I first laid eyes on Dan one cold January afternoon.
He was stepping out of Lake Ontario, his purple board held under his arm. Lines of water sloshed across the sand as he trudged from the surf.
I’d never really looked at someone in a wetsuit before but I resented him for what he was wearing. The gear. The look. The booties. The suit. All of it?
Ugly.
I just hated how it looked.
Why?
I’m not sure, but this has always been the case.
I looked at Dan, all blissed out, like he didn’t have a care in the world.
At that moment, he likely didn’t and I resented him for that.
Fucker.
I had imagined that he was someone with a great job that was meaningful where he was paid fairly and had the flexibility to jet out and go surfing on a random Tuesday in January.
I imagined that he had a pretty wife and a stylish house and things instantly organized themselves for him and he ate gourmet food every night and nothing took any effort.
He looked like that’s what his life was like.
But most of all?
I resented the su…
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