For one, I hate summer clothing. And I'm talking about a hate with the kind of vitriol most people reserve for crimes against humanity. I'm serious - I really despise summer clothes. This is a serious problem, considering I live in *Florida*. Actually, I don't mind some summery clothes, but it's casual summer clothes that I just can't abide. My body definitely requires tailoring and structured garments. Anything loose and gauzy just looks sloppy. I can get away with summerish work clothing, because the only truly summery thing about them is their color or print. They're not fundamentally different from anything I'd wear in fall or spring. But those kind of clothes just don't work for a tropical vacation - one that involves lazing around a pool or hiking in a rainforest or going to the beach.
I severely dislike shopping for summery clothes, too. Maybe if I were in my early twenties, six sizes smaller, and sparkly, I'd feel differently. But I'm none of those things. First, summer clothes do not accommodate traditional underpinnings, and well, some undergarments are just necessary for some people, is all I'm saying. Second, traditional summer clothes are remarkably unflattering on my body. Tank tops look ridiculous on me. Halter tops aren't much better. And strapless is really out of the question. So that leaves polo shirts and t-shirts, and sometimes, it's just too hot for either of those. Shorts are simply ghastly. I adore skirts, but I don't care for most casual skirts, and you can't exactly wear a skirt on a hike to a volcano anyhow. Capri pants are marginally acceptable, but again, if they're not tailored, they look ridiculous, and if they are tailored, they're not appropriate for more active endeavors. Of course, I'd rather be overdressed than underdressed, so at least that's working in my favor (for some situations). And then there's the abomination of swimsuits...! Actually, it's the trying on of swimsuits that kills me. My otherwise lofty self-esteem can only take so much of a beating at the hands of lycra and spandex.
And to be perfectly honest, I don't even really like the beach. Oh, I very much like the *idea* of the beach. Who wouldn't? The romantic notion of reading while nestled into a shady hammock tied between two palms while softly plumeria-fragranced wind gently embraces one's skin. Frosty drinks served in coconut shells decorated with paper umbrellas and pineapple wedges that taste of bright yellow. The sound of pounding surf and maritime breezes sifting through trees. A refreshing frolic in an ocean that is infinite shades of turquoise. Wiggling your toes into sand the texture of confectioner's sugar. Sounds fantastic, doesn't it? But the practicalities are positively awful. Gritty sand in places where sand does not belong. Blazingly infernal heat. Trying to read in blinding sunshine on a beach blanket with lumpy sand beneath that refuses to shift into a comfortable configuration. Greasy sunscreen melting into my eyes and scorching them, leaving me with watery eyes the rest of the day. Seaweed bits suspended in salt water, brushing up against my legs. Ew.
Now, I don't want to come off as too crabby and ungrateful. (Too late for that, Jen...) I mean, I'm truly excited for an opportunity to spend ten days in a little corner of paradise, with shave ice stands, photogenic waterfalls, macadamia-nut pancakes, and fresh flowers everywhere begging to be worn in my hair. But the whole excursion will pass with an underlying current of discomfort. Which sort of negates the whole point of a vacation, you know? Next summer, we need to take a vacation during which I can wear a turtleneck. Alaska. Perhaps Iceland? Or back to the Southern Hemisphere. Yes. The South Island of New Zealand? Now that's vacation perfection.
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