Coney Hampton, Here We Come!

The conversation went like this, in the encrypted shorthand of best friends:

"Good morning! What are you doing today?"

"I dunno." (Insinuating tone) "What are YOU doing?"

"Have you seen this day? Wanna go to Coney?"

"Okay!"

"I'll be at your house by noon."

"'Kay. Bye."

There ensues much tearing around in your apartment, trying to find such things as would be needed at the beach.

Bathing suit? Digging through drawers and opening the first Rubbermaid tote full of stored summer clothes, to find your swimsuit slung across the top, as if it was the last vestige of last summer that you could relinquish (it probably was). Fuck the gust of naphthalene that greets you, you will WEAR that shit anyway. Who cares if you get cancer from it or have to sit on the subway smelling like grandma's attic?

Oh, crap. Oh, shit. Bikini line issues. Into the shower to deal with that, clumsily.

And further oh crap, oh shit, all of your shorts are in another storage bin UNDER the first one, and, no, wait, here's a pair of ratty old cutoffs that you have for knocking around the house, let's put these on. Hm, they appear to be split just under the pocket, practically from seam to seam. Oh. Fuckitall again, you're wearing a bathing suit underneath, so it's TOTALLY okay for your right asscheek to be hanging out like that. Everyone knows that if you're wearing a bathing suit under your shorts, it's OKAY for your ass to hang out. If you've got on a shredded pair of Daisy Dukes and you're wearing regular underwear and your ass is hanging out, well that would just be gross, right? And while you're on the subway, just think about everything else except how your right asscheek is in direct contact with the subway seat. You'll break out the alcohol wipes later.

So then you and your best friend are planted on the beach. There is much laughing, especially when you spot Boner Guy from last year. You are just happy to be at the beach, with your best friend.

After you both start to feel chock full of Vitamin D, but shockingly beer-deficient, it's time for a stop at Ruby's where the bartender is in love with Roni (everywhere you go, someone is in love with Roni), but not so in love with her that he doesn't take her money for beer. He has the eager, hopeful look of a guy who knows he doesn't really have a shot, but he'll keep hoping anyway.

Realizing that your Nathan's level is also dangerously low, you bow out of Ruby's and the very amusing game of "There's Your Boyfriend" you have been playing, to head away from the boardwalk.

In front of you in line at Nathan's is a family whose child is so stunning that you tap the mom on the shoulder, hand her your business card and say, "Please email me, because I want to send you our children's casting form."

After eating a hot dog and bacon-cheese fries, you both realize that for the first time ever, neither of you is able to finish those beers as big as your heads. You are almost shamefaced as you throw away perfectly good beer.

On the subway, away from the carny-vacation atmosphere of the beach, you take a good look at each other and think, wow, sunscreen would have been a really good idea.

Now you are home and hydrating like mad, knowing that tomorrow you may feel like a crispy chicken skin, but goddamn, did you have a fun day.