One last post before we go. I can't believe I ordered a bathing suit online, and it fits. I had to cut out the underwire cup supports. Whose idea were they? It's bad enough trying to wriggle into a bright turquoise patterned, ruched sausage skin, without rigid bands of metal defying the very intent of streeeetch fabric and clouding the forecast of oceanside relaxation.
Last night, in between nursing poor Honor, who was quite miserable, recovering from spay surgery, I got out the Nair. In defiance of those nasty ladies with the hot wax, a pretty successful attempt was made to clean up my act. Pedicure at 9am tomorrow, and I will be beach ready.
(Any potential robbers out there, "forget it, we gave already" and we have house/cat-sitters so double darn to you).
St Martins, Isle Saint Martins, St Maartens is home to a friend of The Artistic One, and he's been inviting us for years. I fully expect to spend time listening to war stories of youthful escapades, from two Septuagenarians in Speedos, who haven't met face to face for three decades. Lovely daughter is accompanying us. We'll have a real generational sampling. I hope, for her sake, she'll find some other age-compatible islanders. I suspect they'll be buzzing around like bees in no time. Why wouldn't they?
I've researched the equestrian facilities and I'm taking my riding kit. Although all the photos are of tourists in short shorts, riding their horses in the surf, I have hopes of some real riding too.
We are making this the extent of our family present exchange, although there will, of course, be gifts for our Host and Hostess.
The Artistic One has packed his watercolor paints and brushes. His memories are tangible. I can't wait to see them unfold.