This wasn’t my first trip to New Orleans. Nope. I remember driving through on a car trip with my folks when I was in the single digits. There was this gorgeous pink parasol with ruffles around the edge which I chose as my vacation souvenir. I would still have it too if the stitching hadn’t rotted. The glorified umbrella didn’t get used for much. I suppose that’s the way it is with a lot of things in New Orleans, fun to look at but not good for a whole lot. That fist trip to NOLA exposed me to the other uses of electrical tape. Prior to that, I had only seen it used in actual electrical work. Now, I could see how absolutely multipurpose it could be. It could be used to make naked photos kosher for public display - so much more convenient than buying the models clothes for photos.
This girls’ trip did not end with a pink parasol, but I did take away a neck full of souvenir beads. I had this very random shirt that I chose to wear whilst on this escapade. It was backless, clipped behind my neck and tied around my waist; otherwise it was like a vest. I had not planned on how this would look with a neck full of beads. Most people would realize ahead of time that the beads would completely cover the shirt and make someone appear topless. I did not have this level of situational awareness.
Even if it hadn’t been the biggest party of the year, we would have had a smoking good time. I only threw up once in my sleep and luckily missed the couch. Yea for me that industrial floors are easy wipe.
So here’s the question: how did I get all those beads? I have no idea. I have been told you flash for them, but I didn’t. That’s right folks, I went all the way to Cajun country, got wasted, and kept my girls covered. Wow I’m a rock star.
Fast forward to this spring. I am sitting in a coffee shop with my fabulously international group of lovely ladies and we start talking about sunbathing here in Europe. I start off talking about how odd it is to see all the girls laying out on the beach topless. Odd because I am American – born and raised. One of my American friends tells me she loves that the girls here do it, but it isn’t for her. My other American friend talks about classy topless vs. tacky topless. She views lying out topless as classy topless, but running down the beach after kids as tacky topless. There were other stipulations, but I was just laughing at the idea of a mom taking off down the beach flapping like some documentary chick after some ill behaved little heathen. There is much head-nodding and facial contortions around the table. We sip our coffees and drop bits of flaky pastry into our laps. My Belgian girlfriend tells me she goes topless on the beach all the time. “But you have kids” I interject. “Yes” she tells me and I laugh despite myself. Laughing at inappropriate times seems to be my legacy. She goes on to explain she doesn’t do it with friends there, just her family and a beach of strangers, and then it is okay.
Food for thought I guess, but I WENT TO MARDI GRAS AND DIDN’T EXPOSE MYSELF. Come on people. Sitting with my girlfriends I confided that my husband may someday want to run for office and then some crazy photo of me topless in public would surface and it would all be over. One of my besties countered this with, “if the photos come out, I hope they say, ‘she looked damn good’”. Again I laughed…a little more high pitched than normal. Dogs howled at the sound.
We all know that I am a bona-fide nerd…a statistical dork. My one girlfriend apparently suffers from this same affliction as well as the “total hottie” affliction. She told me about her observations about men whilst laying out topless here in Europe. She said the men all look. It is how they look that differs. Her research showed that younger men looked, but tried to appear as if they were not. The older men just flat out stared. I was interested to know how the woman factored in. Personally, I am guilty of a stare.
It wasn’t long after these conversations that lightning struck. My husband had a day off when the kids were both in school. The spring weather this year was amazing so we hopped in the SUV and headed for a little preseason seaside sun time. The beach was lonely. I speculate less than a tenth of what we would see in July, but the sun was warm and the waves beguiling. As we lay on our tummies, my husband (always the gentleman) offered to untie my top so I could avoid tan lines. How sweet right? A while later I asked him to tie me on up so I could flip the bacon. His response was along the lines of, “it’s okay, we’re in Europe”. I tell him about my deep-seeded political folly paranoia. Then in a Team America–esque dialog, he says, “I will never run for political office”. And that’s how I came to be laying on the beach in front of God and the East side of Northern Italy sunny side up.
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