(Disclaimer: I wrote this yesterday before we actually came home, and couldn’t get good enough interwebz to post it…more to come!).
We’re heading home tomorrow morning after a week of this:
Met a couple from Toronto: the husband introduced himself as Homer Simpson. Indeed, he works in the control room of a nuclear plant. Excellent stories exchanged while the four of us burned in the pool.
Saw a very-much-in-love gay couple flirting in the pool, and thought yet again how awesome it is to live in a time when two dudes can snuggle and flirt in a resort just the same as a straight couple.
Was reminded (yet again) that contrary to my everlasting delusion, I am NOT a dolphin and the surf is not a fan of me. But the sand in my suit and water up my nose were both therapeutic, right? I got a body scrub from the waves for free? Yeah. I’m going with that.
3pm siestas are the fucking BOMB. That is all.
In case you needed a reminder, burnt and peeling cleavage is not sexy. My boobs peeled off. Husband’s face peeled off…I’m 80% certain I had the better deal there. No, wait. Only the drunks in the party pool wear bras on their faces…I still had to wear one when my skin hated me. Sigh. He wins.
- Cuban cigars are tasty.
- 20-something spring-breakers are both annoying (yelling at each other at 1am in the hallway) and entertaining (getting so stupid drunk by the party pool that the boyfriend had to carry her sloppy drunk ass back to the room). Even better: turns out they’re from the suburb next to ours at home. Snort.
Next time, a fortnight.