My days were spent much like I imagine the life of a twentysomething trust fund brat living on the shore. I slept â€˜til whenever, dragged my ass poolside and began the customary â€œrotisserie shakeâ€ (lying-on-back-staring-at-sun, lying-on-stomach-reading-book, repeat), which usually lasted most of the day. Around sundown, Iâ€™d relocate to our resort balcony and commence reading. Occasionally Iâ€™d close my book and space out for a while, staring wistfully out at the ocean as if to appear deep in thought, though actually thinking of absolutely nothing. For most of the week, I couldnâ€™t have possibly done less with myself. Quadriplegics were more active than I.
Eventually Iâ€™d make my way out of the hotel and venture downtown for dinner. I wormed my way into a few of the hot spots, the sweaty clubs housing damn near a million gorgeous women.
And I spoke to none of them. Not a one. In the midst of Spring Break, in a region famous (or infamous, if you ask a moralist) for the drunken debauchery by randy youngsters, I was a non-participant, a silent wallflower gawking at the kiddies while fondling my cerveza. The reason for my prudish behavior? I was with my family, the â€˜rents and siblings in tow as I watched with longing at the booze-slamming and aggressive groping that reminded me of my youth. Oh, to be amongst the whores!
If I were with a different set of folks, my equally decadent comrades, Iâ€™da been up on the bar with the floozies, slanginâ€™ all the game in my reportiore and gleefully playing the role of drunken buffoon that has won me acclaim on the local circuit. In a different situation, I coulda been a contender. But as it were, I stayed put.
I had no choice, after all. What was I going to say? â€œHey baby, what are you doing later? Because my family and I are gonna be playing Trivial Pursuit and I need a partner.â€ Or â€œHey there, what do you want for breakfast tomorrow? Because I can totally have my mom make it for you.â€ Maybe â€œGirl, that shirt will look really nice on my floor tomorrow morning, next to my momâ€™s and sisterâ€™s.â€
I donâ€™t pretend to have even a clue as to what the opposite sex is thinking, but I knew those gems werenâ€™t going to work. I was a gun with no bullets, a bow with no arrows. My mojo rested comfortably between the â€˜rents sitting next to me, in my momâ€™s purse, possibly, or lodged in my stepdadâ€™s cargo shorts.
Thus is the challenge of being on a Family Vacation in the heart of Spring Break Nation. I felt like a pedophile on a playground, my Swinger mentality all charged up with nowhere to plug in.
Teenybopper shenanigans aside, Cabo San Lucas perfectly encapsulates the relaxed culture for which Mexico is famous (or infamous, if you ask a capitalist). The entire town seemed to be set on slow motion, the locals completely accommodating to any and all actions of others. It was quite refreshing.
Feel like whipping a u-turn right in front of oncoming traffic? No problema, hombre, go right ahead. We wonâ€™t even honk. Horns are for saying hello! Want to smoke a cigarette in the mall? Donâ€™t let us stop you. Got a sudden hankering to take a nap, right here on the sidewalk under the bus bench? Fine by us, we can just step over you and continue on our way. No trouble at all, really.
The combination of sleepy-eyed locals cavorting with horny co-eds made for quite the interesting scene. Cabo was a punchbowl of emotions, iced tea spiked with ecstasy. The opportunities were endless for a single gentleman with loose morals (read: me), but in the absence of cohorts to join me in the revelry, I immediately turned into an old fart; a lazy bastard wondering when those crazy kids are gonna shut up because some of us are trying to get some sleep. I lazily meandered around the resort grounds all week, stuffing my face and sleeping at will, my most strenuous activity being the two times I played tennis (even then, I gave up whenever it looked like I may actually have to run to reach the ball).
In the midst of all the glorious decadence, your favorite hipster went the way of the prudes. I took a pass on all the sinninâ€™ and such, instead pulling up a stool next to my family to people-watch at a distance, trudging home from the clubs before the riff-raff showed up.
Sounds like a letdown, right? For some, it certainly may have been. Iâ€™d imagine the average guy in my situation would have recognized the missed opportunities surrounding him and just steamed at the loss. And a part of me did.
My spring break was safe, predictable and boring.
Consider this: my life has been unendingly taxing as of late, a never-ending cycle of work, writing and excessive partying. I am burning the candle at every end, more so than I ever have. I donâ€™t get nearly enough sleep. My eating habits are appalling. I donâ€™t see my family half as much as I should.
Relaxation has eluded me for so long, that actually acting like an adult felt, for the first time, okay. Being bored was, for the first time, okay. I loved my boring spring break.
In the spirit of Peter from Office Space, I did nothing. I did absolutely nothing, and it was everything I thought it could be.