SPRING BREAK

Trigger warning: This post contains a discussion of the uncomfortable contrast between

childhood expectation versus adult reality. If you or someone you care about is affected by

adulting under the influence of unrealistic expectations or false delusions, please know you

are not alone. There is no known cure for adulthood, but like most problems in life, ignoring

it is a pretty decent coping mechanism.

Here we are, into the second week of March, wondering where the time has gone, as if the
regular demarcation of 24-hour intervals based on the earth's rotation on its axis remains a
surprising phenomenon. It's like the Earth and the Sun are our masters, and we are the dog
that is continually confused about where the ball went when the human only pretended to
throw it for us.

Where did the ball go?

What even is time?

Alright (alright, alright), philosophy and physics aside, I am stoked that the passage of time has
brought me to this particular juncture. For us educators here in Nashville, this week is
SPRING BREAK BITCHES.  If you're a teacher and have a later spring break, hang in there.
You'll make it to the promised land before long. I'll keep a seat warm for you.

I'll just be over here emptying my bladder at my leisure and eating meals at a table where I will
take time to be civilized and actually chew my food instead of (metaphorically) just shotgunning
a bottle of Soylent on the toilet. I know, I know, multitasking leads to mistakes, but we don't
need to consider the ramifications of that one.

I, for one, can’t wait to lay on the couch reading and staring out the window waiting for the
endless rain to stop.  It’s a slight departure from the fantasy spring break that 1990s MTV
promised me, in the sense that I expected to spend it just like Carson Daly. At his peak, he
was broadcasting in the sun, surrounded by the bleached, tanned, and waxed masses getting
day drunk.  Like Carson himself, that fantasy remains a well-preserved but increasingly
irrelevant relic.

Back when I was a pimply, doughy 13-year old with a bedtime and no encounters with any

substance more potent than Red Bull, I took for granted that everyone would experience
this kind of spring break as a rite of passage. If but for a brief, shining moment in time, we'd
all get to look hot in a bathing suit as a stranger slurped body shots off our toned abs, while
still more beautiful strangers bounced to club remixes in a shallow pool under the hot,
trashy, Florida sun.

Twenty years later, 33-year old me would be miserable in that MTV fever dream. I have
managed to ditch the acne and baby fat, but fully embrace a sensible bedtime. Also sunscreen.
I don't belong with the beautiful people. I don't even want that, and I'm not sure if I ever
really did. Thinking about pretending to enjoy all the gyrating and jostling is exhausting.
The very thought of all that cheap booze, sun exposure, and objectification is stomach-churning.
I think deep down, I've always known I was more of the pale, responsible, NPR-tote carrying,
Terri Gross-worshipping type.

Much as I hate to admit it, even Carson’s current day-drinking companions, Kathie Lee and
Hoda, are a still little too baller for little old me.

Don't bother saving a lounge chair for me this year. I'll just be sitting in my apartment,

savoring each bite of solid food, listening to podcasts at 1.5 speed, and plowing through

my backlog of unread Oprah magazines and holds from the public library.

Spring Break 2019, putting the #lit in literature.