These little fantasy vacation jaunts are fraught with danger for goofballs like me who start glazing over and imagining that these contrived delusions of paradise could be their life.
I mean, who made the decision that we should all be living like this?
Like cattle being herded blindly through the fields, wake up, commute, make money for the man, take home a meager wage, hug your family, get your two weeks of respite, get old, die.
Lets go back to commune living using the barter system to trade with neighboring villages. Hey, if I give you these four organic tomatoes I grew, will you watch my kids for a week?
To hell with office work and formalized schooling I want to sit on the sand in the sun whacking a coconut with my handcrafted machete from the local silversmith. See how far your five learned degrees get you when a brawl over the last of the drinkable water breaks out.
I get the same bizarre notions after returning to everyday life post holiday without fail.
Right now I’m in the throes of Disney Depression where you bemoan the lack of piped in mood altering soaring music to accompany you everywhere you go.
“Why can’t real life have an uplifting soundtrack?!” you cry to yourself while waiting to pay on line at the grocery store? Is it that fucking hard to find some speakers and keep track of my schedule so the appropriate tunes can blare according to the mood?
Some sweeping epic classical as I enter a building.
A delightfully quirky piece as I dart in and out of traffic. It’s not that hard to make me happy people.
Also, where’s my pixie dust encrusted Disney “can do” attitude, general population of DC?
You aren’t even TRYING to help me have a magical day and you never check to see if everything you did for me today was to my liking.
Fuck you reality, you know what? This steak is overcooked, take it back. No one in the Magic Kingdom would ever dare serve me such mangled slop. While you are at it build me a 3/4 scale model of Main Street USA and book me the princess suite in Cinderella’s castle because I’m just not ready to get back on the hamster wheel just yet.
Next month comes the annual beach vacation where I spend the three months afterward bitching about the lack of ocean breezes and warm sand to bury my toes in.
For about seven days we look like a family that could have stepped out of the Ralph Lauren/ J. Crew reject catalog with our windswept hair and mismatched plaids and polos. Then we get back here and lose all our carefree whimsy. It’s replaced with a bad case of coastal living envy where I make long lists of reasons why I deserve a beach house and others don’t.
Screw them and their lifetime of careful planning and saving. I should be able to mismanage and hemorrhage all our money and STILL get a spacious oceanfront place with an open floor plan and a butler. By the way, somehow ,someway I will employ a butler even if I can only afford to do it for fifteen minutes of one day. Then Asimo will become more affordable and he will be my faithful companion into old age. Or until he becomes self-aware just prior to the machine revolution and kills me, but whatever.
What was I talking about again?
So anyhow, I will probably slowly emerge from my funk and get busy living in this “reality” that somebody decided was the way it should be for us average folks but someday using the **Sir Richard Branson blueprint**, I might just get a taste of what I’m after and live happily ever after.
**And by blueprint I don’t mean following his time-tested methods of hard work and persistence to achieve similar goals of fame, fortune and a private island. I just mean he feels bad for me and gives me a big wad of cash. Just wanted to clarify.**