Wednesday, February 9, 2011
"Doesn't your wife drink?" asks Mark who has yet to take off his Green Bay Packer t-shirt. I don't drink during the day, not a good fit, my body doesn't know how to metabolize alcohol until nighttime hours. Look me up later, I am thinking. The island does not recognize Kessler's whisky, but Jack Daniels is a worthy substitute.
Mark is trying to stay awake. Yesterday he passed out midday on a beach chair and his comrades painted his toenails coral pink and draped a lacy teddy on his large sunburned torso. Pictures were taken and I was told it hit the Internet by three o'clock. "I'm swimming in a lagoon tonight," belches Mark, "I want to remember that," and he sticks to light beer all day.
You can't beat a Land's End bathing suit, ladies. There is none of that endless tugging of fabric over the buttocks or the repositioning of boobs. My head is definitely on vacation mode as that is the most important thought I plan to have all day.
So, at breakfast I try the technique. I did not have a whole fruit but I selected a rather large slice of papaya and I push my face in the paw-paw feeling the slushy pulp move past my teeth and gush out on my lips and cheeks, cool and soothing. I feel ridiculous. I smile at Cowboy Dave and a strip of peel shows, a regular Cheshire grin.