My family just got back from our annual trek to Carlsbad, California – a quaint, little, beach community just north of San Diego. Each year, I’m blown away by the power of the ocean, the glorious weather, and the people. The beautiful people.
And I don’t mean beauty from within. Oh, everyone is friendly, and I’m sure they’re lovely souls, but I’m talking the exterior package. As in, “Wow! Barbie really does live.” And the guys . . . let’s just say I’m captivated by the sport of surfing.
But this year, as the week progressed, I realized a strange phenomenon, like in that movie, “The Stepford Wives.” There are no ugly people in this town.
This place is the epitome of Darwin’s Theory. If you’re ugly, you don’t work in Carlsbad. And if you don’t work, you can’t afford to live there, which means the only available mates are the beautiful ones. Hence, the stunning population.
Last week at the beach, I settled in, humbly accepting my status as a foreigner. Even if I hadn’t been the only one wearing a sweatshirt or using the blue and white-striped beach towel issued by the hotel, my thighs – a side effect of the lazy-ass syndrome from which I suffer – would’ve given it away.
I checked my kids, making sure their heads were above water and no fins were circling, then began my people watching, gathering proof for my theory. I didn’t have to look far. Right in front of me were two girls and a guy, probably twenty or so. Locals, for sure. If their bodies hadn’t given it away, the faded sheet they lay upon ended all doubt.
The girls were on their stomachs, tiny bikinis barely covering their firm, cellulite-free bottoms. Just as I was beginning to question my sexual orientation, the guy stood up. Oooh, sweet Daddy. Nope, I’m definitely straight. Broad, defined shoulders, six-pack abs, and . . . hello! You get the idea. I had to bite my lip to keep from gasping. (Wait, that’s the “Fifty Shades” girl.).
So I’ll never live in California. Oh, well. I’ve been told I have a great personality.