Of Shirts and Sand

After a trip to the beach, I spare one tee shirt from the laundry and seal it up in a Ziploc bag. Each day after work, I open it up and mash my face into the cloth, smelling the sand and sea and sun.  I do this until the poor thing is devoid of any kind of olfactory beachiness.

I think today is the day I surrender our last trip's tee shirt to the washer. If I weren't so sad, I'd think it comical that I'm about to wash out any hint of the ocean smell with a product called Tide.

We went to Hawaii for our beach vacation this year, the place where all of my most romantic notions about geography were set. The place where I've always felt the most like me. It's where my family and I traveled during my formative years. And now, during what I'm calling my transformative years, it's where I try to travel most all over again; consequently, it's where we're indoctrinating Sophie into the Hawaii habit, too.

I'll go out on a limb and say that I hope she takes it for granted. I hope she finishes her childhood assuming that she can expect these kinds of experiences to find her, instead of wondering, like so many people do, how she can deserve them. Because frankly, there's nothing a mere mortal can do (short of saving the world from the Kardashians) that would warrant a reward like a week or more with the 50th state.

If you're a Hawaii junkie like me, tell me your favorite island hang. And if you've been there recently, I'll buy your bagged tee shirt for ten bucks.