Bahamas Vignettes*

*I didn’t blog while I was on vacation, but in my downtime, I did write a few things down. Instead of editing them so that they all make sense and/or have endings, I opted for this master post out of general laziness. 

Seeing The Bahamas From The Back of a Golf Cart

“Hello teenagers!” The crossing guard calls to us. “Have a great day!” We pass him frequently, and he always says that, even though he looks like he might crack up every time. He says it good naturedly, smiling and waving, but we are not teenagers. The four members of my immediately family are on a golf cart, zipping around the resort in the Bahamas that we lucked into for the week thanks to my dad’s work. So it’s two grown adults with their two grown children. I am only an adult in the technical sense, but my sister is an adult by all standards of America and the Bahamas save for the solitary fact that she can’t rent a car in the US. “Hello teenagers!” He greets again. We wave and say hello, and then, coming from another direction is a cart full of actual teenagers. We all laugh and feel a little older than we did before. 

My dad gets stir crazy one night and we leave my mom and sister to their Castle marathon and drive the golf cart around the resort looking to a sunset we never can find somehow, before ending up sharing a sundae on the porch of a nearly deserted beach-side restaurant.

Shall I Charge This To Your Yacht?

You know how you can walk into a room and just know, “this is not for you”? Well, this was like that. I follow my family to our table, overly aware of my casual beach attire. The concierge set up a last minute reservation for my sister’s 21st birthday. The restaurant was hopelessly fancy. We were on the beach about thirty feet from where Solange was found dead in Casino Royale. The resort was nearly deserted and we were getting excellent service.

“I take it the young ladies will not be having any wine tonight?” A waiter says more than asks, as he takes our two wine glasses from our places. Oh, the young ladies will be having wine. I hope I was polite when I assured him of this. Chances are, I was not, because my mother quickly assured him we were both over the legal drinking age in the Bahamas, 18. He placed the wine glasses back on the table.

Huh.

A guy just walked up to me and said, “You look much older than your sister.” I thanked him, and he left. Nothing else said. I think it’s going to be a good day.**

 

You Couldn’t Have Been Here Yesterday?

Really? I think, as I see a cute guy walk past. You’re here now? While I’m sitting near the kids pool in a one-piece that a mother of six would wear? Out of my peripheral vision I see my frizzy hair making a dash for freedom from the clip at the back of my head, and wonder it I’m doomed to eternity to look terrible at the pool.

It’s day four of my vacation and with each passing day, I look worse. If only you could have seen me Sunday. Beachy waves, minimal makeup but for a bright pink lip the color of my t-strap sandals, a summery orange crop top and high wasted shorts. Damn it, you even would have talked to me. There’s no way I could know this, but it feels true, in the same way that as a kid it felt like everyone that met me would rather be talking to my sister. It was one of life’s great imaginary injustices.

Being educated at home didn’t make me antisocial, but it has effectively taken me out of the dating pool for eighteen years. I’m not convenient. You can’t ask me out to the school dance after cornering me in the cafeteria-this is how I’ve always assumed young dating works. Disney Channel said so, it must be true. No, a guy would have to ask for my number outside of school, and so far, no one has bothered.

To be fair, assuming someone ever does want my number, they would have to approach me, and I have it on good authority that I am not approachable. Not it a, “you’re just too pretty, sweetie, all the boys are intimidated by you” way, but it a, “you have chronic bitch face” way. In every official picture I have ever taken where I’ve been told not to smile-and a lot of candid shots as well-I’m looking at the camera like it’s an ant trying to single handedly ruin my picnic. And every time I’m convinced I’ve school my face into a natural and somewhat pleasant expression.

9 Glasses of 4 Dollar Coke

Resorts will get you. You walk in feeling smart, wordily, and economical. You will stay in and make sandwiches before going swimming, while the other idiots spend eighteen dollars for a sub. You are wrong. You are not economical. The resort is shiny and hypnotic and you really want ice cream.

The four of us, my mom, sister, and I, are sitting at a table eating lunch after a hilarious hour-long game of paddle-ball. We’re hot and tired, and I can almost see the stink waves coming off of me.

“More coke?”

“Yes, please.” We all say. Mom, my sister, and I all have three before dad says, “Do you think they’re charging us per refill?” No. I did not think that. Now I did.

The bill comes and he, of course, was right. He had been charged for nine glasses of four dollar coke. 

“Thirty four dollars.” He says again on the way back home. He may not be over it for a while. I don’t think I will be either.

How The Other Half Lives

“Darling it was fabulous.” I picture myself saying grandly. “We went snorkeling off a charming little boat called the Fourplay.”

“The foreplay?”

“No darling, the four-play. Terribly droll.” And then I would tell the endearing yet impressive story about how clear the water was and how many fish I saw, conveniently forgetting two things; I’m very claustrophobic, and I get seasick. This was not my adventure. This adventure belongs to someone named Sandra Bustamonte (pronounces Sahn-dra Buh-sta-mon-tee) perhaps, or at least, to my dad, who took to it like a fish while I nearly had a minor anxiety attack and had to stay on the boat turning green in response to it bobbing about in the water.

The Untouched Things in the Bottom of My Suitcase

The curling iron I will never take the time to use.

My hairbrush (weird, right?)

3 extra pairs of underwear because apparently, I don’t believe in myself.

Half my paranoid feminine hygiene products stash

Acne cream (thank god!)

The straps that fell off my adjustable bikini. Those would have been nice to have.

**For the record, my sister is three years older than me. 

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