Summer vacation is nearly upon us, moms, and I come to you with a worthy suggestion for where to throw a little cold hard cash before you trek toward the equator.
For I don’t know that I can put into words how much this pictured beach accessory screams, “I’m old as shit, have at least two kids in tow, and I don’t GAF.”
And god knows I’d be fine yelling that to anyone in my way as I lead my mess of a squad toward the sweltering water’s edge.
This is because despite the harsh realization that beach time with multiple little people is about as tiring as running a half-marathon, running my fingers delicately over the features of this prized contraption brings about intense feelings of joy from deep within my pasty, weary, mombie soul.
Because this, my friends, is a beach cart.
And it makes things just “enough” better that you might not choke out the the first person who pisses you off with your child’s kite string.
Built-in, detachable cooler, side umbrella holder, countless hidden pockets and compartments, and wheels that look like they could trek over large dead sea animals, and no doubt, corner like they’re on rails.
Even though we happen to have a condo right on the beach, is there still anything worse than lugging all that it takes to appease a family of four for a few hours at the ocean down an elevator, through a lobby, across a pool deck, down a set of steps, and across 30 or so yards of hot sand? All while managing not to lose two small children to things like drowning, heatstroke, and ingesting dirty cigarette butts they find along the way?
Well, of course there are worse things you whiny, privileged asshole.
But in that moment, they escape my mind also.
I feel like it’s only missing a really loud, blaring horn to sound as I begin to plow through the sandless towels of 20-somethings, sipping their SmartWater, and draining their iPhone batteries with pictures of their perfectly pedicured toes in the sand.
After blaring the horn, I’d like to bend down and creepily whisper in their ears, “Enjoy it now, ladies.”
Cause in 10 years, this is you.
You’ll be sporting the pillow-soft “Mom” Under Armour knock-off flip-flops from Target, wearing SPF 100, and secretly hoping the Mickey Mouse potty teetering at the top of your Tommy Bahama beach cart falls off and knocks someone just like you unconscious out of simple, bitter jealousy.
But do me a solid and turn up that new Justin Timberlake song so I can hear it.
Due to the fact that my crappy Android phone has 6,456 pictures of my kids on it, and 32 annoying apps to keep them quiet in restaurants, I haven’t been able to download any new music in five years, and I need something to wiggle my cellulite to.
As a thank you, I’ll spot you a drink and snack in in a bit.
You’ll find me over yonder, parked in the shade, under an umbrella that resembles a small camper.
I’ll be the one wiping butts, bagging poop, and tightening Puddle Jumpers.
We’ve got all the Kool-Aid Jammers, Lunchables, and Michelob Ultras you should need.
Soak it in ladies.
The end is near, and it culminates with unbridled excitement over things like beach carts.