Editor’s Note – this was written on the plane ride home, but I am just now getting around to posting it.
Wow. I’m lame. I told you about the first day of travel and then I just left you. In Fayetteville, N.C. of all places. Terribly sorry about that.
When we got to Myrtle Beach things got really hot.
But not in a Paris Hilton kind of way.
Myrtle Beach was on fire.
By Saturday evening, I too was on fire. Well, that’s exaggerating. But I felt like I was.
Yes, I wore sunscreen. But apparently I missed some places. Lots of places. Or, my skin was just trying to tell me that a red head with freckles has no business out in the sun for seven hours drinking margaritas with new friends.
There I was, slathering on the SPF like it was going out of style. And I was telling all the normal skinned people how much they were going to regret it that they weren’t being as diligent as I was about the sunscreen.
They were going to regret it all right.
They really regretted my sunburn when fun, loveable beach Stephanie turned into cranky, sunburned Stephanie. I was a Stephanini.
