My hair believes that it should revert to the 80's as it relaxes into the beach air. It's sun that I hide from most of the time with a thick layer of high spf sun screen and a floppy hat I tilt my head side to side as if agreeing with my historical romance on a personal level when I am really trying to pass the momentary shade to my shoulders. It is at least a bit better than the towel covering my creepy porcelain doll legs with more freckles to align me more with my Irish roots than beach bum.
My cousin on the other hand sprays bronze tanning lotion until it flies on my knees, lying herself out like a Los Angeles reject trying to sun burn herself back through the gates lined with broken shells.
For today though, we relax the best we could when running from wayward lightning storms. Abby in the night of rain smooshed a marshmallow in sorrow with the sentiment of, "I am just like this marshmallow, squishy and improperly tanned."
Luckily we could be marshmallows together.
I like the days spent in bookstores where I find a novel that I have been searching for everywhere like the lost love I've never found to begin with. Hours spent in department stores I could never afford, just so that my finger tips can brush against the fabric and home decor that makes me wish I had a home of my own to begin with. The days when I feel the burn of not a workout, but of my cheeks from a few too many smiles and choking laughter over a cousin's words phrased in a way that wasn't supposed to be funny, but is. Because words are just as weird as I am when I try to put together these blog posts.
I like the days I flutter over, frustrate over, these days with fuzzy hair and blankets and even a pillow being stolen by my bed partner in the night.
With a tug and then a pull and then a, "Lindsey! Lindsey..." Waking up with a breath she didn't move. "Lindsey, this is MY pillow."
"Oh," she said before flopping down on it, making my portion of the bed as she liked to call it, my square, and my pillow, shared.
These are the days I remember.