I was sitting on the beach with my parents, watching my kids swimming and playing; remembering when I was the child and they had to watch me, when three girls sashayed down the sand wearing shorter than short Daisy Dukes and skimpy bikini tops, not a breath over eighteen.
They dipped pink coloured toenails into the waves and squealed as young girls do. Deciding against a swim, they were sashaying back up the beach when one suddenly stopped and released a hysterical, high-pitched shriek of alarm.
Staring with pained expression at the top of her thigh, she studied her leg carefully before emitting a slow sigh of relief.
‘Oh my God, for a moment I thought I had a stretch mark,’ she gasped then laughed breezily.
Satisfied it was merely shadow, she continued to swing her pert, perfect little buttocks back up the sand.
I turned to my parents seated in chairs behind me and shrieked, ‘Oh my God, for a moment I thought I was a buxom, middle-aged married woman with kids on the downhill run to forty…..
…..Oh wait….. Damn!’