As some of you may or may not know depending on the varying degrees to which you stalk my life, (Nobody in particular may skip ahead a few sentences) I am on Spring Break and spending it with my family. For those of you unsure on this point, that’s a good thing. Not only am I spending this break with my family, we are spending it about a quarter mile from the beach on the Gulf of Mexico. Highs of 75. Not a cloud in the sky. Not too breezy. Not too calm. This is a situation that many would call “paradise.” Of course, given that my favorite weather is 25 degrees and snowing, it’s not exactly paradise for me, but I digress.
Needless to say, I’m spending a great deal of time on the beach this week, and it is beautiful. There’s something about the sound of waves crashing against the shore that just relaxes a body, whether it wants to be relaxed or not. Naturally, I tried to sleep. It’s not something I’ve ever done on the beach but it’s well within the pantheon of acceptable and normal beach activities, so I figured I’d give it a shot.
Sand is soft. It molds to your body. By all rights and logic, it should be the most comfortable surface in the world upon which to sleep. Somehow it isn’t. I found myself constantly rolling over, just trying to find one comfortable position, and you all know what happens when one rolls around in sand: it gets all up in ones undergarments. It’s hard to sleep with sand in one’s undergarments.
Having failed in my plan of napping, I decided to try another of the activities common to beach-goers: reading. I sat up and began, and I was enjoying myself, too, until I noticed the sand in my pants. It isn’t a bother until one notices it, but once one does, it’s nearly impossible to focus on anything else. Long story short, I ended up swimming because it was the only activity that didn’t involve sand in my undergarments.
I had a really slick analogy prepared for this anecdote when I started writing this post, but I have absolutely no clue what it was, but telling an anecdote is fairly stupid if it illustrates nothing, so you get my scattered approximation of whatever it was I was trying to illustrate originally.
How often do we find ourselves doing something that by all rights should be enjoyable, but instead we get caught up in one little irritating detail. Maybe it’s the toilet seat getting left in a position we don’t prefer. Maybe it’s a cricket hidden away somewhere we can’t access. The point is, this irritation isn’t a big deal, but we get stuck on it. What’s the solution? We should all just go swimming instead. The end.