How long before we wake up from the paella coma?

I was determined that things would be different this year.

I would be ready to hit the beach the minute I stepped off the plane.

I would rub sun tan oil on my skin as I jumped over bodies which lay baking in the sun.

I would quickly claim my spot by ceremoniously plunging the stick of my beach umbrella into the sand.

I would pack my bathing suit and cover up in my backpack, ready to don the second I made it through my mother’s front door.

My spanking new Diesel sunglasses would also be at the ready–they’d assist me in seeing past the sun’s bright rays as I scanned the perimeter for any sign of Javier Bardem.

My hair would be wrapped in a bright scarf, bohemian style.

I would make Maya Angelou proud as I strutted from one end of the beach to the other, every inch the phenomenal woman–hips swaying, shoulders back, chest jutting forward.

But alas, such has not been the case.

Once again, I have succumbed to the lethargic state that assaults anyone who dares visit Spain in the summer.

As we speak, my bathing suit, wrap, sunglasses, and scarf, are still stuffed in my backpack.

The beach umbrella stands in a corner of the living room, snickering every time I walk past it and whisper, tomorrow.

And the only bodies I’ve jumped over are Olivia’s and Roxy’s.
Oh, and occasionally, my mother’s.

They too have fallen victims to the fatigue that results from the abominable heat and breakfasts’ composed of baskets of churros.

You would think that my desire to find Javier Bardem would motivate me to abandon the chaise lounge that rests comfortably on the terrace.

Sadly, not even the thought of pouncing on the hunky Spaniard has been successful in plucking me from the spot on the terrace where the breeze caresses my skin and keeps me from turning into a puddle of sweat.

The only times I am able to muster the energy to take a few steps is when I have to go to the bathroom.

I’m convinced that if I were a man, I’d be relieving myself regularly in a Coke bottle.

Yes, this heat is not for the faint of heart.

Fortunately, when faced with extreme circumstances, we enter self preservation mode and give in.

We go with the flow; we practice the art of “dolce far niente.”

And in the process, we discover that it feels good to hop off the hamster wheel; to hide our “to do” list under our beach towel.

I mentioned this to the Significant Other on the phone last night.

He replied, “I wouldn’t know. I can’t remember the last time I did nothing.”

“You should try it! It’s utterly liberating. Stop being a hamster and do like a sloth.”

“Have you considered the fact that if I get off the hamster wheel you won’t be able to do like a sloth?”

“On second thought, who says being a hamster is a bad thing? Pedal on, my brother!”

Click.

Moral to this story: Never praise the joys of being a sloth to a hamster.

And now, I must leave you, friends.

In just an hour, Roxy, Olivia, my mother, and I will enter a “paella” coma and we must prepare.

The terrace has to be cleared of all clutter.

A fresh towel has to be draped over the chair.

Orange wedges have to be added to the pitcher of sangria.

My mother has to grab her book and reading glasses.

I must locate my binoculars so as to continue playing, “Where’s Javier?”

A woman could get used to this life, folks.

Hugs to all of you from sunny Spain!

How are you spending your summer days?

XOXO,