Spring break is so close, I bet your senses are tingling.
You can almost taste the $12 piña colada quenching your thirst, feel the warm white sand between your toes, smell the coconut tanning oil slathered on your body, hear the waves crashing and see a sunny paradise through your oversized sunglasses.
I bet your bag is already packed-full of magazines, bathing suits, beach towels and tropical clothes.
You have your plane ticket and passport in hand with a T-shirt that reads something like, "Bahamas or Bust: Spring Break 2010."
I am pretty much feeling the same way, minus everything I just said -- I will be spending my spring break at home in a suburb of Pittsburgh.
Yet for some strange reason, I am looking forward to having free beer from my dad's kegerator (and I am not making this up, my dad is that cool), feeling the weight of my godchild in my arms, smelling the smell that can only be found at home, hearing my crazy dogs snore and seeing my fiancé and family for a week.
As I pack my bag (most likely sometime today), I won't be sad as I fill it with sweaters, jeans, scarves and jackets.
I will have my car keys and CDs in hand with a T-shirt that reads something like, "Stanley Cup Champions 2009."
When I get to my destination, I am not going to be stressed or disappointed, which can often happen on vacations.
Don't get me wrong -- I would love to be going to a beach somewhere soon, but getaways can sometimes be more of a pain than pleasure. Here's an example of "sometimes."
Take the plane (or, heaven forbid, car) ride. Things get delayed. Luggage gets lost. Friends are unaccounted for.
Then you make it to your destination and all you want is a nice meal that doesn't come on a tray or consist of a pack of fruit snacks and a Diet Coke.
So let's suppose you find a place to sit down, have some breakfast and start that dream vacation. Here's what happens -- and I am not lying here, this happened to me in Ocean City, Md.
Waitress (in broken English): "Can I take your order?"
You: "Yes, I would like the Grand Slam and some orange juice."
Waitress: "Grand Slam and water."
You: "Orange juice."
Waitress: "Water."
After going back and forth several times, you finally give in: Water it is.
Then you get to your hotel room, where you discover you can't check in until 4 p.m., and it's 11:30 a.m.
No big deal, you say. Just dig that bikini out of your luggage and head down to the beach for a while. Problem solved?
Not quite. The beach is packed with fellow spring breakers -- who knew a 100-pound girl could take up that much space? -- so you take up approximately 9 square-feet of sand and sit on your luggage, which you forget is full of oozing products like lotions, shampoo, gels and melted deodorant, which now are covering your $150 beach dress. Bummer.
But then you get checked in, and things look up. The room (meant for four) is decent for you and your seven friends. If you wake up just before dawn, you can get a great spot on the beach and even stop to grab some orange juice for breakfast.
You continue this routine for half a day until you realize you forgot to put on sunscreen and now resemble a tomato, leaving you to spend the rest of the week covering yourself with aloe and trying not to move.
Then you head for home, enjoy a plane ride with a man coughing on you and a small child kicking your seat. Are you ready for another vacation?
I guess sometimes there's no place like home.
