On the Beach at 60

I remember as a girl reading magazine articles about physical appearance. Something like “highlight your good parts and hide your less good parts." But as one wag once said, “It’s liberating when you get to the age where you no longer care if you’re cool.”

And so, when you get close to the ocean on a hot day, all pretense of camouflage fades.

We spent a few days at our favorite stretch of ocean beach. Lauderdale-by-the-Sea is a Snow Bird community. Lots of tanned septuagenarians walking little pocket dogs. We were the young-uns here, except for the occasional grandkid.

Let me report: when you are 60 and on the beach, it’s ok that you bare a little cottage-cheese thigh. It’s ok that men sport mats of white chest hair on top of tanned skin. It keeps former pecs and abs nice and warm.

The comb-over becomes a RED dome with curtains.

That guy in the really tight shorts believes that this makes him look gorgeous. You can tell by the strut. Same for the European guy in the teeny wheeny wheeny Speedo.

Strolling past, yippy dog in tow, a gentleman sporting that brown socks/sandals look, completed with bright pink plaid Bermudas and a matching Panama hat.

You may remember “It was an itsy bitsy, teeny wheeny, yellow polka dot bikini” a hit from the early ‘60s. A gramma nearby purchased on back then and, dang, she still getting some wear out of it.

And not to be mean at all: we’re pretty beat up ourselves. YEARS is YEARS and Time Stops for No Man. But, as all will someday discover, with age comes not only privilege but fading sight. Wrinkles and sags lose their definition. Smiles, after all, are what matter.

It’s a great day at the beach.