I have this distinct memory from about five years ago that I often think about this time of year. I was on the subway in the middle of a weekday afternoon headed to a doctor’s appointment. Because it was July in NYC everyone (myself included) generally looked damp and disheveled regardless of when they’d last showered and groomed. I personally felt like Gollum. A few stops after I boarded the train and slumped down onto a sticky seat, another woman about my age glided onto the train and sat across from me. Her hair was neatly slicked back into a low bun and she wore long blue jeans and a fitted t-shirt with a navy blazer draped over her shoulders. Based on nothing but her physical appearance, I assumed she was Parisian. Most notably though, this woman did not seem to be impacted by the heat or humidity one bit. As I wiped the sweat ‘stache from my own face, I wondered how this was possible. Do some people just not feel the heat the way some of us do? I’ll have what she’s having.
As I’ve previously discussed here on The Indoorswoman, I am not meant for the summer months. I have a skin tone so lacking in melanin that I look like I’m meant to live underground (which, in a “garden view” apartment, I kind of do). I’m like one of those albino bugs that you find when you flip over a log in the forest. Or possibly a vampire? Maybe I’m just living too close to the equator for someone with even a little Irish heritage. I am not meant to be in direct sunlight for longer than a few minutes. I even make sure to not stand too close to lightbulbs.
So, against my better judgement, when some friends who were visiting from out of town suggested we go to the beach on July 4th, I thought, “sure, that’s what people do. Let’s be normal and do it! Let’s go sit in the hot sun for hours and fry like little strips of bacon.”
After nearly 37 years on this planet, though, I know myself at least to a certain degree, and knew that I had to prepare for this expedition. I am certainly not someone who grabs a single beach towel and heads out the door. (How carefree these peoples’ lives must be!) For my trip, lists had to be made, strategies on whiteboards worked out, and maps drawn. I went on Amazon and bought this little umbrella to screw onto my beach chair. I went to the grocery store for watermelon, which I cubed and placed in Tupperware with an ice pack on the bottom. I put a ¼-filled water bottle in the freezer so that I’d have ice cold water at the beach (until it melted 10 minutes later). I lined up my sunscreens of which I have FIVE different brands that come in a variety of application types: your traditional creamy lotion, an “unseen”/clear lotion, a clear spray, and a deodorant-looking stick. “I WILL NOT BURN THIS TIME!!!” I exclaimed to no one. “SUN GOD, YOU WILL NOT DEFEAT ME!!!”
Getting anywhere in NYC can be a major challenge. Until the city added a ferry option from Sunset Park, Brooklyn to Rockaway Beach, whenever I wanted to get there, I’d have to take three separate subway trains. The last time I did this (which was probably 10 years ago), the A train went out of service and abandoned hundreds of us in Ozone Park, Queens. This was pre-Uber, so we all just kind of accepted our fates and assumed we all lived in Ozone Park now. But thankfully this ferry now exists! What a delightful breeze it is. It’s $8 roundtrip for a 45-minute smooth ride to the beach. Sure, you have to strap all your bags and umbrellas and chairs to your body, but hey… it sure beats that A train! Amiright?
Food wise, I’d say it’s a good idea to bring some of your own food to the Rockaways (somehow, despite us living in a deeply capitalist country, there are surprisingly few food stand options there and the lines can be long). My friend Rebecca kindly picked us up some red, white, and blue bagels for lunch, which is about the degree to which I’m comfortable celebrating America this year. We also got Mr. Softee ice cream later in the afternoon, which was delicious, but I also would have enjoyed it if I’d just dumped the ice cream straight on my sweaty, hot head.
It was nice hanging out with friends at the beach. A few times I walked to the water through the hot sand, which my friend and I joked was so hot it felt like some sort of hot-coals initiation. The sea was angry that day, my friend. (Like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli.) The waves were tall and crashing and the lifeguards really earned their hourly wage. But the water was refreshingly cool. Hallelujah!
A few hours into our five-hour stay at the beach, I was in the bathroom (the absolute grossest place you could possibly imagine) and noticed some pink on my shoulder, so when I got back my spot on the beach, I put a t-shirt on over my swimsuit. Thank god for this, because once I got home, I discovered that the clear spray sunscreen I’d applied on my back and shoulders hadn’t done jack shit and I was fairly burnt. Here’s a tip: If you can’t remember when you purchased a particular bottle of sunscreen, just toss it and buy a new one. Apparently, these things expire and become useless. Who knew?! Luckily, I hadn’t used that sunscreen on my whole body, so most of me is now… tan? Is that what this light brown color is on my skin? Could just be dirt…
Though significant parts of my beach trip were fun and fully worth the hassle, I still generally know that the beach is not the place for me. The feeling of sand sticking to my sunscreened body is quite gross. The sound of three different songs from three different beach camps is stressful. And don’t even get me started on the chafing. There’s a reason why Hell is usually portrayed as a very hot place.
So, with this experience now behind me, I think I shall stay indoors, where I am meant to be, and spoon with my cat Dolly on the couch as god intended.
Isaac Mizrahi understands my summer blues: