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As I drag back to school after my much needed break, my first word is “Ouch.” Actually, all of my words are ouch as I lumber down the hallways of the Humanities Building, for I am a victim of the sun. And of course, it’s my own fault.
My skin is a nice shade of crimson and feels about four sizes too small. I enjoyed yet another spring break throwing up in a hotel bathroom (and I don’t drink). I just don’t travel very well. Or handle sun poisoning very well, either. I didn’t make it as far as the hardcore spring breakers in Florida; I decided to cast my lot with the elderly folk of Orange Beach, Alabama. Nice toilets down there. That’s what I saw the most of.
On the one day that I came out of the hotel, getting over the sickness of traveling, I spent my time down on the beach. I believe in certain beach etiquette, not always observed by the Orange Beach elderly or the six Spring Breakers who ended up there. For instance, as I was soaking entirely too many of the sun’s abhorrent rays, to my right was a Fat Middle Aged Guy in a Thong.
Seriously, there should be laws about this. But I happen to believe that he was sent from God as a message for me to get inside because my eyes were unable to detect the crispiness of my skin. Unfortunately, hindsight is 20/20, and at the time, I only saw him as Fat Middle Aged Guy in a Thong and not the godsend he was. I tried not to make eye contact as I scrambled away to find a new patch of sand. Did he think he was sexy? How could he not know how offensive he was? Yet there I was, in my yellow bikini probably blocking his sun with my J-Lo sized butt. I can’t really talk.
Further down the beach were the Laughing Girls. At 11 am, I’m sure they were already drunk. While I respect one’s right to party and let go, I know there are laws against excessive giggling. And when their attempts to entice Harley the Cabana Boy to let them slide on their cabana fee failed, I couldn’t help but giggle myself. Spring break is fun, but is no reason to be in a drunken stupor before noon. At least not out in public.
Later that day, I ran into the Making Out Couple, not unlike the ones who sit on the couch in the SAC. While it reminded me of the dear old ‘Ville, it was still horribly disgusting and bordered on soft-core porn. I mean, please, if you’re going to insist on fornicating on the beach, at least wait until nightfall and find a place where no one is around. No one really wants to watch, and if they do, they probably aren’t on the beach but at home in front of their computer. (By the way, isn’t Kentucky Hot Brown a great name for a porn star? Not that I spend time thinking about those things.)
So while my Spring Break trip was a bust in that I spent most of it over the toilet (although I gather that’s the thing to do, at least for my friend Alex), I hope that I have perhaps brought to light some important tips for next year’s Spring Break. By observing the simple rules of beach etiquette, we will all have a much happier Spring Break. Unless you have sun poisoning.
Amanda Addison is a sophomore English major and columnist for The Cardinal. Contact:
amanda_addison@louisvillecardinal.com
