When I vacation, I like to move. I like to stay active. I like to run. I like to play. I like to bike. I like to see the sites.
In Tahoe, everyone sat… watched TV… ate… played on the internet…and stared at the walls... all the things I hate to do on vacation. Well... except I like to eat.
Anyway, it was incredibly difficult to not lose my sanity when house bound with 22 other people.
I found myself constantly trying to escape the suffocating overcrowded house by letting my mind wander into the world of books and magazines. I was pretty successful until I was overcome with the urge to visit the bathroom (thanks to the 6 or so ‘medicinal’ glasses of chardonnay) and set my sun glasses inside the pages of my Readers Digest to save my place. I returned to find my sunglasses tossed aside and my previously warm spot on the couch occupied by none other than… the mother of ‘Problem Chuckie’.
Didn’t she have a kid to watch?
I was a bit frustrated… especially since I was right in the middle of reading about the BTK (Bind, Torture, Kill) killer. As someone who was Bound to the house and Tortured by claustrophobia, I was intensely interested in how he pulled off the whole ‘Kill’ part. I wasn’t interested in killing others; I just needed a reliable back-up plan should things get much worse.
No, I didn’t ask her for my magazine back. I figured I’d wait Problem Chuckie’s mother out. Surely she’d have to take a bathroom break and she’d set my magazine down. Then, I could resume the story and figure out how to tie my noose properly.
She did leave for the bathroom but…
She took my magazine with her.
EEEEEWWWWW! Call me crazy but, once a magazine crosses the threshold into airborne fecal matter, I lose interest.
So much for my back up suicide plan.
When we finally did escape to some sort of activity (the day before we left), I… uhh… struggled. Chris’ brothers and cousins ages averaged between 16 and 20 - all of whom are in high school or collegiate sports. They are a seriously athletic group of people (maybe why that’s why they sat for 6 days solid. It was their first chance in months).
I’ve been accused of being many things but ‘athletic’ isn’t one of them. Sure, people have used the word ‘athletic’ to describe me but it is always preceded by the word ‘not’.
I figured I’d be safe hanging out with the septuagenarian crowd but… damn them for being uber active healthy folks. They should have warned me!
Since when did old people get so spritely?!?!
As we hiked 2 miles up a steep hill, they looked back at me in frustration at my snail pace. It was difficult to blame my heaving on age or the mountain air – mainly because they had 50 years on me and decomposing lungs.
I’m hoping they suffer from severe dementia and won’t spill the beans about my retarded athleticism.
To be continued…
Tomorrow: If I don’t get a notebook right now… I’m going to kill someone.