Life's A Beach: Baking, Bathing, Just Being. But Not in a Bikini

Not like this, I'm not. Now sod off. 

Just as the many articles have said, in contrast to those ridiculous adverts, we are actually all bikini and beach body ready all the time! All we women will get unattractive amounts of sand in every item of our clothing, and if we're really lucky we'll get exfoliated by the sand, by which I mean not the luscious smooth and bright skin promised by Just Seventeen or whatever the magazine I should be reading to ensure that I don't commit a total faux pas sur la plage, but the kind that leaves red welts on your shoulders where your swimsuit strap lines were rubbed too much. 

No one. Repeat no one. Uses sand like this. 

Oh, and this photo's credit goes to the Daily Mail.

Of course it does.

Perhaps this is one of the many reasons why I will not be going to a beach this year. Even though I don't want to feel embarrassed by my body, I detest the fact that I am not in control of it, because of the medication and the mashed up muscles or whatever the rest of me is doing.

#EveryBodysReady

Not at all. I like being in control. Other reasons: I have skin as white as snow, and although I wouldn't say I looked like a fairy tale princess, let's just say there are good reasons why we meet Snow White in a forest and not sipping one of those umbrella drinks on a lilo in a pool she's just scrubbed clean.

Sing it Snow.

 I also have a husband who is averse to all things 'beach'. He can't swim. Check. He hates hot weather. Double check. He has a phobia of crabs and lobsters. Check. Seriously. It is a thing. He did try to swim once, in a lake in the USA (no crustaceans in the lake, just, you know, leeches. He tried to get on a lilo. "It was like trying to shag a mermaid."

And this woman looks photoshopped onto her lilo.

So clearly no one gets on one of those things without serious effort.

WARNING TO MY HUSBAND - LOBSTER ALERT

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This is the most inappropriate lilo for our household. Ever.

Therefore, instead of an island in the sea, this weekend we will be heading off to the Emerald Isle for a little walk in the irish hills (as long as my feet hold out). The Emerald Isle is where I really come from, not just because of my married name, but because of my true colours, white skin, blue eyes, dark brown hair. It's really a much more suitable place for me to go than golden sands. I'm kind of hoping it will rain to be honest. When it rains, as Lucy once said in Marian Keyes' book "Lucy Sullivan is Getting Married", "my insides match my outsides". Can't keep an emerald isle emerald without enough water to keep things lush. 

My kind of destination holiday

When I had my accident last year I lost weight initially through eating a very simple diet of normal breakfast followed by a sandwich for lunch and another for dinner. And between I slept. I wasn't going out for the delicious dinners and wine I loved (still love), but snoozing through morphine-induced stupor and eventually on preparation to leave hospital and then at home, just a massive number of over the counter pain killers instead. I was the most attractive I had ever been, if you like drooling  Like clockwork. Just enough to keep me asleep when I slept, until my next dose that is; just enough food to help get hem down and give me some enjoyment while I was literally flat out recovering.

When I'm comparing myself to Homer Simpson, I know things are bad

Unfortunately, the one side effect I was okay with (and it was short term) was never going to last. I had a good metabolism because I was always running and then walking everywhere I could to top up my exercise, so then I put on weight and couldn't swim because of the mess of my arm, or run (in fact not could I walk) because of the tendonitis my leg and arm, so as my metabolism slowed to a crawl, my actual activity didn't even make it to that. Bed. Log roll out of bed. Shuffle to kitchen. Open fridge. Take out M&S sandwich. (Would I, in fact, be alive at all if it were not for those national treasures of two slices of bread plus filling? I really wonder!) slide into sofa. Ouch. Eat on sofa. Get up. Ouch. Back to bed. Ouch again. Snooze. Unconscious drool. Euch. 

Worshiping at the Altar of M&S

It's all so incredibly shallow isn't it? This all sounds a bit like I'm sorry for myself and I suppose I am, really, because as I write this in sitting with my right ankle resting uncomfortably in icy water to try to reduce the swelling on the underside of my heel which has inexplicably flared up. I was still depressed two weeks ago, sure, but I felt like my body was finally getting back to normal. Running = more eating. Walking up escalators = my skinny jeans still fit. Walking at all = all over fitness regime those lucky enough to be able to walk have. So it was quite frankly frustrating in the extreme to be sitting here in this position, after thinking it was all going to be fine. 

Yep

I hope we get to walk because the fresh air and walks help to clear my mind. Dwelling on anything does not make for a healthy perspective; this is why mental health is a challenge when anyone chooses to open up about it. With a (complication-free) broken leg (that tried and true example of what we mentally ill people don't find parity of experience with when we converse about our illnesses) it's a short conversation. It's:
"Oh, poor you, your leg is broken. How long will the cast be on?" 
"Six weeks."
"Bummer."
"Yeah."
"Does it hurt?"
"Yes."

With mental illness we could carry on talking about it all day. I don't understand my own mental health. Every day is different. Every day is annoying and unpredictable, and that's why it's hard to talk about even in our inner circle of support group or fellow depressives. It's certainly not interesting everyday for me, that's for sure. It's just what it is. A mess.

When you break eggs with a big stick, you get:

cake mix.

So when in a mess, what to do? Mope? Nope. I am too good at moping. So this time I will win the to mope or not to mope fight with myself. I'll make a cake instead. A cake, like colouring, can be simple, distracting, productive and, unlike colouring (depending on how tasty you find crayons), delicious. All hail to Nigella, who taught me to try to bake again when I couldn't do anything in 2001. I am grateful for her continued, distant support through the cakes and bakes and butterfly buns she has designed for us all. Today I was productive at work, and I made a cake. 

Method and Mix

Method

Mix

Tin

Bake

I doubt I'll lose any weight through eating the cake. Little enough through making it. But really, what does it matter. I'm not bikini ready like Cara Delavigne. Then again, she wasn't quite deportment (or decorum)-ready on Good Morning Sacramento. I'm not bikini ready as myself either. I don't need to be. I'm not even ready for anything much. But I'm here. I'm still here. This is life. Life isn't always a bitch, or a beach. Sometimes it's a bake.

Party in the city where the heat is on

Welcome to Miami

Miami Beach and English roses shouldn't mix, perhaps. But since they invented factor 30 to, well, 80, I felt encouraged to brave the heat for the pool, the beach, the beats and the cabanas.

 Pool Party

 The beach along the east side of Miami Beach is breathtaking. Turquoise waves crash to shore (it's windy here, so better for water sports than west Florida). It's not hard to imagine why New Jersey father and son Henry and Charles Lum were so captivated that they decided to buy much of the island, back in 1870. Yes, I confess, if I had a few quid to spare; if I had won the Power Ball last night...(unlikely since I didn't buy a ticket) I would definitely be thinking of a small pied à plage here.

Hideaways at the W South Beach

 If Gatsby circa 2013 took a trip to Miami Beach, I think he might have taken a suite (or four) at the W South Beach hotel, my Saturday night residence. He could probably still have shown them a thing or two, but this hotel is all about decadence - an adult playground par excellence. Lounge by the pool while the resident DJ plays a series of chilled out (but on the verge of partying) tracks. Dip in the pool or dip your tortilla chips into freshly made guacamole. Sun yourself on one of the loungers or sip more cocktails. (Incidentally, there was a disappointing lack of umbrellas in drinks here, but no doubt the Carlyle can supply those for the camper contingent.)

Miami by Night

Never one to shy away from the local attractions, it was great to try out the resident Bliss Spa for a 75 minute massage. Definitely worth the five days of running that I got in last week! The spa was an interesting experience from the inside of the hotel - a separate elevator takes you to check in (you take the hotel elevator to the fourth floor, then walk to the Bliss elevator...down again to two...then back up (in a different elevator again) to the massage room. Labyrinthine relaxation? So it would seem.

Miami Beach Waking Up

Post massage, I took to the private area of the beach to lounge by the waves. Of course, there's no accounting for your neighbours. A stag party (bachelor party, whatever) on my left, already in the annoying "Dude"--"No, Dude!" phase of the day with their Coors light and tasteless Bermudas. And on my right high powered ladies drinking prosecco and bitching about the CFO. (Lose the prosecco and that could have been just another work chat...)

Sand Bar...Beach Bar

Fortunately or not, these conversations were cut short by the arrival of darkening clouds and thunder, so I headed back to my suite to enjoy views of the lightning and listen to the rain from a dry haven. They certainly know how to organise their rooms at the Ws I've stayed at (Chicago and South Beach so far). Admittedly I had an upgrade this time (I used my hotel points...a lot of them...for this stay) and therefore was greeted by a suite of rooms twice the size of my apartment in New York, and I think, also, bigger than my place in England.

Kitchen to Balcony. Just one of the rooms with a view

The suite has its own amusements. Two toilets, TV & DVD room, that's in addition to the TV in the main lounge and the one in the bedroom; complicated lighting structures; lots of (super expensive) hotel booze and snacks lying around. And two balconies. Thank you, I'll take that.

Sunday morning check out is regimented here at 11am - which didn't quite allow for the lie in merited by the comfy bed listening to the waves. They've thought of that, though, so a hospitality suite is available for the beach-hungry, even after check out. And I took advantage of the complimentary car service to explore other parts of Miami beach with the lovely Pedro. Including the beautiful house outside which Gianni Versace was shot. Colourful, Miami? Indeed. 

Versace's Last Stand - beautiful house

This blog has turned out to be a review of the W South Beach mainly, and that's because there are so many different aspects to talk about. As someone who definitely does not relax well, a place with pretty much everything here is wonderful. I can find seating under the trees for quiet, lounges / day beds by the pool for chilled out music listening and people watching, loungers by the sea for tanning (other people's) and sea sports, and several bars and restaurants. And of course, my own sweet suite. Let's come back here, friends!