Summary

The author recounts an amusing experience of inadvertently becoming a "beach stalker," observing and pondering over the repetitive selfie-taking antics of two beachgoers.

Abstract

While on vacation, the author becomes unexpectedly preoccupied with two individuals at the beach who are excessively taking selfies. Instead of enjoying the beach, the author gets caught up in analyzing the pair's behavior, their potential relationship, and even their physical fitness. The situation escalates into a comedic drama when one of the individuals, referred to as "Flounder," accidentally causes both of them to fall into the water while attempting to take more photos. The author, who refers to themselves as a "budinski" and the head of "Stalkers Anonymous," reflects on the absurdity of their own behavior, the joy of the selfie-takers' laughter after the mishap, and the realization that their fellow beachgoers were simply enjoying their time, unaware of the author's observations.

Opinions

The author initially views the selfie-taking beachgoers with bemusement and a hint of mockery, likening their actions to those of a cartoon character.
There is a sense of fascination mixed with judgment as the author becomes fixated on the pair's appearance and actions, making assumptions about their relationship and lifestyle.
The author acknowledges their own hypocrisy and nosiness, recognizing that they are not usually a stalker but became one in this particular instance.
Despite the humorous tone, there is an underlying appreciation for the carefree attitude of the selfie-takers, who seem unfazed by their accident and the potential loss of their phone.
The author expresses a degree of self-awareness, admitting their curiosity and the intrusive nature of their observations, while also respecting the privacy of the individuals involved.
The experience prompts the author to reflect on their own behavior and the broader human tendency to be intrigued by the lives of others.

STALKERS ANONYMOUS

The Day I Became a Beach Stalker

And when my victims exited, stage left, they had no idea I was snooping on them

I’m on vacation. Relaxing. No one can ever bother me when I get my beach on.

Except these two weirdos I ran into today. They kept going down to the water. And taking selfies. And then more selfies. Then going back to their chairs behind me and taking more selfies.

A repetitive action — unnatural and almost cartoonish in nature, I’d say. These two reminded me of the Shakespearean buffoon Snagglepuss — a Pepto Bismol Pink TV lion of formal collar, cuffs, tie and erudite lingo — if the large kitty could migrate from the ’60s to present day and had a pocket in which to store his phone. Oh, and I kept waiting for them to “Exit, stage left”.

You’d think they’d know what they looked like by now. It’s as if they couldn’t get over themselves. And so I became obsessed with their obsession.

Instead of inhaling the salty sea breeze, or finishing my book, or going for a swim, I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong — and started postulating.

Always a bad look for me. But here’s what I divined.

Middle-aged. One in better shape than the other. One clearly able to tan without orange-tinted beauty aids. The other off-white and flabby as a flounder. But I’ve always wondered — does such a white-meat fish ever think about fitness?

I don’t know — the only flounder I’ve ever dined on was was a fillet. Easy on the pallet for a bottom-dweller. I’ve always imagined flounders to be a tad out-of-shape in real life, and not cute at all — perhaps a flabby knock-off version of the Disney creation who’s friends with the mermaid sporting the most alarming shade of hair?

But I digress. Because these intrepid beach-goers were situated in just the right location, so that when I took a selfie my own self — to document my trip, of course — there they were, right off my shoulder.

It seemed I was stuck with them. But by that time I didn’t want them to leave.

The only thing that would have made the repeated selfie scene more redundant — and, of course, a lot more entertaining — would be if one of these vacationers pulled a selfie stick out of his swimsuit.

It was hard to tell if they were a couple. Or just a couple of self-aficionados. Just as I returned to my book, Flounder playfully snatched the phone from the tanned, skinny dude in the turtle-print trunks, then dashed to the edge of the sand, galumphing his way down to the intersection of waves with terra firma, Turtle in hot — dare I say it? I have no idea what their relationship status was, after all — pursuit.

Good Gravy, as my Nana would say. And I was getting far too involved in the story.

I’m usually not a stalker, except when I’m a stalker.

And I guess I should insert my thoughts on beach fitness here. I’m also no shrinking violet in the love-handles department.

And I’ve been known to prance around on the sand a time or two in my day. It was just the penchant of these two to photograph the same thing over and over that had me perplexed.

Back to the action by the shore. The skinny dude with the vivid resort-wear grabbed at Flounder. And several things happened almost concurrently — none of which could possibly be aligned with a graceful conclusion to this selfie-driven drama.

Turtle reached out while still in fast-forward — but probably not selfie — mode.

He slipped, knocking into Flounder. Who, remember, had the phone — it looked to be a newer model—and who then skittered a little sideways. Then, Turtle fell into the water. Then, Flounder stopped his forward motion — seemingly just in the proverbial nick of time — but promptly face-planted into the sea alongside his buddy, high-tech gadget in its shimmery protective case falling victim with a modest splash.

Each helped the other up, retrieved the soggy phone from the surf, and dusted off accumulations of sand. And didn’t do any more documenting, as far as I was able to ascertain.

My kids call me a “budinski”. I call my operation, “Stalkers Anonymous”. Available for hire, any time.

The best, though, was when these two came up laughing. I assume their phone was waterproof, this being 2021 and all. Or maybe they just didn’t care. They walked over to the primo place they’d staked out behind me and dried off.

Turtle flicked his towel playfully at his companion. And I continued to wonder about their back-story, remembering all the while that it’s none of my beeswax, as Nana would say.

As they packed up their stuff and started to wander closer, I eavesdropped on a lunch-themed discussion. After such a strenuous workout, I imagine the guys were famished.

I promise — pinky swear — that I’m not usually that crackpot old lady aiming her own phone at the other beach-goers — who, after all, were just having a good time.

But no harm no foul all the way around, especially since my fellow travelers had no idea I was snooping on them and they had a tourist-friendly buffet to look forward to. And I should add here that I’m not staying at the resort with the luscious lunch option — can you say interloper? — so I couldn’t quite nail down all the fine dining particulars.

With that, our amusing protagonists implemented a relatively smooth exit strategy — stage left, as Yogi Bear’s buddy would say. And I went back to my book, where my nose should have been located the whole time.