The gym is more crowded than church on Christmas Eve and the line at Hollywood Tans is longer than the Macy’s checkout line on Black Friday. Spring break is upon us.
If you’re not trying to paint yourself orange or drop 20 pounds in 10 days then you must have the luxury of having a lame spring break, like my past few spring breaks.
But, no, not this year. This March, my awkward freckled body will be roasting under the hot Jamaican sun. I’ll be lathered up in SPF 1,000 while I prowl the beaches of Negril, scoping out the hotty-boom bodies.
It may sound somewhat glamorous, but don’t be fooled- this trip will most likely not be “Laguna Beach” style (although I would love it if Stephen what’s-his-face showed up and yelled “Keep dancin’ on the bar, slut!” to me).
While others may be entering wet t-shirt contests and having other spring breakers drink shots out of their belly buttons, I’ll be trying to avoid third-degree burns and sweltering under a sun hat, cover-up and beach towel combo.
Those of you who haven’t been blessed with a fair Irish complexion will not feel my pain, but I’m sure there are a few among us who too have spent a night in an ice bath or had to have your mom rub aloe on your bottom on hourly intervals while the rest of your friends stayed out on the beach all day. Holler at your girl.
If you have no big plans for spring break, I wish I could tell you that you have my sympathies, but that would be a lie. I’ve earned this spring break trip after enduring a series of unfortunate spring breaks spent waiting tables at my cousin’s Irish bar during St. Patrick’s Day week, getting beer dumped on my sober self and attempting to carry trays over my head while a large man in a kilt playing the bag pipes stands in my way.
Which reminds me, a happy early St. Patrick’s Day to you and yours. I’m pleased to inform all of you that I will be back in Beantown in time for St. Patty’s Day; feel free to buy me a drink if we happen to run into each other while I’m bombing around Boston because I’m sure I’ll be broke after spring break. I’ll be the sunburned girl trying to negotiate with the bouncer outside of Bell in Hand that, “So and so started it, not me…c’mon man have some compassion it’s St. Patrick’s Day!”
And be sure to read the next issue, I’m sure both He Said and I will have great stories for you all upon our return.
Leave a Reply