Letter of the Week: Surfing Ruined My Life
“Surfing Ruined My Life.” That bumper sticker stopped in front of me at a red light. I think it meant surfing the activity, not the magazine, because you don’t ruin lives. You ruin study habits.
But surfing does ruin lives. My friend and I had a conversation about this the other day. If surfing were a girlfriend, it would be the worst nightmare succubus wench outside Fashion Island — the type born platinum blond straight onto a Stairmaster, hot and shallow as a frying pan. She’d wear faux-felt Juicy tracksuits and walk her tiny rodent canine to Starbucks at 10:00 a.m. on weekdays, when decent people are working.
She would sap our ambition and convince us to settle for flexible jobs, draw down our bank balance in outsize rent checks so we could live steps from the beach, shut us off from friends and family who’d quietly wish her next facelift would turn fatal, that needy, scheming, gold-digging bitch.
What are we giving up right now to be with surfing? It’s best not to think about it.