The sandcastle building was going well. Jake took the lead, and Lisa and Zac did whatever he said. I couldn’t quite believe how diplomatic and calm Zac was being; it made me somewhat uneasy, though. The calm before a potential storm, perhaps? Sometimes it felt like I was balancing on a knife-edge with Zac, always holding my breath, never able to fully relax. Always waiting and watching for it to come crashing down around me. But as time went on, I began to exhale slightly. They melded into a perfect little team—shaping and digging and smoothing until, from those millions of tiny grains of sand, something castle-like started to emerge. Watching them, I felt like I was watching a pointillist paint. Small points of paint on a canvas coming together to form the bigger picture. There was something almost hypnotic about watching them work, and eventually I allowed myself to relax.

But trying to get comfortable on the sand was another story altogether. I’d already tried several sitting variations, but nothing was working.

1. Crouched on my haunches. At first, this seemed okay. That was until I looked down and realized how my upper thighs looked squished together. Everything sort of bulged out at the knee. This might have been vaguely all right if it hadn’t been for the fact that in this position, under the pressure, it really brought out the shape of my cellulite. And with the sun setting behind us, shadows were being cast from all the indentations.

2. Propped up on my knees. This also worked for a while, until the wind picked up and pulled at my skirt. I tried to push it between my thighs to hold it down, but this just made me look like I was wearing very tight cycling shorts.

3. Legs crossed. No! Not enough skirt to cover every upper-thigh area, not to mention another sort of area.

4. Sitting with legs to the side. Also not great, since the entire side of my white thigh was now fully on display. But at least in this position the cellulite was more minimal and the skirt didn’t flap, so I went with it. I pulled a towel onto my lap to help hide everything a little better. (Sometimes I carry an extra hoodie around with me, even on warm days, to drape over my lap if the need arises.)

I hated feeling like this, though—uncomfortable in my own skin. Constantly fiddling with my clothing, whether it was pants that needed pulling up at the waist because they’d rolled down due to the force of a rogue stomach bulge, or having to pull my boobs back into my bra after leaning over to pick something up off the floor.