A year of commuting, eating cabbage soup and inhaling urban dust. 230 days of cubicle aggravation. This followed by a post-Armageddon airport experience, standing in line for the train, for the check-in, for the security, for customs, for a seat on the plane. It’s the old nightclub trick: you think it MUST be worth it, based on the amount of queuing required. You’ve packed the anti-mosquito spray, the sunscreen lotion, and the clothes that will expose your burgeoning belly/skin plaque/rashes/third nipple. You’ve even remembered to bring the diarrhoea medicine after losing half of your small intestine in a Phuket toilet last year. You’ve carried all that crap all the way with you, like Jesus bearing his cross.
Stop bouncing around like Molly Ringwald on prom night, contain your pathetic excitement, and be honest with yourself for once: just as it was a drag getting there, it’s a drag being here. Whose brilliant idea/meme was it in the first place that hanging out in skimpy acrylic outfits, flip flopping our way through beach supermarkets where prices were trebled the day we arrived was the escape from work we deserved? What fucking pervert convinced us all that rolling around in the sand surrounded by obese fugglies and screaming brats was the bee’s knees?
Admit it, all of this is only bearable because you need the change of scene from your mundane work/family life. Some argue that it’s not about the destination, but about the journey. Hey, Paulo Coelho, can I pass on both?*
Toxic Max, wishing you all a lovely summer break!
* Though I could see how having millions of aimless morons in beach towns with only one bookstore could work out for him.
