RACHEL'S COLUMNS

These articles appeared in Rachel's column every Friday in the A3 section of The Age

Like a drunk woman walking
2nd January 2004

I'm coming out of the surf; my ears are full of water and my brow feels heavy as though a rare species of sea anemone has attached itself to my head.  I'm wading through sand and water as if I've got bricks on my feet, I feel like a huge fur-covered hulk that hasn't stopped eating from Christmas day until yesterday.  For the past two weeks I've been possessed by a twin who looks like me and walks like me, but drinks more alcohol than my capillaries can handle.  My head and heart are pounding simultaneously and it's not helping that the sand is sizzling and the flies seem to be hovering only around my bloated body.

I'm squinting towards my car, parked light years away in the carpark across the searing sand.  I don't want to step off my towel again in bare feet, but I hate the idea of putting wet feet into my shoes.  I forgot to bring my thongs; I left home wearing bikinis, a sarong, a hat and my runners.  I'm facing one of the most hideous dilemmas of summer, apart from the circumcised bloke wearing white speedos, without lining, who's jogging straight towards me.  Will I run like a drunken chook across the sand or will I attempt to get my runners on without filling them full of gritty sand?  I think of Anthony Robbins, "awaken the giant within," and dream of a better life for 2004.  I commit to the challenge of getting my runners on!

I tie the laces together and sling them around my neck, the smell gets rid of the flies, that's already a positive.  I walk back into the water and step in just deep enough to get my feet clean, but not where the surf is strong enough to knock me over and soak my runners.  I can feel people's eyes on me as I bend over, chuckling at my attempt at high performance technology.  I steady myself on one foot preparing to jiggle the other foot in the surf, when the wind shifts my hat down over my eyes.  I shriek and stumble like a Drag Queen in stilettos, but manage to keep my balance – only to turn my head too quickly and thump my face against the left runner!

One foot is clean.  I lift it up, swing it about to dry for a minute, untie one runner, secure the other in my armpit and in a swift Can-Can kick, I bend over and slip the shoe onto the dry foot while hopping on the other leg.  Mission accomplished – well almost! I've got the left shoe on my right foot, bugger!  The leg that's up in the air is getting tired and the other one is starting to cramp, I switch to plan B.  I grip the right shoe between my teeth, crouch down slowly on one leg until it's safe to fall down onto my bum without cracking my kerfoofle bone.  With the shoe in my mouth and the hat still covering my eyes, I allow myself some time to think things out.

Using my elbow, one leg in the air and one bum cheek dug in the sand, I drag myself towards the shore.  Without warning a breeze removes my hat and I watch it float towards Tasmania.  Oblivious to the size of the crowd now gathered at the water's edge, I shove one hand between my thighs and remove the two kilos of sand stuck in the elastic of my bikinis.

The crowd cheers and the showgirl in me takes over, I swivel around to face my audience, both legs stretched out in front at a 45 degree angle, Fifties calendar-girl style.  Rocking back and forth like a pendulum until I get enough momentum to thrust my bum up and my body forward onto dry sand, I land successfully on my right leg, which is still shoved into my left shoe!  I stand triumphant like Cathy Freeman, both arms in the air.  The crowd roars and the blood drains out of my body as I realise that my bikini bottoms have slipped down to my knees.