On my third trip to the beach within the past year, I realized that beach romance is dead. I’m 38 years old, with three children who don’t really give me a moment’s rest. And going to the beach has become just another one of those parental tasks we do.
This is life when you’ve spent most of your life damaging your body and a brief few years trying to heal it. Every task, even the supposedly fun ones, are a chore.
Of course, it doesn’t help to drag a massive square tent that rips and gets tossed around by the wind. Or for everyone to get food poisoning the first night we arrived.
The real question is how much damage can be reversed? Is it possible for 40 to be more vibrant than 30? That is my hope. For now it’s all still a chore.