If you’ve already spent a precious 22 seconds reading the “About SRCarson” section of my blog, you’ll already remember that I grew up in Southern California fantasyland. Not to belabor the point, but I ate, drank and slept surfing when I was a young man: Malibu, Huntington Beach and Seal beaches got my trunks wet the most often. So I can imagine that it comes as a surprise to you that I’m writing to you while on a Lake Michigan beach. Well, not actually on the beach, but I was earlier, now I’m at a bar writing on 17 small napkins I stole from the bartender. (I discussed this habit earlier in my blog entry a few months ago: “Bar Inspiration”).
Yeah, tiny ripple – like waves ignite excitement here on Lake Michigan; usually the water is as smooth as glass unless there’s a speedboat wake interrupting the blistering silence. Boring as lunchtime in a nursing home, no sharks to tease, and not a single California girl. The only things surfing are dragonflies skimming the surface. Woe is me, I think I’m going to eat worms, as they say, but here I am visiting a forgotten city nestled on the shores of Lake Michigan. You see, someone dear to me needed my help, and of course, I hit the road to visit as soon as I could.
Let’s face it, this town was the little train that couldn’t; a town that shoulda, coulda, woulda, but never did. So after fueling up with a cold beer, I went for a long run on this beach, and I couldn’t believe my eyes: The feminine smorgasbord quickly steamed to a dangerous level. Try as I might, it was quite a strain to keep my head pointing straight down the coast line while I ran, but hell, I’m human and occasionally I had to turn to subtly enjoy the scenery. About 50 yards ahead, I spied two sets of tanned, slender legs extending out into the water from their little half – chairs and clearly obstructing my running path. What is the most courteous thing to do? Run in front of them, keeping my pace and splash them all over, or instead, run behind them in the deep sand, potentially kicking it all over their hair? Obviously, they knew they were obstructing the progress of intense beach runners because there was plenty of room in the sand, but maybe they just wanted to get their little pinkies wet and make us guys all nervous and such.
Clearly though, every man is trained (by women) to understand it’s best to ignore them, even if they try hard to be seen, because everyone knows that the only reason a man makes conversation with an attractive woman he doesn’t know is because he is deviously designing a plan to get lucky and jump her bones. That’s why reasonable women should refuse to smile and encourage us animalistic males.
Despite possessing that innate knowledge, for some reason I took the dangerous step of stopping my run right in front of these two goddesses with heads immersed deeply into paperback beach novels, (whatever those are). I think they are novels with pictures of half –naked hot men with long hair caressing a woman with one of her bikini straps half falling off her shoulder. The titles usually are like this: “Lion of the Shimmering Moonlight” or “Love in Nantucket” or something like that. Anyway, they remained oblivious of me, as they were trained to do, by someone, somewhere. Not sure why I broke etiquette and stopped but it happened. Perhaps because I am writing a novel, not a beach novel though and curious about what people are reading now. But what the hell, I stopped and briefly glanced at their red – painted toenails bobbing out of the water before I waited for them to unglue their eyes from their books and make eye contact. Then I smiled, took off my sunglasses so they could see my eyes and said, “Hello ladies, are you enjoying your novels?”
The brunette looked up for a millisecond, and then turned her attention back to her book, saying nothing in response. The blonde however, looked up and smiled, “Yes, great book, lots of action and it moves fast. Has to move fast to keep my attention, but doesn’t require a lot of thought. You know a beach novel.” Clearly the brunette was a goddess that couldn’t’ be bothered by exchanging a couple words with an earthling, especially a beach – roving doctor/writer/wolf. But the blonde continued to make eye contact and her garden – green eyes seemed to wait for my response.
Grinning while squinting, I said, “I know the story. Can’t give you the details of course, but I’ll have you know that in the end, honestly, the good guy gets the girl.”
She showed me a wider view of her bright whites. “That’s good to know, I was wondering about that. Thanks for your literature analysis; it was quite helpful. We both laughed genuinely, and then I took off for my run.
“Remember to hydrate after your run!”
“Does beer count as hydration?”
“Absolutely, it’s mandatory on a day like this after a long run and a successful novel read.”
I felt renewed energy while I ran for several more miles, reminded that secure women with intelligence and charm are much more beautiful than their friends who display their body for male visual consumption, thinking that their body is actually their only real demonstration of their soul.
So that was my brief experience, or at least all the detail I can share with you on a blog, about two women on a beach on the shores of Lake Michigan, and the land that time forgot is now enriched in my mind just a little more. I’ll be back.