The stress of midterms. The agony of papers. The torture of having to eat at the Commons for the umpteenth week in a row. When it was all over, I only wanted to do one thing. Go party it up with my bros on the beach? No. Tear it up on the slopes of the Rocky Mountains? Nope. I wanted to go home.
Now I understand that at this point in the article some of you may be thinking something along the lines of “What a loser?” or “Who is this little bitch?” or maybe even “What is this newspaper?” All valid questions, but if you find yourself asking those questions, I could care less if you read this anyway.
But the question remains, why would I want to return home? Well, as a lowly freshman….ahem, “first-year”…..such as myself, I still sort of enjoy going back. I know that some people may argue that the beach or the mountains are “FREAKIN SWEET” or that their parents would take away their freedom that they have so enjoyed over the past months, but there is way too much upside to going home.
First, home is cheap. Spring Break trips can get really expensive, really fast. Beach house/cabin + equipment rental + food + select beverages = $$$ that I don’t have. Food is the real killer for me. They don’t take meal plan outside of Vanderbilt. Believe me. I have tried. However, parents are the ultimate meal plan. You don’t have to swipe your card, but dinner will still be on the table. As much as I think I love Chef James and the Wok, nothing beats a home-cooked meal. Well, maybe one of Beatrice’s Randwiches. Those sandwiches are definitely made with love.
Second, it’s much safer to go home. You know how they say that most accidents occur within a few miles of one’s home? Over spring break, it’s entirely the opposite. Most accidents over spring break tend to happen in some far away location with the help of some liquid courage after someone says something along the lines of “Oh, yeah, back-flipping off that huge wall would be an awesome idea!” or “Dude, we should totally climb up the side of the pier…” And don’t even get me started about skiing. You are strapping thin planks to your feet and skiing down a mountain of frozen water, barely squirting past large trees and other fellow skiers. Whoever thought that sport was a smart idea in the first place obviously had some sort of brain injury, or at least received one shortly thereafter (Oddly enough, pine trees aren’t as soft as some people make them out to be).
Back at the beach there are a myriad of hidden dangers, especially the three S’s: Sunburns, Sharks, and Sand. Sunburns and sharks alone are bad enough, but sand is the sneaky killer. It gets everywhere. I’m not exaggerating. You know exactly what I am talking about. I still find sand in shoes, sandals, luggage, and regions of my body from my excursion to Florida last summer. I will never again underestimate the annoyance of a single grain of sand. You know that feeling where you know something is wrong, but you can’t figure out what it is? It’s probably a piece of sand lodged inside your ear or some other orifice that you will never, I repeat, NEVER be able to get out.
But seriously, what is better than sitting around doing nothing for an entire week except napping and watching movies with your friends from back home? Nothing comes to mind. Well, maybe jet-skis. Or sand volleyball. Or sunsets over the ocean. Or warm weather. Oh. Maybe I need to rethink things a bit…..
