I hate this f*cking sand. Stupid, f*cking sand."
I totally understand his annoyance. Nothing is more offensive than sand at the beach (the nerve of nature). Seriously, someone should have prepared him for that. Like maybe with a sign or giant banner.
Truthfully, I used to share his sentiment. When I as a kid (as in a small child, not a baby goat), I hated the beach. Partially due to the severe anxiety it created within me (caused by nothing other than my brain is an asshole), but mainly due to All. That. Sand.
After recovering from the grave injustice that was my parents forcing me out of bed before noon to enjoy the great (offensive) outdoors, I would plop my sulky butt on a towel and go to work on my vendetta against the millions of teeny tiny piece of crushed shell.
As an eight year old with little knowledge of the carnal sand - man relations, I did not eff the sand as the angry teen so desired to do today. In fact, I desired the exact opposite of such intimacy and began the highly scientific process of frenetic hand movements, whining and intermittent shrieking to remove every last speck from my body. Between the toes was the hardest and although I don't have an exact recollection, I'm pretty sure I came up with my own colorful words to describe my feelings about the sand.
By the time I had de-sanded myself, my parents would declare it was time to go. Trust me when I say this, it is impossible to walk from the beach to the boardwalk without getting covered in sand. Not just your feet, but your entire body. Your sandals launch the sand into the backs of your thighs where it explodes against your skin like a thousand tiny missiles. And those 47 towels you laid out in an attempt to carpet a two mile terrycloth radius to protect you from "the nasty"? Are now covered in the stuff. And no matter how you fold them, there is no keeping the side that came in contact with the sand away from every square inch of your body.
By the time you reach the boardwalk, you resemble a dog who broke free from its owner, flopped on his back and wiggled wantonly about. Only without the googly-eyed look of joy.
As an adult, I've come to embrace the sand, but the whole Sand Coverage Upon the Leaving the Beach Phenomenon still annoys me. As an eight year old girl who spent the last seven hours digging it from between my toes, this downright pissed me off. And so I did what any eight year child would do and proceeded to have a temper tantrum. But only inside my head because my mother frowned upon children acting like whiny little turds.
I have to wonder why those teens were at the beach if they hated it so much. They looked old enough to drive so I'm pretty sure they were there voluntarily. However, considering their attitude, it wouldn't surprise me if their mother, who'd had enough of their complaining about the "Stupid, f*cking chicken," she had so lovingly prepared, forced them in the car, drove to the beach, shoved them out and yelled, "don't come home until you catch some stupid, f*cking fish!" as she drove away.
I suspect they won't be home for awhile. Not only did they miss the sign alerting them that the beach now has sand, they also missed the one that said NO FISHING ALLOWED.