I’m back! And tan!

And oh how being tan makes me a much happier person. That and the sweltering heat seems to have dissipated a bit here in Paris, leaving nothing but blue skies and more urban tanning opportunities. (For those of you worried about the health of my skin, fear not: I always apply at least SPF 50 to my face and leave the rest to bronze naturally. It makes for quite a unique look – just ask my friends who are usually embarrassed to walk around with me in the summer!)

We had an awesome trip down to the Cote D’Azur, complete with sun, sand rocks and crystal clear ocean. Yeah, about those “beaches” down there. Don’t get me wrong. They are stunningly beautiful.

But my definition of beach includes soft sand in which to bury your toes and scoop out a (big) divot for your butt to facilitate more comfortable lounging. Not sun-roasted stones that singe your feet and bruise your thighs when you turn over.

Every trip to the water was an animated hopscotch from shady rock to corner of towel, ending with a sad crawl to the water to avoid the shin-assaulting pebbles that rolled in with every wave. But all of this was totally forgotten since I got to lay on a towel next to this guy:

Being surrounded by naked, saggy french boobs, Husband felt totally justified rocking his hoo-ha mold. In public. Purely for entertainment value and blog material. God I love that man.

And really his little shorty shorts were not even a blip on the nudity radar. Yes, there were nipples aplenty, many that were not meant to be shared with mankind. But I also saw a man’s bare bum. And another guy’s hoo-ha. Just lounging out there, gettin’ some sun. Free as a bird. A shriveled little bird. A shriveled little bird that made me wonder, “Does he put SPF 5o on that thing?”