Tag Archives: Spring Break

The One That Got Away (Part 2)

(continued from Part 1)

The next day, I anxiously awaited a text from my betrothed. I began to lose hope until much later that night I finally received a text. I’d hardly call it a love note, but it was all I needed to launch myself back into planning our future together.

I decided to put him out of my mind for the night and the girls and I went to party downtown. Towards the end of the night, we wandered into a dance club. I don’t quite know how to put this, but lets just say it was a club that put me right back into my Save the Last Dance-fantasy, in which I play the part of Julia Stiles. It was amazing. I was frisked upon entry, and later surrounded by ankle length jean shorts, Swisher Sweats and a fair amount of illicit grinding. I looked to my friend Lauren, who was somehow already fisting a bejeweled microphone.

“This is the DJ,” she told me, gesturing to her new, unsmiling friend.

Unfortunately, I’d decided to wear my seersucker skirt out that night. Huge mistake. I looked like a fish out of water, or more accurately, a piece of lint in the chocolate milk. It was mortifying. At first, no one would take me or my dance moves seriously, but I managed to overcome all obstacles and woo them with my signature spastic routine.

I emerged from the club looking like a wet rat and smelling like the inside of a shoe. My white skirt was stained dark blue, presumably from the heavy amount of dark denim it had encountered throughout the night. My mascara was down to my chin, and I’d sweated off all four layers of my bronzer. I was a sight to behold, and at this point I was certain no male suitor would be offering to pay my cab fare.

As my friends and I prepared to make our way home, something glorious flashed across my peripheral vision: it was Marco. He was in a cotton button down shirt and slim fitting jeans. His blouse was unbuttoned and slightly askew, leaving no chest hair to the imagination. The wind whistled between the spikes in his aggressively gelled hair. He was beautiful. I marched towards my bronze beloved in a wordless daze. We embraced, and after feeling the dampness of my skin and clothing I’m certain he regretted it. I asked him if he had a Facebook, and he said no. It wasn’t my best effort.

We tore apart and I headed home with the rest of the girls. I sat the entire cab ride home with my head out the window like a Labrador en route to the park, startling every passerby with my delirious grin. My damp, sweaty locks blew about my face as I let the warm Florida breeze dry my streaky bronzer. I was a woman in love.

As soon as we got back to the hotel, I received a text message from Marco. I was floored — usually, I’m the first person to initiate a creepy SMS exchange, so I enjoyed the change in routine.

His first few texts should have warned me that there would be trouble in paradise. To put it mildly, he used far too many emoticons for my taste. His fondness for exclamation points nearly threw me into a cold sweat, and with each winky face he sent, I became haunted by visions of him giggling like a little girl.

Next, he began persuading me to come back out to go for a “drive.” I was skeptical. Not only did I question his sobriety, but I also wondered if he had a legal driving license, or U.S. citizenship for that matter. When I told him that I was in for the night and that I had eaten too much peanut butter to come back out, he proceeded to send me the most uncomfortably “romantic” alliteration I have ever encountered.

I was horrified and confused. Where had we gone wrong? I’d imagined our romance as a beautiful thing that I would someday write about like in “Under the Tuscan Sun” or “Eat, Pray Love.”  His lewd words soiled my dream, and I didn’t think I’d be able to rekindle our innocent flame.

Unsure of how to tactfully decline his offer, I didn’t respond. After that, things cooled off between us. We stopped talking to each other, and by that I mean he stopped returning my messages.

To this day, I haven’t heard from him. I’m not in the least bit surprised, but I wish him the best of luck wherever his white linen pants may take him.

Sensitive Toes

I’m a pretty easy-going person, but there are a few things that really irk me. The first is wet doorknobs. The second is guys who text/type “dis” and “da” instead of “this” and “the.” While I vaguely recall these terms being acceptable in middle school AIM chats, I do not think they should be used for any non-MySpace purposes.

The last thing that really bothers me is the feeling of my bare feet on any given surface. I never walk barefoot. Ever. Not even in my own kitchen. The thought of stepping on crumbs or cereal bits and then walking through a wet puddle left behind from a recent hand-washer literally makes me shiver.

A day without my slippers is a day spent living in fear. There are two instances (3, if you count stepping on a bee while walking home from the pool) that have driven me to this barefoot phobia.

The first involves Buster (surprise, surprise). It was spring break, and since I was in middle school and thus too young to enjoy the corrupt and disorderly tradition that comes later in life, I was at home. My sister Jessie and I were alone in the kitchen one morning; my mom was out-of-town, and my dad was probably at Home Depot. Buster asked to go outside, and since I cater to his every need, I got up to escort him to the lawn. Four steps later, I stepped on a broken glass jar and cut through my toe.

The last thing I saw before toe trauma

I hobbled back inside, walking only on my heels to keep my severed toe from dragging on the ground. I sat down in the entryway, held my foot in both hands and began to sob hysterically. Jessie mistook my shrieking for laughter and thought I was playing a prank. I bled so much that I went into shock. Everything sounded very far away, and I was sure that I would never be able to wear a toe ring again. Finally, Jessie came to her senses and called 911.

The next incident happened, ironically, during another spring break. This time, I was in high school, and so I was finally old enough to enjoy some of the finer things in life, such as spring break in Panama City, Fla. One afternoon, I was scavenging for a snack. I found a jar of queso in our hotel fridge, and even though I knew it belonged to one of my friends, I proceeded to eat it. All of a sudden, the jar slipped between my paws and shattered all over the floor. I walked through the shards of glass, probably to salvage whatever small droplets of cheese I could find. I didn’t realize that the glass had cut my feet.

Somewhat satisfied with my cheesy indulgence, I ventured down to the hotel hot tub. I hopped in, ignoring the bits of mulch and other mysterious debris floating atop the water. After about 5 minutes, I realized that the tub smelled like moldy towels so I jumped out.

The next day, my feet were so swollen I couldn’t fit them into my sandals. My friend Lucy went with me to the nearest immediate care center. The doctor was nice, but he was very foreign and I had an awful time understanding his diagnosis. He prescribed me an antibiotic and told me to keep my feet out of the sun. We then went to the store to find something suitable for my ginormous feet. I ended up buying men’s slippers because they were both roomy and durable.

I had to wear socks on the beach for the rest of the trip.

Guess who?

When I returned home, a girl I worked with, who had also gone to Panama City, told me that she heard a girl had gotten an STD in her feet. Wonder who that was.

Below is a picture of a lesson learned. I bought water shoes especially for this year’s spring break.

Water shoes for added protection.