My mother recently came to visit from Ohio. She's a big fan of Florida — an ex-hippie, gimme-the beach-and-sun kinda gal.
I love the beach. I'm sure I got her eyes or something, but I know I definitely got that from her. I love listening to the water, I'm pretty sure I was a mermaid in a past life, and everybody looks better with a tan.
Everybody. Even you, Pattinson.
That's why she couldn't quite fathom that my legs were paler now, living in Florida, than they were up in Ohio. (I spent more time in a tanning bed than I did my own. Yeah, yeah, it's bad for you. Life's short.)
But the simple truth is this: My boyfriend hates the beach — the sand, the surf, the skin you're left with in 30 years — and well, who has time to hit the waves, anyway? I work 40 hours a week. (He loves it when I say that. It's usually because I haven't folded the laundry he's just done.)
This article appears in May 13-19, 2010.