So, I'm back. Back from vacation. To the beach. In the camper. I don't know if I'll ever be the same.
To begin with, I'm not a beach person. And then to have to rough it at a place that doesn't even make my top ten of happy destinations? You can imagine my mood. But it was all for the urchins, and even though I am a super villain in training, the little minions-to-be get indulged.
Now, I have bruises on my hips from sleeping on a sheet of plywood covered with a layer of foam that was laughingly referred to as a bed, enough sand in my house, clothing and washer to make my own beach, and a monstrous pile of laundry in league with the rampant sea monkey colony in my bathtub. Yet despite all that, Chez Quinn is almost back to normal.
At the beach I was the only woman to sport a farmer tan, and I did so with aplomb. I worked it like the hick that I've become. It's almost disappeared entirely and I might even be a little sad about that.
I also had a small bathing suit wardrobe malfunction. Suffice it to say, I may not be allowed back on that particular stretch of beach for a few years. So as an added little torture, I had to go bathing suit shopping with a next day deadline. The store that I chose had very little in my size. Every size was picked over. I was a bit surprised by the lack of choice at a beach. I finally had to settle for a very matronly suit that has so much extra fabric it could easily cover a battleship. Which was just the teeniest bit depressing. I've never worn such a conservative suit in my life.
So, that's it. Vacation is done for another year. I hope to God next year is better. It wasn't too terrible, but really; I paid for that experience? I must have a masochistic streak in me somewhere.
So let's hear it. Worst vacations ever. I will even give the sadists' rah rah cheer in the comments for all who share.