Summer not at all imaginary: the beach towel

Albert Camus said (yeah I know it’s weird to start a text on beach towels by quoting Albert Camus, but what do you want, I did a terminal L twenty years ago and the trauma is still palpable) . In short, Albert Camus said: “You have to imagine Sisyphus happy.”

Sisyphus, for those who haven’t done a literary section, it’s not the name of a disease that is transmitted by the penis, but a character from Greek mythology, condemned by the gods because he screwed up but I don’t know how (eh oh it’s ok, senior year is a long way off, since then I had to learn the names of all the Kardashian sisters and it takes up space. You just have to go to Wikipedia like everybody.)

In short, Sisyphus is forced all his life to push a rock (a real one, not a praline one), to the top of a mountain, before seeing it inexorably descend to the bottom and having to start over. Albert saw there the perfect example of the human condition, and for him, despite the vain nature of it all, one had to imagine Sisyphus happy with his fate. Bulk.

In short, a beach towel is the same. That’s me saying it, not BĂ©bert.

(Logically at this point in the text you want to check the dosage of chewable vitamin C that I take every morning. But I can assure you, I never managed to open the tube.)

Yes, a beach towel is also a magnificent example of the great fatality of life.

Each time, we have the hope that it will remain soft, immaculate, sheltered from the slightest grain of sand, which will nevertheless, inevitably, cruelly, because it is its destiny, come to rest at the level of the line your buttocks. Where it is most complicated to dislodge it with elegance or just dignity. Yes, barely arrived on the best part of the public beach, the one not too far from the sea, not too far from the showers, but far from the children and especially from their fathers who embark on games of beach ball as if they were on the Suzanne-Lenglen court. The best place.

And yet, barely lying down, barely about to relax for the only time this year, and despite a rigorous examination of the surface on which to put his buttocks, the grain returns. It doesn’t matter whether you opted for the terry cloth towel, the foutah or the sarong. Even the duvet cover will bring you the same result.

A gust of wind, a donut seller that you will have tried to push away with cloves of garlic and a crucifix, a child running (sometimes it’s even yours because the gods are cruel), and bam the dog . Finally bang the grain, which suddenly transforms your island of softness into a DIY accessory to be found in the carpentry and woodworking section.

There you go, every year Sisyphus hopes he can just lay his loaves on terry cloth with a Mickey or Frozen print, because every year Sisyphus forgets to put a worthy beach towel in his suitcase and ends up with what was still left at the Intermarché, robbed, near the rental. Sisyphus may be happy but not overwhelmed by the mental load.

In short, Sisyphus, like us, will therefore spend the rest of his summer trying to remove the grains of sand caught in the cogs of his happiness. But each year, when his whole body scratches him, he will remember that all the same he likes beach towels, beach sand and beaches for that matter and that next year he will come back.

Because holidays in the mountains remind him too much of work.

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