“Living Vicariously Through Everyone Else’s Spring Break”

Ah, spring break—the time when everyone else is soaking up the sun, jet-setting to exotic destinations, and escaping the daily grind. Meanwhile, back at home, my daughter and teenage granddaughters are on their own spring break and  living their best lives, lounging like they’re auditioning for a spa commercial. As for me? I’m playing personal chef, cranking out takeout meals like I own a culinary UberEats business. Oh, and did I mention I’m also house-sitting her pets? The cats demand more attention than a reality TV diva, and the dog seems to have forgotten what “personal space” means. But hey, I love them—clearly, I do, or I wouldn’t be playing maid to their furry kingdom.

And then there’s my brother—oh, my brother. He’s been regaling me with extremely important tales of how he didn’t get to go to Florida for spring break when he was young. Now, here’s the twist: back in the late 70s, he partied like it was 1999… every single weekend. Apparently, he’s still processing the deep, lifelong trauma of missing out on beach parties he technically never needed. So, in a grand act of redemption, he insists that he must go to Florida this year to make up for it. (I’m pretty sure there’s a midlife crisis mixed in there somewhere, but I didn’t ask for details.) Meanwhile, my angel of a sister-in-law and I are doing our best to talk him out of it—gently reminding him, with all the love in the world, why this could be a terrible idea.  Honestly, if he weren’t so passionate about everything, I might miss these entertaining rants.

Then there’s my husband—bless his heart. Between hanging ceiling fans and changing light bulbs in every room (I swear, the man’s keeping the entire electrical industry in business), he’s been reminding me, oh, every five minutes about our must-do trip to Saguaro National Park in Arizona. He’s convinced that hiking among the saguaro cacti is the ultimate spring break experience. And while I get it—the park is stunning—I can’t help but wonder if we could maybe squeeze a beach into that itinerary. Perhaps I’ll tell him the cacti are looking for new friends and need a break from all the attention. But of course, I’ll think about going, because I love him. (And maybe because I’m dying to watch him struggle with a GPS in the middle of the desert)

Meanwhile, I’m here at home, wishing I could be anywhere else. The only “vacation” I’m getting is from deep-cleaning photos and memorabilia from the past 40 years. Every corner of the house looks like it’s been untouched since my last real vacation—which, let’s face it, was about a decade ago. As I continue my “rage-cleaning” session, I’m starting to wonder if I’ve invented a new workout routine. But honestly, I’m thankful for these little vacation moments, even if they come with a mop, a broom, and enough patience to qualify for sainthood.

So here I am—cooking, cleaning, house-sitting, and pretending this is my version of spring break. At least there’s wine. Love you all, even if I do need a nap… and a beach… somewhere far, far away.    😎