the bad place

in: ,

I just got home from the worst vacation I’ve ever been on. I might be high-strung about literally everything else, but vacations? It takes very little to make me happy.

Like: am I at work? No? What a great vacation!

This, though. Man.

I think I was suffering a particularly cruel bout of nostalgia-sickness when I booked the room in Myrtle Beach. There are photos of my extended family in a shared resort suite, photos of my family in a resort with its own bowling alley, and photos of my family on the beach just before I knocked my brother over and ran away giggling. In sum: there are photos. What I failed to take into consideration was that these photos were taken in the 90s, and maybe, perhaps, things were different then, and — maybe, perhaps — I was a child with a child’s idea of fun. In other words, I was viewing through a 5-year-old’s plastic rose-tinted glasses.

I should’ve seen the cost of the room as a bad omen and not the blip of serendipity I believed it was at the time.

After I’d checked in to a second, less horrifying hotel and had a night to sleep away the anxiety and disappointment I’d been stewing in, I spent a lot of money on sweet potato pancakes and used books.* Then I went home.

I want my money back.

The moral of the story: I’m not a person who likes boardwalks or tourist traps or Wings stores on every street corner, but I am very much a person who needs to close the mental photo album and take a deep breath before giving a website my card number.