I’m sitting on my couch, bleary-eyed from yet another night of hormonally induced insomnia, ignoring the cold, gray winter afternoon and a mountain of ungraded essays in favor of Googling the best seven-to-nine-day Mediterranean cruises. A girl’s gotta dream!
Especially this year. Even with the idea of “normal” partially visible on the horizon, I’m still feeling blah. What I need is a fabulous vacation to a far-away destination with all-you-can-drink margaritas and 24/7 soft serve. Not that I would get on a 5,000-passenger ship anytime soon, even in a full hazmat suit, but perhaps in 2022.
Because, unfortunately, this summer will probably be on par with last. We’ll be staying close to home, except for a dance nationals in Tennessee and possibly a long 25th anniversary weekend somewhere. Neither seems terribly exciting nor binge-planning worthy, hence the hours I’ve wasted “chatting” with Randy from Holland America and mapping places like Split and Palma.
What’s especially weird about this latest obsession is that I’m not really a cruise person. I did a Caribbean spin about 12 years ago and, with the exceptions of spectacular people-watching and a particularly funny experience involving one of my sisters and a bikini top malfunction during a diving for pennies game on the Lido Deck, I mostly remember a mild case of vertigo and the ever-present thoughts of, “If this baby goes down, how do I not end up like Leonardo?”
Regardless, what’s the harm in a little holiday fantasizing? It’s not like I’m giving Randy my credit card, despite his best efforts. Only $200 for a balcony upgrade? Yes, please! A girl’s gotta dream!
Peace out.
