My days as a University student are behind me in the wind somewhere. I may go back and get my Masters one day (read: intend to), but as it stands I plod along doing one course at a time because I prefer to make money. I know, I know, they go hand in hand, you do your time, whatever. Not me. Blazing my own trail through here.
But even as a University student I was never really a University student. I lived at home. Had the same friends. Didn’t need a student loan. Never went away for spring break…
Well. Better late than never right?
Florida is sticky. I mean that in all sense of the word. From the people to the coconut oil to the air when you get off United Airlines (don’t ever fly United airlines), it’s like walking into a recycling room that hired an interior decorator. The good news is, you yourself get sticky pretty quickly and then you can just go party with the rest of them. And boy, did we ever.
Three girls, all star-striped and spangled, hit the Florida Turnpike for a weekend of classic American fun. Are we American? No. But our attitudes were. For 4 days we lived in a Kid Rock video. A Luke Bryan CD. A Jake Owen song. A car that was born and bred in the USA being driven by the mentality that we were wild and free.
We pulled into Daytona to discover that the 71st annual Bike Week was in full swing. Harleys and Leathered bad asses roamed the streets like foam on the ocean, holding a title that we were about to claim for ourselves: wild.
In a town where Strippers dance to “God Bless the USA” and locals won’t let you cross the street without holding your hand, we managed to find a place where we could less loose and disregard everyone’s instructions to “be careful” and still party like it was the last time. Proving we were worth our American flag bandannas by quoting Metallica and rocking out with middle aged rebels.
We made poor choices. Rode on the back of motorcycles down interstates we didn’t know at 3am with men we knew less. We disregarded wedding rings and smoked too many cigarettes indoors. We did all of our shopping at 7-11 and stopped believing in clothing, in boundaries and in places called “home.”
On Sunday afternoon, we ventured off with three Florida beach boys. We sat on the dock, nuzzled up to fishing boats and palm tree huts, eating alligator and oysters. Making jokes about how haggard we looked in our Ray bans and biker tanks. “We know we’re a little old for this but…” we chimed as an excuse for our pleasure at the whole situation. “Naw babe, that’s just wrong” one Florida boy drawled, offensively. “You ain’t never too old for Spring Break.”
And it’s true. Why do we feel like we need to justify freedom? Like there’s a certain age where said “living” becomes unacceptable or society deems it inappropriate? Where it ceases to be “living” and starts verging on irresponsibility? Why can’t we just stop washing our hair and stop giving fucks like we did before we had to pay rent?
We can always find another way to make money when the plane lands.
So ladies, if the bikini fits and the ‘stang has gas… next year it’s Panama.
Ring in the New Year in New York City
Deprivation month (no alcohol, no gluten, no crying)
Spend an All-American Spring Break in Florida
April. Do a lot of yoga (ommmmmmmmm….)
May. Go to a play off game
June. ROCK a Victoria’s Secret two piece
July. Take a road trip
August. Go to my favorite corn stand in the Okanagan
September. Have clam chowder in a bread bowl in San Fransisco
October. Pop a bottle of champagne in Vegas for my 25th
November. Book flight to Guatemala City for February 2013
December. Learn how to stop (properly) in hockey skates
xo & yw & on to the next adventure