Deep Space Nine

We start every summer with a week at the beach. It’s wonderful. School is over and the whole family wants a break from our routine, so we go to the South Carolina coast and stay in a small oceanfront condo, enjoying all the sand and sun and relaxation that goes along with it. Every time we leave, we think how nice it would be to stay longer. So this year, we went to the beach for two weeks. Guess what? We were wrong.

You know that idea that less is more? Well, it should apply to everything. I am pretty sure that’s why gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins. Two weeks at the beach is gluttony. Two weeks of relaxing sounds fun, but it’s really nine days of bliss and another five of desperately wanting to leave and go home. You can’t even say that out loud for fear of starting yet another argument, so even though everyone is thinking it, no one is saying it. Homesick, we all just get snippy with each other instead of appreciating our good fortune that allowed a two week vacation in the first place.

 Here is a list of some of the things that I missed on my extended summer vacation:

• My Bed
You know what you want after two weeks, besides your routine? Your bed. Yes, I said it. I don’t care how old or dull it makes me sound; it’s true. I missed my pancake flat pillow and how high my bed is off the floor and the way my headboard doesn’t make a sound against the wall (no, not because of that) and even getting awoken for a little early morning cat lovin’. By the end of two weeks, my neck and back got sore from the hard mattress and the fluffy pillow combo. I swear it had nothing to do with the noisy headboard.

As much as I missed my bed, my two daughters missed theirs even more. They, who each have their own bedrooms at home, shared a room for two weeks. They can’t even share a cookie. It’s like forcing the Odd Couple in to live in an 8x8 space. One of them tried to tidy up her little bit of room every morning and then step over the other one’s sprawling landfill. By day nine, they couldn’t stand to hear each other breathe. Hot pink ear plugs were all over the room.

• Cleanliness
I hear it’s next to godliness. Let’s face it; the beach isn’t exactly a clean place. Why? Sand. Tiny particles of sand. It sticks to everything. I could take a walk on the beach, then go inside the condo and have breakfast. When I would take a shower, I would have sand in my eyebrows. Eyebrows? Seriously? Add to the sand the sweltering humidity and the lingering sunscreen film, and you have the recipe for a rudimentary concrete. A Silkwood shower wouldn’t scrub that shit off. After nine days of sand build up, why even bother showering? You could make a sand castle on my scalp.

• My space
I am fortunate to live in a very lovely and spacious home. Growing up, my house was a small three bedroom/ two bath Florida home, which means something to those of us who grew up in Florida. I have also lived in my share of shithole apartments both during and after college, so I wouldn’t say I have been spoiled. But the condo where we stay is 800 square feet. It’s not bad for a week, but after nine days, it’s like living in an elevator. Add to that the wet towels and bathing suits draped over every available surface. Scratch the elevator; it’s more like living in a laundry room.

 • The Internet
I love having Internet access. I enjoy using my smart phone and I like taking my laptop when I travel. It’s more entertaining to me than a television any day. Luckily, the condo building has wifi. What it doesn’t have is functional wifi. I would start the day with attempting to check email, opening maybe one, and then watching that little wheel spin. Spin, wheel, spin. It’s not a big deal, really. Until the ninth day, at which point the Amish were more on the grid than me.

• Vegetables
I love ice cream as much as the next person. But seriously, did we need to eat that much ice cream in two weeks? Damn you, Ben and Jerry, with your chunky ice cream. I know there are allegedly four servings in a pint, but who divides a pint of ice cream into four servings? So we would have to get more. And more. And pretty soon, we forgot we didn’t have to get more, we just felt obligated to do it. Is this how aversion therapy works? Honestly, how can there even be room for any ice cream after the deep fried feast we have just consumed?

And to the restaurants at the beach, here’s an idea: shrimp can be prepared more than three ways. Just watch any Red Lobster commercial. Cold boiled, scampi, or fried? Why yes, I think I’ll have fried again. I want to see if these fried shrimp taste as good as last night’s fried shrimp. Throw a couple of hush puppies on that plate, while you’re at it. Fried flounder? Don’t mind if I do. Wait a minute; do I detect a hint of clam strip? Don’t skimp on the strips, garcon.

For the record, French fries do not count as a vegetable. Ditto for the cole slaw. Shredded pale green cabbage and a carrot sliver swimming in mayonnaise are not going to undo the ice cream and fried shrimp. By the end of day nine, even tartar and cocktail sauces try to pass themselves off as healthy because they aren’t deep fried.

• Solitude
I love my family and my friends, and I love to spend time with them. Walking together, sitting together, talking or just reading and sharing stories and laughter are all a gift. Until day nine. On day nine, even the word together makes the walls close in. My friends and family start to morph into a Guillermo Del Toro nightmare. I’m pretty sure my husband developed eyeballs in the palms of his hands. I’m no better than they are. I’m not nearly as funny as I think I am. I know of at least ten people who would back me up on that.

• The gym
I work out almost every day at the gym, and I do a variety of classes. I like it. It makes me feel good. When I go to the beach, I happily walk every day, the sand beneath my toes, feeling the water lap up around my feet, looking for shells. Until day nine, when my Achilles tendons go on strike. I could walk in the morning, but after sitting in a beach chair for an hour, I could hardly stand. So I constantly stretched everywhere like a Lipizzaner stallion. Gentlemen, I am no Lipizzaner stallion.

By the ninth day, I hobbled around like I needed bilateral hip replacements. Taking two weeks off a fitness routine can be a good thing, but if you’ve overstretched your tendons and walked the skin off the soles of your feet, you can’t just go balls to the wall. You have to ease back into your workout, starting slowly. Starting slowly, by the way, doesn’t work off the daily dose of fried shrimp and ice cream.

• My Town
When I’m at the beach, I love to go to my favorite restaurants and head up to the pier to watch the fishermen and play a few rounds of skeeball. I want to shop at the shops they don’t have at home. I don’t object to a bit of mini golf if it doesn’t get too competitive. I’m happy to walk the flat sandy shore and smell the marshy air. On day nine, the beach becomes a blur of cheap crappy beach stores and lousy seafood buffets with giant crustaceans on the roof. You’ve seen one go-cart track, you’ve seen them all. Didn’t we just pass that ice cream store and fireworks stand? For the love of God, does this town have a library? I am pretty sure there should be a tree or two somewhere around here. And how is anyone supposed to breathe with all this humidity?

• Sobriety
Nobody made me order vodka or rum or tequila every night. I get that now. It’s a choice. A poor choice. A nightly mixed drink did not take the edge off; it just packed the calories on. It certainly didn’t make me more pleasant to be around. 

Actually, it was a good choice. Because if I had to look at those faces in those 800 square feet one more day, something was going to go horribly wrong. In retrospect, maybe I didn't drink enough.

In conclusion, I recommend exactly nine days at the beach. Make sure the weather is good. Pack your baggy clothes. Smile a lot. Have a drink. Maybe get another room for yourself, and don’t tell anyone else where it is. And step away from the ice cream.