No Cameras Allowed

Guest bloggers seem to be a special right that more popular blogs get to exercise to hold over the heads of us upstarts. Well, I don't follow rules well, especially if they're unspoken. This is my blog & I'll call in reinforcements as I see fit. I typically see fit when I know someone who has some kind of cool or relevant story/perspective to share. Since my updated Bucket List will be coming soon, I figured why not share a story from someone who's also pushing her own boundaries? This has been deemed my personal summer of adventure & the adventures of others move me too. So, without further ado, I bring you my THIRD guest blogger (take that Bishes), Mrs. Write:

Day 4 of our vacation found us taking literal and metaphorical chances. Our economy (code for small as ish) rental car struggled climbing the scenic mountains while simultaneously blowing much needed A/C. But hubby and I ventured on to our destination with only a map and a prayer that my step-above rudimentary Spanish was enough to help us navigate the French road signs. When we finally arrived, I was struck by the above referenced sign, “No cameras allowed”. As I tentatively took in the...ahem...sights, hubby blurted out, “Where are the nekkid people?” and “I don’t see any nekkid yet,” thus blowing any thoughts I had of making this some type of shared poetic journey.

We secured beach chairs and I took the first step of removing my top. I didn’t mind removing my top while reclining under our beach umbrella, but I knew that I had to leave the safety net of our encampment and venture out to the water. Before I did so, I took advantage of my really dark shades to make some observations. As I watched the imperfectly perfect nude bodies frolicking on land and in water, I pushed my last nagging notions of stereotypical beauty out of my head and strode to the turquoise water with my pregnancy enhanced bosom on display for all to see. Then I had a revelation…No one was stunting me (other than the dude trying to sell his reggae CD). I felt liberated and free as I dipped into the warm waves. After my little dip, I took a brief nap and let the breeze caress my bare body. It. Was. Beautiful. Apparently it was during my little nap that hubby decided to take his little walk of fame.

I joined hubby in the water and he goaded me with, “How you goin’ come to a nude beach and not get all the way nude.” I fingered the strings on the sides of my bikini bottoms and sheepishly pulled them a loose and grabbed the bottoms in my hand. My body told a story of my life, that I was already a mother as evidenced by the faint scar on my pelvic bone, and that I was soon to be one again as proven by the slight bump and dark line down my abdomen. As I stood in the vast ocean and surveyed its greatness, I was also awed by the greatness of me. I produced life and was about to do so again. I gave love and received it in abundance. My husband’s gaze provided me with all of the protection I needed as I casually strode back to our chairs, taking time to feel the sand between my toes and the sun on my, ahem, other parts, all the while humming India Arie’s “Video” to myself.

We’ve already decided that we have now found an annual vacation destination and maybe next year when I take it off, I’ll have some beads to show for it.

Watch her remove.