I’m trying to come up with a new euphemism, but sometimes the old ones work. I feel like a beached whale.
Or maybe a fat pig? A bloated elephant? A gorged dinosaur? Whatever, I pigged out last week while I was on vacation and I don’t think I can eat anytime soon.
As I said, vacation. My family and I went to the Myrtle Beach. With football season less than a month away, along with Boy Scout Camp and Vacation Bible School (which doesn’t count as it’s already over), last week was the only time we could go to the beach. We swam in the ocean, went out for dinner (and ate a lot of seafood). And, because there was one nine-year old girl also on the trip (aka “a cousin”), we endured incessant renditions of this decade’s version of Leif Garrett, Justin Bieber and Bieber mania. (I have two sons. Thankfully, I’ve been spared this to date.)
But all vacations must come to an end, so we returned home Sunday evening. I drove back the six hours from Myrtle Beach and had a bit of time to reflect. I’ve been going to Myrtle Beach since I was a kid. When I was young, my parents and aunt and uncle ran a small company. The business owned a trailer. Every Easter weekend, we would pull the trailer down to a campground at the beach. My Dad would hook it up and then the Company would leave it there through the summer. Employees would sign up to use it, providing them with a place to stay.
Eventually, they got a mobile home trailer in the campground’s residential section. That was when I was in middle school. The Company as eventually sold, but they kept the trailer. With all the development that has gone on at Myrtle Beach, I expected each year that the campground had been bought and was being turned into condo space. However, there are currently a number of empty condos at the beach, no one expects the place to become upgraded tax usage anytime soon.
Eventually, the place will go away. Everything does. But there’s something special about your kids playing on the same beach that you did as a child. I think they have as much fun as I did.