There my wife and I were, watching the sun slowly sink behind the trees while standing in Lost Lake. My stones skipping mere millimeters away from the mountain chilled water and instead choosing the arid sanctuary of my brand new electric blue swimming trunks. Tadpoles danced around our legs. Kids frolicked and dared one another to do cannonballs off the dock. Good looking people were sure to do yoga and try to walk across a multipurpose tight rope and dolly strap. Everything was right with the world except for one thing.
We had taken the extended and mostly uphill way to Lost Lake. It was hot. As my hands slowly slid down to the hem of my navy blue American Apparel 50/50, some tanned bro, sans shirt, would come wizzing by us and I would lose all enthusiasm to pull that shirt over my head.
Due to duress or perhaps the toxic sea urchin I was standing on, I had a vision. Albeit, not a very attractive one. Fat Beach or for you Vancouver folk, Train Wreck Beach. Regardless of the name, it will be a sandy solace segregating socially scorned souls from the young good looking people. A place where all the pudgy, hairy, pale, scrawny people of the world can go. A place where the taut, waxed, tanned, muscled people cannot.
A place where lanky wooden fences covered in climb deterring splinters separate us from those good lookin’ bastards. George Castanza like lifeguards will shoo away any Brangelinas and ensure that none of us get cramps after eating at the pizza buffet. Instead of weights, we will have video games. In addition to showers, there will be a slime pit that goops the occupier with SPF 30+ sunscreen. Can you imagine? No taut bodies running to and fro, just the out of shape milling about. No tan people getting even more tan, just the human salamanders lying there while burning alive. That isn’t yoga, that person is trying to stand up or maybe sit down – honestly it is a little difficult to tell if they are coming or going. Regardless, they are accepted and loved at Fat Beach, just like the red heads.