by: Carolyna Shelton

I recently returned from my annual pilgrimage to the beach. My goodness, my middle-aged mommy butt has been quite full of herself since we got back. I had been dreading cramming the jiggly bits into a swimsuit and facing the harsh summer daylight. I even greased up and wiggled into a Miracle Suit (the miracle is that the seams don’t rupture along the fault lines and cause a 7.3-magnitude ass quake). I sucked in my belly so hard that I over-inflated my corneas.

However, once I hit the beach, I looked around and had a startling revelation: I looked freaking great! I mean, here I was, hairless in all the right places, and I was age-appropriately covered; also, my skin was a normal color, not the hue of a bloody hunk of ground chuck because I was determined to demonstrate to all that I’d gotten my money’s worth. I did not sport any unfortunate vaginal region tattoos leaking their way down my legs, nor could I lose, say, a bag of Funyuns or a big ol’ box o’ wine somewhere in a belly that lapped a woeful bikini. I was feeling pretty doggone sporty—yessirree!

Nevermind that I immediately stepped in a sandy sinkhole and made an abrupt facial landing that jarred a few fillings loose, I am a passable MILF, all gravity considered. I think if it came to a MILF contest between, say, Bea Arthur (rest her soul) and me, I would win, hands down (granted I’m warmer at this point).

This realization caused me to think about beach myths, and I pondered a few of these as I plodded my way judgmentally up the beach.

Beach Myth #1: It’s my body, and I can wear whatever I want to the beach. No, as a matter of fact, we cannot. As a 40-plus, middle-aged mom who fights a losing battle with beer and chocolate, I cannot wear a French bikini. Doing so would likely cause a tear in the space-time continuum, and perhaps, life as we know it would cease to exist. It is my responsibility as a human being to avoid forcing my stretch marks upon the world. It is a man’s duty, sir, to step away from that Speedo. Remember the rule when purchasing men’s swimwear: “If you can’t see your sack, take the Speedo right back.”

As for women, if that muffin top looks like a Bundt cake in a measuring cup, it’s time to consider something gauzy and modest—like a choir robe, perhaps.

Beach Myth #2: I’m on vacation! I don’t have to shave! Au contraire, my furry little manx. Those who don’t depilate, end up looking like they’re smuggling Groucho Marx in the crotchal region. People will gawk and judge for this. I’m sorry to have to be the barrier of bad news, but those who want to be recognized for their intelligence, inner beauty or perhaps the skill of being able to discreetly pee in knee-deep waves will have to divert peoples’ helpless stares from the twat.

Trim those whiskers, ma’am, or at least braid them and work in some festive beads.

Beach Myth #3: Sunburn is sexy, and people will be so envious that I spent my vacation at the beach! Um, guess what? Sunburn is a burn, actually. Like fire. We won’t be envious. In fact, we will think most are a special kind of stupid to go out day after day, courting skin grafts and weeks wrapped in wet sheets. We will be much more impressed by folks who spend the middle of the day inside having sex, instead of being outside, roasting like a suckling pig.

And speaking of, Beach Myth #4: Beach sex is the best sex. It all sounds so sexy and romantic, doesn’t it? The soothing sound of the waves. The soft, air-brushed light of a rising full moon. The beach blanket. The crabs. The children armed with Maglites who scamper up, screeching, “Mommy! Daddy! We found another double one!” I have found, whilst interviewing the Sexual Advisory Group (SAG), that usually one beach encounter pretty much took care of the urge for further encounters. Most cited the unfortunate sand abrasions as the top reason to eschew surfside shagging.

SAG member “S” did report that he got lucky on a teenage beach trip—so lucky, in fact, that he didn’t even finish the, um, dance, so to speak. He hit it once or twice upon the sands and then high-tailed it (or something) back to his hotel to report his good fortune to his friends. It didn’t dawn on him until later that, usually, the experience is a bit more rewarding if one actually finishes the deed, instead of just doing a couple of steps and quitting for emergency PR purposes.

Another “S” said a former boyfriend thought he wanted to have a little shag, but as it turns out, he merely had to poop, which ended up being somewhat of a mood killer. “Hard to believe I let that one get away,” S marveled.

And finally, we have SAG member “C,” who relayed the following tail, er, tale. She said one night, she and her mister walked out beyond the light of the hotels and houses. He suggested a little shag and cleverly advised her to “bend over like you’re hunting seashells.” She pondered exactly what she would have thought, had she seen a man’s silhouette proximately assisting a woman who was doggedly picking up shells in the dark. Still, she was game, and as a testament to the effective multitasking abilities of women, she mused, “I actually did pick up a few shells.”

So, I think we can all see that while the beach is the quintessential summer pilgrimage, it is best to avoid perpetuating the myths at all costs. Meanwhile, forgive me if I’m a little smug after my vacation, but it’s not every day that I can kick a TV star’s ass in a MILF contest.