Those famous summertime beach trips are all about family tradition and nostalgia because the more we age, the less appealing the actual experience becomes.
When you’re a kid, it’s the greatest place on earth (before the parents save up for Disney). You play in the world’s largest (although not cleanest) sandbox, in front of the world’s largest (and saltiest/deadliest/foamiest) bath-tub, after walking across this magical wooden sidewalk that sells all the same type of food you get every Friday night at home. It’s glorious. Pictured is Ike and me, at Virginia Beach, last year. I'll admit ~ it was sweet to walk into the ocean with him for the first time. (I'm on the left, by the way.)
When you’re an adult, however, the beach trip suddenly sucks. You realize just how expensive the hotel room is, the food (again, pizza and supposedly-fresh seafood) is exaggeratedly overpriced, the ocean is really a cesspool of salty germs and monster murderous fish, the boardwalk is crowded with frightening people who belong on a New York subway and then the sand… Good god, the sand.
It’s sizzling hot, it’s full of disgusting cigarettes and sharp shells, and it gets everywhere. Literally everywhere. In your shoes, in the bag. In your wallet, in your hair. In the creases of your aged belly, in the car… All over the iPod, your phone, your trunk and under your fingernails. Remember, as a kid, how great the sand was? Now it sucks. And you’ll still be finding it around Christmas.
But, the kids. This trip is about the kids. They love it and, for that, I can suffer some meaningless frustrations. For them, the Jersey Shore is the greatest place on earth, and cheaper than Disney. That trip will come out of their college fund.
When you’re a kid, it’s the greatest place on earth (before the parents save up for Disney). You play in the world’s largest (although not cleanest) sandbox, in front of the world’s largest (and saltiest/deadliest/foamiest) bath-tub, after walking across this magical wooden sidewalk that sells all the same type of food you get every Friday night at home. It’s glorious. Pictured is Ike and me, at Virginia Beach, last year. I'll admit ~ it was sweet to walk into the ocean with him for the first time. (I'm on the left, by the way.)
When you’re an adult, however, the beach trip suddenly sucks. You realize just how expensive the hotel room is, the food (again, pizza and supposedly-fresh seafood) is exaggeratedly overpriced, the ocean is really a cesspool of salty germs and monster murderous fish, the boardwalk is crowded with frightening people who belong on a New York subway and then the sand… Good god, the sand.
It’s sizzling hot, it’s full of disgusting cigarettes and sharp shells, and it gets everywhere. Literally everywhere. In your shoes, in the bag. In your wallet, in your hair. In the creases of your aged belly, in the car… All over the iPod, your phone, your trunk and under your fingernails. Remember, as a kid, how great the sand was? Now it sucks. And you’ll still be finding it around Christmas.
But, the kids. This trip is about the kids. They love it and, for that, I can suffer some meaningless frustrations. For them, the Jersey Shore is the greatest place on earth, and cheaper than Disney. That trip will come out of their college fund.