After a cleaning spree, in an attempt to clear my head by clearing my clutter, I think that maybe they are right. I should get out and enjoy the day and at least I could maybe get a little more color on my skin in the process. So I pack up my beach bag and get in the car. Driving to my usual spot sounds too predictable for my mood--I need an adventure. The parking gods smile upon me and I find a spot closer to the tourists--with a little time left on the meter. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.
As I make my way through the crowds, I find myself not fighting against them in a hurry to reach a destination, but rather enjoying the anonymity I find in them. I watch the girl with the pinkish-purple back talking with her friend about the night before and the surfer whose board almost blows her over as she crosses the intersection. These people don't know me--don't expect anything from me--and I'm beginning to find my way. I remember times that I've made this trek before, really that I used to make it all the time. Before jobs, parking spaces, and expectations became obstacles. When did that change? When did I change?
I continue deeper into the heart of it, as the blocks go by I find familiar sites. I remember my routine and decide to stop for supplies that have long fallen off of my list. Tropical touristy snacks and tanning lotion that smells like brown sugar. These are key pieces of my nostalgic journey. I detour to walk through aisles of surfboards that never fail to re-center me as I walk through. As my toes hit the sand, I find a spot that isn't covered by bodies and I settle in to watch the show. I exhale and smile...I live here.
