It's about life - not "lifestyle"
|losing it big time|
|Oh, mama, can this really be the end? Am I stuck without my HURLEY'S with this heat wave sucking my brains?
maybe it was the pain medication, or the giant flesh stinking hamburger dripping grease all down my fingers, or maybe the businesswomen endlessly answering their cell phones all during lunch- sometimes it made the restaraunt sound like a drunken Mexican fiesta. I bet their cleaning people and nannies love hearing the bossphone blaring "La Cucaracha". Makes you want to pull a gun and force them all to dance, or something. probably should have stayed home and taken a nap with the dog.
anyway, I was already on edge when I stopped by the surf shop. All I wanted to do was look at the boards they had in their racks. I don't buy new boards every six months. Never did. This makes the Powers That Be Nervous, you know. Gotta keep that money flowing, right? flowing from you to them. Going Pro means getting paid to surf, and if you want to support the sport you gotta pay.
So I go in the surf shop and everything is cool. Go to the back where the boards and wetsuits are, unfortunately near the floor-to-ceiling windows. hot as a blast furnace back there, but that's ok, since most of the customers are in the clothing and snowboard and skateboard sections.
Face it - most surf shops devote less than 25% of their shop space to actual surfing equipment.
That isn't even a bad thing, but all you really need to ride waves is a board, wetsuit in cool or cold, bodyboard, a pair of swimfins. Surf trunks are great if you can trunk it. Everything else is pretty much an accessory, either for the sport or for the lifestyle.
digression there. sorry. blame it on the pain medication. I think I pulled a groin muscle. might have been while watching the ladies figure skating during the Olympics ;-). So I'm looking at the boards in the hot as hell back of the surf shop and I literally start to sweat. almost a pre-puke sweat kind of thing. there is no air flow in the shop, probably to keep all the teenage girls who work there warm while they flap their belly button rings in the breeze. I'm too old - they don't even notice me. my clothes aren't hip enough or something. I have a two year old car - everybody at their high school has newer and bigger wheels. and now I'm sweating like a pig, starting to soak my arm pits, feeling a little faint.
I decide to head immediately head for the door, but every narrow aisle seems blocked by cases of surfwear. the spring or summer lines must be shipping. Every aisle I try I see color clashes from knee length board shorts, several half-yellow Asian style cardboard boxes with bright yellow plastic straps. I run into blonde teen girls with Roxy shorts hugging their asses, tight tank tops, and box cutters in hand. Every third world terrorist must have either dreams or nightmares about sights like this. My mouth is alternately dry or flowing, and I feel like something is crawling up my throat like that tequila worm in one of the Poltergeist movies.
"Dude, what are you on!", one of the boppers says with disgust. I'm searching for a clear path to the door. I hear the manager ask "Nichole" if everythin is allright. I don't give a damn about surfboards. She says "This old guy is trippin" and the manager threatens to show me the door. Please God let him show me how to get there! I'm about ready to blow chunks when I stumble past a rack of Hurley clothing, and I lost it completely!
"You rotten bastards! Sellouts! What are you doing with freakin' Nike sportswear in a surf shop? You aren't core! What's next? Donna Karan split crotch panties for surfer girls?"
That seemed to do the trick. The manager grabbed me by the collar and belt and pushed me into the doors and onto the street. I couldn't get my breath, I was laughing like a madman, spasms of silent laughter. Tears were rolling down my face, sweat down my back and forehead. Just another surfer getting ready for summer.
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