By Alex Berger
When you go to the beach and see someone who measures 42-26-36 in a mini-bikini suit, just remember what is really important is the intellectual capacity and emotional maturity of the person underneath. Let me tell you something else Gloria said.
One morning, Gloria looked at me and couldn’t recognize the nerd staring back at her. She knew then and there that it was time for her to get me out of town and head directly for the Caribbean and “scenic, sensual, serene and sunny Aruba” for some rest and relaxation.
I know, loyal readers, that it is an extreme hardship on you for me to be so far away for two weeks, but if I didn’t go, Gloria would have shot me and then you would never have the opportunity to read me ever again — never, never, never. So, in your best interest, off the two of us went.
I hate flying because of the continuing bad luck I have had with passengers who sit within two feet of me. The people across from me are “sometimes” nuisances, the folks in front of, or directly behind me are “usual” annoyances (crying children), but the kvetches sitting directly adjacent to me (snoring insurance salesmen) are the “most” obnoxious. This time I hoped the flight would be different.
We passed through the security check and I tentatively took my seat with Gloria at the window, then I held my breath as I watched to see who would fill the “next-to-me” seat. I eyed a mother with twin infants tucked under her arms. She passed me by. I exhaled!
A 4-year-old tyke, shooting his water pistol all the way up the aisle, flew by. Whew! And a hippie-type, with rings dangling from every part of his body sneered at me, but he also trotted by. All close calls. Who will my neighbor be?
Then a pretty girl in a mini-skirt sashayed up the aisle in my direction. She smiled and sat right next to me. Thank you, God, I whispered under my breath. But my euphoric feeling quickly evaporated. The flight attendant informed her that she was in the wrong seat, and off she went into the wild blue yonder. A 30-something gentleman, his face wrapped in bandages, then checked his seat number and promptly slithered into that seat.
I looked at him, he looked at me and we stared at each other, without uttering a sound, for what seemed like an eternity. I knew sooner or later that I had to start the conversation, so I asked him innocently, “What in hell happened to your face?”
“Well, you see,” he answered through broken teeth, “yesterday I left a message on this guy’s answering machine. I called him a bum, a phony and a punk, and I ended it with, ‘Guess who?’ And, he guessed who.”
I was very happy when we finally arrived in Aruba.
It was a warm, tropical day, so I rushed into my room, slipped into my swimsuit and headed for the beach. Joe and Mary Falgione of Flushing shouted, “Berger’s Burg,” and immediately approached. They said they never miss my column. I love them.
Joe then asked me how the water was. “Lukewarm,” I told him. He ran in and nearly froze to death.
“Why did you tell me it was lukewarm?” he asked.
“Well,” I answered, “it’s lukewarm to me.” I think Joe will be one former reader of mine. I continued my walk on the beach.
My, oh, my, you should see all those sculptured beach guys. They have muscles in places I don’t even have places. Gloria told me to flex my muscles and hold my stomach in. I did and turned blue. I looked so bad that three swimmers asked me to go into the water to scare the sharks away.
As for the women, I know there may not be anything new under the sun, but there is a lot more of it showing. Some of those brief bikinis I saw looked like they were spun by one silkworm on a coffee break. And there were so many girls wearing those bikinis that Aruba can now boast having more sun-kissed navels than Florida. One morning, I actually could not see the bikini worn by a girl; her earrings covered it up. From that day forward, Gloria kept me in the kiddie pool area.
On Sept. 1, our wedding anniversary, we ran into Bill and Chris Corr of Whitestone, who also are avid readers of my column. It is always fun to meet my readers in far-away places. I asked them both not to ask me how the water was.
I brought Gloria into town to pick out a nice anniversary gift for herself. I told her that I did not want anything for myself. I certainly am quite the perfect husband, aren’t I?
The following day, our last, we went down to the beach to trod on the white sand and swim for the last time. It wasn’t long before Gloria, with her excellent eyesight, saw a girl a good distance away, wearing a yellow bathing suit with no top on. I looked hard but saw only a yellow dot. “Three other topless girls have joined her,” Gloria exclaimed. I still couldn’t see that far.
“I notice that they are at the same spot every day,” Gloria said.
“So near, yet so far away,” I muttered. Then Gloria mentioned that she had forgotten something in the room and would be back in a few minutes. I was now Gloria-free.
I seized the moment by casually walking toward the yellow dot and sure enough, there were four topless Dutch girls in the water. I introduced myself to the sociable young ladies and the five of us began an intellectual discussion on “the effects of selling short in a plunging stock market.” They all were very well informed on the subject and I learned a lot from them. After a few minutes however, I realized that I had to rejoin Gloria, and left.
When Gloria returned, she smiled and had a twinkle in her eye. She leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. I have a hunch that her abrupt absence was planned as an anniversary gift for me. She had a regular gift waiting at the airport when we departed. I will never know.
Our August vacation disappeared all too quickly and was turning into a memory. The nice thing about it is that it will fill up the rest of the year. We get our photos back in September, our bills back in October, our health back in November and our luggage back in December. Next year, we intend to vacation for three weeks. We have to give our postcards time to reach home before we do.
This vacation was certainly a happy one. I brought back a bee-yoo-ti-ful tan, a glowing smile, a king-size hole in my wallet and a very, very considerate wife.
Reach columnist Alex Berger by e-mail at timesledger@aol.com or call 229-0300, Ext. 143
