~ Granny Rash ~

Years ago, when I was young and supple and resilient, I used to walk the beach in the summer dreaming of my future husband.  I just knew he’d be a handsome prince of a guy, thoughtful, caring, strong and virile.  All of my hormones raging, I would invent romantic scenarios in my head about my prince walking the beach with me, hand in hand, the wind dancing becomingly in my hair, the sun glistening off his huge bulging shoulders….ah…those were the days.  Nora Roberts had nothing on my imagination.

When I met My Captain, I kid you not, it was as if my dream guy had materialized.  My Prince was real.  I didn’t fall head over heels, I fell Ass over Teakettle, which, if you know anything about clichés, is a lot harder.  Believe me, I know how lucky I am that I married my fantasy prince.

And early yesterday morning I found myself walking the beach with him….just like in my old fantasy. The wind was in my thinning hair.  The sun glistened off his bald head.  I’m telling you, it was uncannily JUST like my old fantasy.

Except for the rash.

At some point I had gotten too close to the surf, and my legs had gotten wet.  And that means my enormo-thighs had water AND sand between them, rubbing with each step.

The friction was impressive.  I was sure that by the time we got home, I could have started a fire worthy of any Boy Scout, right there in between my legs.

Oh it’s okay, I don’t feel disillusioned.  I still believe in the fantasy.

But next time I’ll be pre-medicating with Diaper Cream.