I was rather surprised–shocked, really–to discover that it’s been nearly six weeks since my last post. I had purposely taken a break from writing to tackle the ever-increasing stack of books that have been collecting on various shelves and tabletops around here since before the holidays (I hate how unread books have a tendency to induce guilt, don’t you?), but I had no idea it’d been six weeks. Groan.
I did read some great books, though. Grin. More on that in a future post.
In my defense–if a defense is even necessary–I was also on vacation one of those six weeks, reading feverishly, holding down a lounge chair on the beach (it’s a tough job, but I assure you I was up to the task), and sipping fruity rum libations…which brings be to the topic of today’s post…rum withdrawal.
I’m not a big drinker. Not at all. One glass of wine typically numbs my face and makes me giggle, but there’s something about lazing around in the Mexican sunshine that requires rum. Not piddly amounts of rum–nor, of course, quantities that result in bouts of wild, drunken buffoonery–but rum in a slow, steady stream of red and orange and yellow concoctions (so many choices); rum in quantities that makes the rest of the world dissolve like the crushed ice in my glass. Ahhhhh…
At some point over the years, the smells of salty, sea air and sunscreen have become enmeshed with the taste of rum in my mind. As far as I’m concerned, if you have one of the three, you’re all but required to have the other two. If you can manage to bring it all together on a gorgeous beach in sunny Mexico…JACKPOT!
Beach chair with a bit of shade and a clear view of the sand and the surf? Check.
A fluffy beach towel? Check.
A steamy bodice ripper to read between naps? Check.
Singles to tip the cabana servers who so cheerfully keep the fruity drinks coming with a mere nod or wave of the hand? Check.
Yep, I’m definitely having a serious case of rum withdrawal. I defy you to blame me.