Sitting in an arctic Starbucks is not exactly the most conducive environment for writing.  The a/c is blowing so forcefully my hair is actually whipping around in my eyes.  Hopefully, that makes me appear to be some type of supermodel goddess to the other latte-sipping patrons.  That was said with a smirk, of course.  It has been many years and numerous junior sizes ago since I have come close to giving that appearance.  Even though I was rockin’ some mighty fine Victoria Secret jeans in 2003.  And yet again – that was many years ago, huh?

I’m not exactly sure why I’m here. Well, I know that Luke is 10 minutes away frolicking in nature with his new camp buddies and hopefully becoming properly socialized with his peers.  But why I felt the need to hit up the closest Starbucks with David’s laptop is what truly defies logic.  Normal logic at least.  When will I get over the idea that I want to be a writer?  I can’t even tell you what kind of writer I want to pretend to be.  I just want words to pour effortlessly from my fingertips and upon perusing them find that I am in reality as amusing as I imagine myself to be.

In truth, I am wasting an hour and ½ of my life but making it marginally appealing by adding a venti frappe and a pair of sunglasses to the image.  I mean, only the cool folks spend their time in SBux on computers, right?  I look around at my neighbors to gage the coolness here.  It seems to be a haven for “older” middle-aged men.  The only customers here are five gentlemen – all over the age of 40 and all here as singles.  Do these men realize that they are nowhere near a college campus and they are not going to be able to ogle sexy co-eds looking for a caffeine fix?  Or maybe they are here looking for middle-aged housewives that are bored of staying at home, making pornographic webcasts and seek normalcy at the neighborhood java hut.  I am a disappointment to them either way!  This atmosphere actually makes me miss Luke.  The constant chatter of the baristas (is a guy coffee-dude a barista?) is positively annoying as it reeks of teenage angst/flirty banter even though I guess that is what to be expected of the under 25 set these days.  If they start singing Justin Bieber songs, I’m outta here.

I do enjoy the smells here though.  They are rivaled only by the briny beach breezes that carry along hints of coconut tanning oils.  Ahhhh, the beach.  My addiction.  David asked me this morning if I had an addiction and I put forth my best insulted glare and coldly replied, NO!  Why would my 11 year old even be curious about addictions?  Why is addiction even in his vocabulary?  And why would he assume it is okay to ask me if I have an addiction.  Do I seem like I would have an addictive personality?  Of course, he followed up this question with, “I thought everyone had an addiction.”  Only now does it occur to me that maybe I should have a follow-up conversation with my son and figure out where his head is at and exactly what his addiction might be.  Which brings me back to my dreams that the sandman seems to be completely incapable of fulfilling.   I NEED the beach.  I need the saline injection of waves, water, sun, wind.  I don’t even need perfect weather or pink sand — I just want the beach.

I actually ventured forth to a real estate website today that specializes in Outer Bank homes.  And no, I haven’t completely lost my mind.  The ocean front, water-front McMansions are not even a consideration for me.  I really want to find a HOME that puts us in close proximity to beach living without the threat of losing my little piece of heaven to erosion or hurricanes.  I want to live in a neighborhood where the boys can have neighbors THEIR AGE and have a basketball hoop in our concrete driveway.  I want a deck that I can decorate with whimsical wind chimes and bird feeders.  I want a pair of comfortable Adirondack deck chairs so that each night, Wayne and I can enjoy a glass of wine while breathing in air that seems to seep out of smoked oysters.  I want to be able to walk 10 minutes and find an ecological adventure, salt-encrusted of course.  I want each summer storm to blow away our cares and bring renewed hope and each sound sunset to take our breath away.  I want my children to learn that is okay to just slow the hell down and enjoy life.  Why does this have to happen at the beach?  Because it is the only place on earth that has had that effect on me.

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