I'm just back from a quick jaunt to Florida, still marveling at how instantly restorative a good, solid beach day is. Blue skies, light breeze, a good book... if you want to throw in a rum drink, I won't argue with you. It is my personal definition of happiness.
The hubs is openly puzzeled by both my professed 'need' for frequent beach trips (I believe the word he used to describe them was "excessive") and my ability to spend an entire day motionless, in a lounge chair, once I've finagled my way into one. I have no reasonable defense. None whatsoever. But I shan't apologize.
With my foot in a clunky orthopedic boot (and beach walking out of the question), I literally did not move from my lounge chair this weekend. But don't feel too sorry for me. I did manage to get sucked into a pretty decent book ("Gone Girl" - and don't tell me the ending, as I'm not finished yet!), sip my share of rum punches, and get a cool hexagonal-shaped sunburn on my neck.
Overall, it was just a smidge better than riding out the still-cold-and-rainy weather (c'mon spring - get it together!) back in NYC.