I’m so excited, I might faint at any moment.

Soon — not today, not tomorrow and probably not at all in the month of May — it’s going to be sunny and warm again. Not just warm: hot! The kind of hot where even your tongue is sweating and everywhere you turn, you find someone who insists on telling you how hot it is. “Isn’t it hot? My God, is it ever hot. Have you ever experienced such heat? My God! It’s so hot!”

It will be hot. And because we are not much removed from those first weird creatures to flop out of the sea, we’re going to head straight to the beach in search of relief.

The beach! That place of sun and sand that feels like such a far-off fantasy when it’s the middle of January and the world is white. That paradise of bronze skin, perfect waves and enough happy memories to fill your head a million times over. The beach is a place so sublime and magical, it’s too good to be true.

And here, poking from the sand like a broken beer bottle (not included) is my point.

The beach is never as good as we imagine it’s going to be. Unless you’re a child of nose-picking age, a non-dean’s-list teenager, a functional alcoholic or a direct relation of Annette Funicello (not included), the beach is going to be a series of mini-disasters that smell like suntan oil.

Let me spell it out for you while you pack the sandwiches (which the dog licked, by the way) and the beach blankets.

No matter what time you leave and no matter to which beach you travel, the parking lot will be full. This is because 93 percent of Mainers and a whack of those out-of-state weirdos had the very same thought at the very same time: “You know, if we leave early, we won’t have to hunt for a parking spot.”

Sucker! If you’re headed to Old Orchard Beach, you’ll drive around for a solid hour, marveling over the facial piercings and toddler tattoos, while debating whether to pay $20 for lot parking, which, let’s be honest here, isn’t all that conveniently located.

If you’re off to Reid or Popham or Scarborough Beach, you’ll end up parking out on the street and hiking in, like so many nomads before you. Except, where the nomads were practical people, carrying only what they needed, you’ll be hauling half the contents of your basement, including six creaky lawn chairs, coolers full of dog-licked sandwiches, a giant radio circa the Wang Chung era, musty blankets crawling with spiders and about three forms of recreation you will never use, including a warped Frisbee and some sort of ball-flinging gadget you bought for three bucks at Big Al’s.

The long walk will provide ample time for seagulls to poop on you. There are two kinds of people: Those who can shake off seagull poop with only mild grumbling and those who will let it ruin their entire trip. Guess which kind you’re married to.

Once you get to the beach, you will find it packed full, with only narrow stretches of sand to house the contents of your basement. Your choices will be limited to sitting next to A) a raucous family with nine screaming children; B) a group of amorous teens who spend the entire day open-mouth kissing, or; C) a chain-smoking old man who winks at you while repeatedly asking if you’ll rub oil on his back.

As soon as you are settled in, the sun will slip behind a cloud and a salty breeze will start pouring in from the east. Where you were baking hot an hour ago, now you’re actually shivering. You’d be content to ignore this (that thermos full of Mad Dog will help), but there will always be someone in your party who insists on giving you the full weather report: “It’s cold. It’s actually cold. Are you FEELING this? Isn’t it COLD?”

In spite of the clouds and cold and wind, you will come away from the beach with an embarrassing sunburn across your forehead, the bridge of your nose and both knees. Also, frostbite.

As soon as you get reasonably comfortable (thank you, Mad Dog) someone — probably a stupid loved one — will suggest that you walk down to the water. What’s the point of going to the beach if you don’t go in the water, am I right?

In your wintertime daydreams, you imagined body surfing on an endless series of crashing waves, your sculpted body becoming one with the sea. You imagined playful splash fights, graceful breaststrokes and no end of seaside frolicking. Instead, the tide is out so you have to walk half a mile through the frothing foam of humanity just to get to the water, which will be so numbingly cold, it will turn your scrawny, winter-white flesh even whiter. You will venture no higher than ankle deep, yet somehow several strands of slimy sea kelp will find their way into your shorts, to be discovered much later, after the kelp has completely had its way with you.

Later, back at the sand-strewn blanket, arguments will begin to rage. Some want to stay, some want to go. The best argument the former group can offer is that you’ve only been on the beach 45 minutes and you have to stay at least three hours for it to count.

The best argument the latter group can offer is that it has started to snow.

You will ride home from the beach itchy and uncomfortable because your shorts are wet and full of sand (and also kelp, but you don’t know about that yet). As soon as you are back on the road, the sun will come out again and the temperature will soar to 90 degrees. Your stupid loved one is still whining about the gull poop and one of the kids has started to cry. To add insult to your blistering rage, the Beach Boys are blasting from the radio, with one of those dang Wilson brothers singing in his girlie voice about all the joys of the beach. If you ever make it to California, you will hunt down that particular Beach Boy and punch him right in the beak.

Also, the creepy chain-smoking guy has somehow managed to sneak into your car and now he’s winking at you from the back seat. The good news is that he’ll probably be willing to help you get that kelp out of your shorts.

Wink, wink.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer. Functional alcoholics, nose-picking kids (hopefully not included) and all Funicello kin can email him at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.

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