It just happened to be your chosen spot of relaxation that put you in my path. I saw you, quite literally, as soon as my feet hit the sand.
I was the crazed lady pushing a toddler in a stroller while I chased children - plural - and balanced a beach bag that contained magazines - zero, pails - three, and beverages - the boring kind.
You were the girl in a lovely cobalt bikini relaxing on your blanket, propped up on your beach bag that most likely contained magazines - three, pails - zero, and beverages - the fun kind. You were reading a Nicholas Sparks book. And you gave me a smile that said, "Oh, you poor, poor, crazy, crazy lady." But not in a mean way. In a "I can't even imagine for a second what it's like to be you" way.
We both had a nice pedicure. The similarity stopped there. (And you are grateful for that.)
But you see, this has happened to me once before.
She was the crazed lady unloading an SUV full of children - plural - onto a sidewalk in Brookline in the summer of '03.
I was the girl in the lovely sundress parking my VW Cabrio across the street from her. I gave her a smile that said, "Oh, you poor, poor, crazy, crazy lady." But not in a mean way. In a "I can't even imagine for a second what it's like to be you" way.
We both had a nice pedicure. The similarity stopped there. (And I was grateful for that.)
"I used to be you," she said, smiling back at me. "I had that same car. That was a lifetime ago."
And off she went, crazy children in tow. I remember it as if it were an hour ago, not twelve years ago.
Now, in the summer of '15, I see how the torch has been passed.
At the end of the day, I saw you once again as you still sat in blissful silence on a sand-free blanket while I walked by, crazy children in tow.
"I used to be you," I said, smiling back at you. "I had that same bikini. That was a lifetime ago."
And off I went with my children - plural - to load my beach bag into an SUV that most definitely was not a convertible.
