Puerto Rico, you lovely island.

It was lovely, of course.

Lovely...

Lovely...

LOVELY.

But apart from the loveliness, the tropical drinks, and the crystal clear waters, beach vacations always serve another purpose for me — one that exists completely independently of having some good old-fashioned Fun In The Sun.

Namely, bikini pictures.

That’s right. Beach vacations mean the opportunity, nay, the imperative, to take bikini pictures. Really, it’s a requirement; if I am wearing a bathing suit, I cannot rest until someone has captured me on film.

It’s not that I look all that great in a bikini. (Seriously, this, which caused such an uproar ‘round the internet a few months ago, is a pretty close approximation – minus the awesome ta-tas, which I totally missed out on.) But no matter how fervently I wish my body would just improve, already, the fact remains that this – big hips, ass dimples, cheese thighs and all – is, in all probability, the best that it’s gonna get.

And it aint gettin’ any fresher, either.

So documentation is necessary. Then one day, when all my parts are in various states of decay and descending slowly floor-ward, I can whip out one of these photographs and point to it, saying, “Look, kids! Weren’t mommy’s tits perky?" (Ah, there -- you see? This isn’t about me at all! I’m doing it for the children.)

Thus whenever I find myself bikini-clad and in the same general vicinity as a camera, I get a little bit agitated. Which is to say that I act like a fucking lunatic – sauntering around in a vaguely action-shot-cum-In-Touch-magazine kind of way, and then punctuating the sauntering with sudden abrupt stops during which I pose awkwardly and/or flip my hair around, all while shrieking, “Take my picture!” at a volume that causes seagulls to startle and take flight.

In the past, of course, I usually avoided doing this to anyone but my closest girlfriends – the ones who I know will love me no matter how neurotic I am. But in Puerto Rico, with Brad and the digital camera close at hand, I decided that it was time to let it all hang out.

“I’m going to frolic on the beach!” I shouted, leaping out of my chair and running headlong toward the ocean. “You have to take my picture whilst I frolic!”

“Uh… okay,” said Brad, gamely aiming the camera at me as I skipped up and down by the water. I ran around for awhile, twirling this way and that – if you’re going to do this, you have to make sure to get all the angles – and then sauntered back up to where he was sitting.

“That’s it?” he asked, looking amused.

“For now, I guess,” I said, settling into the chair next to him and brushing sand from my feet.

He patted my arm lovingly and said, “Alright, I’m going to get a beer,” as though it were totally natural to be beering up at 10:00am, and not at all that my weird bikini-pic fixation was driving him to drink. Because, readers, he is so very understanding.

Which is a good thing, because – although he did try, he really did – Brad is not much of a photographer.

And whereas I had, in my mind’s eye, been anticipating a photo set that was practically indistinguishable from this lovely shot of Brigitte Bardot frolicking on the beach in Cannes, in reality I found myself stampeding onto our hotel room’s deck with camera in hand, waving it about like a weapon and shouting, “IS THIS WHAT MY THIGH REALLY LOOKS LIKE?! IS IT?!!!”

* * *

And thus a valuable lesson was learned about the many negative points of being a narcissistic asshole. I think I’ll give the bikini picture thing a rest for the foreseeable future.

* * *

Okay, but guys, seriously? This is a photograph of me, frolicking.

And I'm sorry, but this cannot be my thigh.

Lance Armstrong, wherever you are, please come get your thigh back – I have somehow stolen it. Thank you.