Let's do some math, no?
FIVE adults + TWO kidlets + EIGHT days = FIVE lessons learned. Just when you thought it was safe to go into the water...well, actually it is pretty safe, I just like saying that.
During a recent Floridian getaway, I dared to go into the deep end and emerged with lessons that will come in handy for your next family vacation.
DON'T lose your cool when you lose your shirt. Probably the second worst time to lose your bag is when you've just landed in a tropical paradise. Wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt and no deodorant (oh, the horror!). [First worst time woulda been that near mishap en route to my 20th high school reunion, but I digress.] Here's the thing: I had been using Eric's Coast Guard army green duffel bag. I'm not really one to dutifully write my name on my bag or anything--I mean, who's going to have another green army-like bag, like, an army or something? ha ha ha! Then we land, and I notice something curious. A slew of ARMY GREEN DUFFEL BAGS keep making their merry way down the little scooty thing. "No way!" I exclaimed, and that's when I noticed that the recipients of these green bags were all these crewcut dudes in camouflage. "What are the odds?" I eyeballed each guy each time they hefted their bags onto large carts, trying to discern if I could find a flip-flop or dress poking out of one of them. A half-hour later, we were in line to report our bags missing, which is when we learn about the decidedly lax attitude of the small Floridian airports. "Oh yeah, they probably just didn't have room for them because of the troops," he said. Uh, okay. Meanwhile, we had a boyfriend's family on the way, so I did my best to make small talk as I prepared myself (see? I'd be a good Army cadet, isn't their motto Be Prepared? Oh wait, that's Boy Scouts. Moving on...) for the task I was about to embark upon: rushing the nearest Target for a madcap shopping spree in 10 minutes flat. You can lose my bag, Delta, but you can't keep this girl from looking good on the road, I dare say! Nothing like a guilt-free shopping spree to put a spring in one's step too. Things were off to a good start...(and bag was restored the next day)
LESSON LEARNED: when you lose the shirt off your back, just buy another one! Oh, and never underestimate the omnipresence of the military.
DON'T be afraid of the water. Okay, so this is not a misadventure, more of an adventure on my part but I couldn't help mention it. You see, I have been known to be afraid of taking a shower after seeing Jaws (I just won't mention how long ago it was, ahem). But the combo of a few Coronas, a full moon, and great company in the form of Eric and his brother in law found this non-water girl taking a dip in the ocean...at midnight! Lil ol me! After that, I was hooked. Kayak fishing, you say? When you just saw a shark fin taking an interest in your fish that was dangling over your boat just yesterday? Let's do it, and why don't I dangle a foot over the edge, what the heck, I have another one! Come and get it, fishy fishy! Snorkeling? Where's that mask! Kayaking in huge waves when we see several fins around us? No problem, why they're just your friendly neighborhood dolphins don't you know. Not being one to do things half-assed, I kinda plunged headfirst into my fear. Whether it was the Gulf of Mexico effect, the hot sun, or just the thrill of swimming in saltwater, I'm not going to question it.
LESSON LEARNED: you're never too old to overcome a fear (yay me!)
DO run for cover when fireworks appear. One fear conquered, one to go. Next up: Fireworks. No sweat, I thought. Maybe it was the strong Long Island Iced Teas Eric had mixed, but I was feeling quite smug as I took my position on a beach chair for our DIY fireworks show. Who me, sit back at the house closing my ears like I normally would? Not I! It's a new, brave Megan, I thought as I dug my new Target flip-flops into the sand. The first couple of fireworks were no problem. And then the third one kinda threw us for a loop. The following two minutes were a little hazy. "Shit!" "Fuck!" "Oh my god!" came out of my mouth, and next I knew I was standing behind my chair. These little doozies I uttered came courtesy of a slight glitch in the program, whereby the firework display tipped over and was starting to shoot at short intervals toward, well, US. "Get the kids!" Eric's sister yelled. Eric covered his little nephew and I scrambled to get out my seat while keeping my eyes covered as the fireshooter from hell shot one off towards my right shoulder (hello, worst fear alert!). After the madness subsided, we for some reason kept on with the madcap display. Except now, instead of sitting smugly in my little beach chair, I was crouched behind it next to Eric's nephew, telling him "yes, that's right, fireworks are fun but they can be dangerous!" as I duck for cover. Meanwhile the other nephew is crouched behind me using ME for cover. "Hold tight guys!" I announce with each firework. Yeah, let's just say that I won't be doing that again. Ever.
LESSON LEARNED: you're never too old to re-visit a childhood fear. And to remain afraid for life.
DON'T under-estimate the sun. I'm not a foodie and don't really like to spend much time on preparing meals. But when I am tasked with an occasional dinner, as Eric and I were halfway through our trip, I then morph into a master chef of sorts where I become a little obsessed. Bread? Of course we'll have bread, but I must make it from scratch! And why stop at one loaf, I'll make three--of course, that means I'll need a 5-pound bag of flour! And yeast! I'd heard some vague notions of a store nearby so I just tried to casually saunter away before anyone noticed. "Just going to the store!" I announced. His mom called after me, "do you want to use the car?" "Oh no, I'm fine, I'm fine!" and shut the door before anyone could protest. Dum de dum, I set off on my way. Couldn't be more than a few blocks, huh? No problem. Whooshies, it's pretty hot, whew. Did I put sunscreen on? Okay, can't be far now. Hmmmm, where's this place again? Must be the other direction. A few blocks later, I stop in a nail salon for directions. They tell me that a mile down the road, there's a market. A mile, hmmm, I can do that. A little farther than I was planning, but no problem. Well, you know how you keep going and the more you go the more determined you get? A mile later, I come upon said "market" and realize it's little more than a convenience store. I ask if there's a grocery store nearby. They say there's one a mile further down the road. My little saunter becomes more of a death march. Once at the store, I'm starting to feel slightly delirious. And I realize I don't even have my phone to call anyone to pick me up. I decide to scrap everything else on my list except for the flour (all 5 pounds of it!) and yeast. And sunscreen. My death march home continues. I keep reminding myself "I'm built for endurance, I've run 14 marathons, I just hiked 30 miles a few weeks ago, I can do this" and then I resort to my last-ditch effort: singing 99 bottles of beer on the wall out loud. Twice. And thinking that a cold Corona sounds mighty nice about now. I realize that this sounds (and probably looked) absurd, and I would normally agree with you--I mean, 4 miles is nothing, right? But I had sorely underestimated the noontime heat. When I got home Eric took one look at my pale and sweaty mess that was now myself, panting as if I'd just sprinted home, and he ordered me into a shady section of the pool. Of course, the whole family decided to come back from the beach at that moment and got to see for themselves what a giant idiot I was. "Uh, Megan? Next time you take the car, okay?" Eric's brother-in-law said. A later Google search revealed that yes indeedy, I had a mild form of heat exhaustion, well, that's a new one for me to check off my list! But damn it if we didn't eat bread that night, and it's never tasted so good!
LESSON LEARNED: Florida June noontime sun is not the same as Oregonian June noontime sun. Take the car.
DO listen to your neighborhood back-cracker. A week after I returned from Florida, I declared to my dog "I've had enough of this madness!" It was hard to sit still without shooting pains radiating down my side, so I thought I'd pay a visit to my favorite back doc, who has been cracking, twisting and bending my back for the past year to soothe an ongoing problemo. "Hmm...you're all twisted here. You said you were on vacation--did you happen to lift anything heavy, like a bag?" My mind went immediately to the time that I proudly dragged our heavy kayak up the beach by myself to lock it up by the stairs, instead of waiting for someone to help me. Why? Don't ask. I have this strange fascination with a nifty little game I call "fun with strength." Need that jar opened? Here, pass 'er over. Heavy bag lifted? I got it, I got it! So as my doctor is demonstrating how to carry a heavy bag and distribute weight evenly onto my dainty discs, I'm nodding and furrowing my brow as if I'm really paying attention, meanwhile I'm thinking "nice one, Megan, way to go. Dipshit."
LESSON LEARNED: playing "fun with strength" leads to a trip to the doctor, and that's just downright embarrassing. Will you ever learn?
