I’m back from vacation and I am exhausted. How did this happen? When did relaxation turn hardcore cramming in of activities, beaches, sun burnt shots?
It was two days in, I think. When what was supposed to be recuperative turned in to far-too-much-fun-in-the-sun…
Things were crazy, wonky; up was down. Time was all wrong at points. I wore a bikini at night on a boat. At 6:30 AM, I wilted in a party dress, hailing a cab as ladies-who-lunch power-walked by. I ordered rum punch before coffee in the morning and no one even blinked.
I think about the free-for-all attitude I had in juxtaposition to where I am now, in two sweaters in the rain, spending no money but all of my time in front of a screen.
Highlights, in no particular order:
Heels dusted with sand, toes in water only lit by Tiki torches and moonlight
Snorkeling in the danger zone, back warm from the sun and a mouthful of saltwater
Beachside BBQs, ridiculously fruity drinks, losing one flip flop on a very long stretch of white and glittering blue
The first inkling of tan, the last day of burn
The steel drum version of Coldplay’s “Speed of Sound”
Bedroom eyes, Lucite heels, Platinum—all seemingly normal for Saturday nights
Getting invited to the VIP section to drink a bottle of champagne, leaving the VIP section because the guy got handsy, getting invited to the other VIP area to dance with the go-go girls, getting tossed out
Having long in-depth conversations on the following: Christopher Pike books*, displaced hipsters, what constitutes “vacation hot” (hint: sun-bleached hair and teeth, shades over eyes to hide a network of wrinkles, jobs as deckhands who never aim to be captains), the sadness of the setting sun, tactics for getting out of dancing with people who don’t understand the subtlety of tactics
How everything on a sunnier island is slightly 'off' (Amstel Light is Amstel Bright, outings are booked by shouting off a dock to a sleeping crew, etc.)
It was two days in, I think. When what was supposed to be recuperative turned in to far-too-much-fun-in-the-sun…
Things were crazy, wonky; up was down. Time was all wrong at points. I wore a bikini at night on a boat. At 6:30 AM, I wilted in a party dress, hailing a cab as ladies-who-lunch power-walked by. I ordered rum punch before coffee in the morning and no one even blinked.
I think about the free-for-all attitude I had in juxtaposition to where I am now, in two sweaters in the rain, spending no money but all of my time in front of a screen.
Highlights, in no particular order:
Heels dusted with sand, toes in water only lit by Tiki torches and moonlight
Snorkeling in the danger zone, back warm from the sun and a mouthful of saltwater
Beachside BBQs, ridiculously fruity drinks, losing one flip flop on a very long stretch of white and glittering blue
The first inkling of tan, the last day of burn
The steel drum version of Coldplay’s “Speed of Sound”
Bedroom eyes, Lucite heels, Platinum—all seemingly normal for Saturday nights
Getting invited to the VIP section to drink a bottle of champagne, leaving the VIP section because the guy got handsy, getting invited to the other VIP area to dance with the go-go girls, getting tossed out
Having long in-depth conversations on the following: Christopher Pike books*, displaced hipsters, what constitutes “vacation hot” (hint: sun-bleached hair and teeth, shades over eyes to hide a network of wrinkles, jobs as deckhands who never aim to be captains), the sadness of the setting sun, tactics for getting out of dancing with people who don’t understand the subtlety of tactics
How everything on a sunnier island is slightly 'off' (Amstel Light is Amstel Bright, outings are booked by shouting off a dock to a sleeping crew, etc.)
Enough sun block, new bathing suits
Gold sandals and terrific-bad 80s glasses
Ceiling fans, the absence of most other tourists, cover bands
Day-tripping, day-sleeping, night-running
Remembering moments the week after coming down and coming back
* I loved these. I cannot stress this enough. I loved these books more than life itself in my tweens after graduating from Judy Blume—who, by the way, seems to have only terrible novels now, not even good-sort-of-ironic-fun-terrible like Candace Bushnell in a deckchair, pages curled with salt spray, but terrible as in really awful.
3 comments:
Sounds positively incredible.
lovely. more!
Wonky's such a great word innit :)
Peej
x
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