Let's face it. It's probably obvious to others, but for reasons we're going to blame on the ol' "I was in a coma" excuse the following was not obvious to me.
First. I was anticipating a dreamy trip to Maui. This is exciting because:
1) I've never been to Hawaii.
2) I haven't been on a tropical, hot, do-SFA-while-lying-on-a-beach type vacation since the early 90's
3) I get to go with my dreamy boyfriend and get to do romantic things.
4) Finally, and most importantly I get to buy a new bikini.
Bathing suit shopping. Exponentially more horrifying than jeans shopping. It all began one afternoon, when I decided to head downtown and meet a girlfriend and her teensie toddler. We were doing our usual wandering the streets when girlfriend said we should get the baby some grub. Naturally my maternal instincts kicked in, and I enthusiastically suggested McDonald's. One salad, one happy meal and a super-sized two cheeseburger meal later, it was time for me to head to my next appointment. I know what you're thinking. And you're right. It's a TWO cheeseburger meal. I still say they should do a THREE cheeseburger meal. Two is hardly enough. Anyway, we parted ways and I headed to my appointment to visit a bikini designer who is in fact worthy of the pages of Sports Illustrated. I mean I suppose a worse time to try on suits would have been a week earlier when I was on the rag, or if I'd ordered the apple pies for desert. But this was still a pretty bad idea.
In the end I did not look like Giselle Bundchen. I looked a touch bloated, definitely pasty and had come to terms with the fact that I am delusional. The good news is I got a bikini. After being there for a solid hour and trying on what seemed like every suit they had I came out with a possibly too skimpy black crocheted bikini. There was extraordinary patience involved. Both by me and especially by my angelic consultant.
With that traumatic albeit successful experience over, it suddenly occurs to me that there is a more distressing twist to this mediocre story. Burgers. In particular the fact that I can no longer stomach burgers, unless they are of the extremely fast food persuasion. For several years the delicious burger was my go-to meal. At least when I was eating out. It's hard to screw up a burger . . . hard but not impossible. So when visiting restaurants that boast unimaginative or just plain unsavoury menus, a burger was always a safe-ish bet. As a result of a week jaunt to Vancouver island bookended with dinner time ferry rides and ferry food, my annual "Week of Burgers" was born. For roughly 5 years I celebrated August with 7 days of imbibing. That is until last year. My epiphany happened today when one another girlfriend invited me over for a pool dangle and burgers this week. A tremendous idea in theory, however the last time I did that with her I had a cardiac arrest 3 hours later. I realize now my residual anti burger feelings could be a direct result of that "last meal."
What a terrible thought. "I had a cardiac arrest and all I got was a lousy fear of hamburgers" . . . and a sweet bikini.