Vacation Me Met Real Me and Lived to Tell About It

Hi, I’m vacation me.

I’m a really fun person.

I’m very put-together, and I’m ready for anything at a moment’s notice.

I always pack the perfect amount of clothing and it all fits in my carry-on.

All of my outfits match, and I always have the right bag to go with each of my many rompers.

I don’t even need to pack makeup because I have a well-rested, lasting glow.

I wake up for sunrise hikes, and I go out for sunset strolls.

I read books, multiple books.

I have reservations at all the top restaurants in town.

I have tickets to that show that just opened. Yes, that one!

I try new and exotic foods. I order the special, even though I’ve never tried urchin before. YOLO!

I get that second glass of wine (and third and fourth)!

I stay up late to watch that sunrise again. I never miss an opportunity to appreciate the beauty of nature!

I become friends with the local bartender, Jean Claude, and he takes me on a local tour away from all the touristy spots. He ends up inviting me to his brother’s wedding, and we dance all night to the steel drum band!

I laugh with abandon.

I live each day to the fullest.

I seek out new experiences and am open to all that life has to offer.

I am the living embodiment of that song “Unwritten” by Natasha Bedingfield.

I have a million orgasms.

I am living my best life.

I am vacation me.

I recently met real me, and she’s…well, she’s interesting.

When I got to the door, it took a while for her to let me into the building. When she did, she was wearing a robe, a sleep mask and fuzzy slippers. She looked like Michael Caine as Scrooge in A Muppet Christmas Carol.

She was muttering about forgetting to take the recycling out, or something, as she led me up to the place where she, I guess, lives?

There, she offered me coffee, which I accepted, but after she put the cup in the microwave, she forgot about it and just left it in there to develop cloudy mold.

We wandered into the living room, where she was watching some kind of British version of Storage Wars. She was on the third season, and I think she had been there for hours, if not days.

Overheating from the walk up the stairs, she took off her scrooge robe, revealing a moisture-wicking tank top and leggings. Her sneakers sat ready at the door. “Should I go for a run?” she asked. More time passed, and she never did go.

She asked me what day it was, then said something about ordering takeout because she didn’t have any groceries: “I feel bad about using Caviar when I could definitely go pick it up…but I just can’t go outside right now.”

All the shades had been pulled down, and it was impossible to tell what time of day it was.

I fear she may develop scurvy.

The blue light of her iPhone illuminated a weary face with more than a few zits. Her friend had texted her about getting drinks down the street. She picked at her cuticles and asked me whether she should respond “I can’t” or just pretend she fell asleep.

I assume she chose the latter, because she put her phone face-down and lay down in the corner of her sectional that she called “the queen spot.” She remained there for the next few hours.

Eventually, I slipped out when she wasn’t paying attention. I had to save myself. But I do worry about non-vacation me, this “real” me. She really needs to get out sometimes. That reminds me, can someone go check on her?

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