Like every rational person, I hate the beach. I hate the sand, I hate the water, I hate the wind, I hate the seagulls and I hate their poop. I hate that at no point am I not covered in glorified dirt while trying unsuccessfully to keep my towel from blowing away. I hate that after 10 minutes, my drinks are warm and I am hot and when I need to reapply sunscreen, I undergo what can best be described as a loofah experience.
I hate the beach. I will not go. But if I have to (maybe for a wedding or a funeral like Johnny’s in "The O.C." -- and only then, thank you very much), I go prepared. Here’s my guide to beachwear for you kindred souls who’d rather sit in the car with the windows down -- or better yet: who’d rather drop those suckers off at the shore and head to a mall/shopping centre/back home because beaches are terrible.
