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A Vacation is a Downer Vacations are supposed to be GOOD things,
right? They are supposed to revitalize, cheer you up, and make life seem
just a littler sweeter, correct? Then why is it, every year when I
return home from vacation, I am bummin' big time. I'll tell you why. Every year, my hubby and I go first to some
exotic location, just the two of us, for a work-convention for him, and
a "let's pretend like we really could afford this hotel if the
company weren't paying" trip for me. This year we went to Santa
Monica, California. Now let me tell you something about coastal
California: it's nice out there, baby, REAL nice. I could get used to
that kind of life pretty darn quick; and I did. Fortunately, I had the
promise of our annual family get away to the Gulf of Mexico to look
forward to as I flew back home, so I wasn't in the throes of depression.
Not yet. But boy, howdy, it was still to come. Because a week of basking on the beach from
sun-up to sun-down in someone's beautifully put together condo just
makes me...... Well, okay, I'll say it. I am not ashamed to say
it. Kind of. It makes me JEALOUS. My green eyes are even GREENER, but
this time with jealousy, when I realize that I am going to have to pack
away my bathing suits and sunscreen- and SOME PEOPLE GET TO LIVE THERE
ALL THE TIME! I'm just like a little kid who is denied desert
but is forced to watch all her friends eat it. I know that makes me sound like a spoiled baby
brat. But a REAL spoiled baby brat would pout and kick
her feet and then SHE would get to live at the beach, or California- all
the time. Just because she was indeed, THAT SPOILED, see? But not me,
no, sadly, not me. I have to pack up my crud and get the heck out of
that place before 10 a.m. on the final day or else....... I guess some kind of fiscal disaster. I know we
couldn't afford TWO weeks at that place- we can barely scrape out the
one each year but do so because it is so exquisite, telling ourselves,
as we always do, that: "there will be plenty of time to save money;
right now we have to make memories." But guess what? Memories don't feel nearly as
good as sand between my toes. Memories make me think of how everything
matches perfectly at that condo and how there were cliffs at the beach
in California. And how there is no humidity in California, to speak of,
and my hair never gets frizzy. I mean, isn't that ALONE enough reason to
want to move there? So then, here I am, nearly a week home from
vacation and still sulking around because it just doesn't look so great
around this place. Someone needs to call a maid service, and a
decorator, but wait- all that money has been spent on the week at the
beach which is now fading like my tan. It's a bummer dude. My girlfriend says that when
she gets really sad thinking about her week at the beach, she sniffs her
seashells "and it is just like being transported back to the
beach." To which I reply: "OH COME ON! The smell of drying
sea-urchins can't even compare to a shrimp dinner on the deck of the
condo overlooking the ocean!" Eventually, of course, I get over it, and
remember that it could be worse. I mean, at least I get the two weeks of
glorious, wonderful life-away from the ringing phones, bills, and
endless, endless pet fur, right? So why does it seem that those two week just
illuminate the fact that my normal, every day life is really, well,
quite ORDINARY? Which gets me thinking about how I can quick, really
quick-like, make, say...... fifty or so million (it's really expensive
out there in California) so that I can buy me a little place up on the
Malibu cliffs and live it up day after day. My hubby thinks I am nuts. My kids are pretty sure I am whacko. I, myself, know for a fact that I am certifiable. However, that doesn't change the fact that coming home from vacation can be a real let-down..... that is, unless I can super-quick come up with a get rich scheme that will land me at the beach all year round.
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