Did I ever tell you the one about the topless beach?
The other night, Cousin W was asking us if we knew of any fab topless beaches. Unfortunately, I do.
So, a couple years after we were married, Sam had business in the Canary Islands. Being the thoughtful wife that I am, I insisted on accompanying him on his dull business travels.
The Canary Islands are off the western coast of Africa. They are like Hawaii for the European crowd.
We had heard a little about the clothing-challenged European beaches, and we were prepared. (Not prepared, as in naked, by the way. Prepared, as in there was no way I was gonna allow Sam even one glimpse of the beautiful Euro-ladies). I told Sam he would have to close his eyes while I led him to our spot, and then he was only allowed to stare at the ocean.
But as we were wandering among the topless hordes, I soon realized these were not gorgeous European Ladies. It was more like all of our Grandma's got together, and decided to play some strip poker.
And then I noticed the men. They looked naked, but that was only because their giant bellies hung well past their speedos.
To tell the truth, I looked like a model compared to the ladies, and Sam looked like a freakin' greek god.
So after a few minutes of leading Sam, who was dutifully covering his eyes, I was all, "Open up and take a gander, Sammy. Look as long as you want, at whomever you want."
We strutted our stuff all week.
Then the weekend hit. And it was like something out of a summer barbecue at the playboy mansion, with Sam playing the Hef, and me resembling Hef's mother, and everyone else starring in their own version of MTV's Spring Break, Cabo Style.
Yes, the beautiful people come out on the weekends.
So I did what any normal wife would do.
I chucked a handful of sand into Sam's eyes. Yeah, he'll now associate topless women with searing eye-pain.