Sandy Pants

Every summer my company has their version of an employee picnic — only our’s is on a big boat, and instead of hot dogs and beanbag tosses, they sail us across the bay and let us eat as many crabs as we can handle.  They also let us drink as much as we want.

It is obviously the best work-day of the year.

Unless you’re not drinking (because you’re back on the South Beach Diet, desperately trying to lose as much weight as possible before you get pregnant and gain it all back) and you’re about to get laid off.  Since I fall squarely into both categories, our trip out this past week wasn’t quite the same.

Also, I fell out of a hammock.

As the official event-planner for my company, I’m always in charge of bringing breakfast for the boat trip, which means I’m almost always the first to arrive. Fine, no big deal.  But since I’m usually early, my arrival also coincides with the last-minute cleaning of the boat — which my boss likes to do without a shirt on.

After three summers of trips — I’ve come to expect it.  But nothing prepares you for seeing your boss’ nipples.  Nothing.

Except maybe, alcohol.  That used to help — but was not an option this year. Thankfully my work-boyfriend got there even earlier than I did, and we busied ourselves with any other thing we could think of to avoid accidentally seeing Nipples McGee outside, hosing something off.

I also got sunburned, even though I had lotion on.  I feel like that always happens to me on boat though, usually because we’re moving so fast, I don’t realize how hot my skin is getting, and I just sit there in the breeze, like a pale idiot.

My co-workers repeatedly offered to mix me drinks, or get me a beer while they were getting a fresh one — so I had to endure a lot of those why-aren’t-you-drinking looks/questions every time I said no.  And the only thing more awkward than reminding them that, “No, I’m not pregnant,” is “No, I’m not pregnant — just on a diet.”

But most of my work-friends know the deal, and I hung out with them most of the day anyway, so despite the fact that I was sober, and knew this would be my last trip with them — I had a good time.

After lunch, before we sailed back to our cars — we found a little beach with a tiki bar and a row of hammocks and swings.

All the swings were taken, so I considered getting in a hammock.

Then I made a joke about how it is impossible to look sexy and get in/out of a hammock.

Then I seriously attempted to get in a hammock.

Which promptly flipped all the way over, depositing my hot, sweaty, back into the burning hot sand.

I was literally covered in sand.  It was in my hair, all over my back and my shoulders, and all over my legs, once I got up. And I was hot, and covered in lotion, so it was stuck to me permanently.  It was awful.

It was also hilarious. Believe me, I laugh at anyone who falls down, so I know how funny it was.

It was sooo funny, that no one helped me up, until someone could take a picture.

And yes, I needed help — somehow my shoes got tangled in the hammock, also I was laughing so hard that I couldn’t really move.

Thankfully, since I’ll only be here a few more weeks, I won’t have to hear about it for much longer.


7 thoughts on “Sandy Pants

  1. I know you well enough to know that you were secretly PISSED that you fell into sand. You may have looked like a good sport but I know better.

    Can you PLEASE blog the falling into the bank story. Pretty please.

    • … I was pissed. Not about falling — Megan, seriously, the falling was hilarious. It happened in slow motion. I felt like I was falling for so long, I honestly thought I’d make the full rotation, and end up where I started — and then I hit the ground. But I was pissed when people who didn’t see it happen kept trying to laugh about it.

      • Luckily for us someone got their camera out quickly. I would have died being covered in sand. I already can’t stand sand.

        cough Bank Story cough cough

  2. My hammock isn’t dangerous. But then again, there’s a lot more to it than the skimpy one you tried to get into. Maybe the worst part of the fall is that you can’t even blame it on the alcohol. Did you at least eat your share of crabs?

  3. Pingback: Recipes, Ryan Reynolds, and Randomness | Spite or Flight

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