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Vacations

Vacations are like ice cream cones. Oh they look great as you are putting them together, taking that sugar cone in hand and adding one, two, or even three of your favorite scoops of ice cream. Often the planning of the cone is as much fun as the thought of eating it. Then the reality of eating comes to the fore.

The top scoop goes down pretty easy, still staying relatively congealed and cold to the palate. As one works themselves into the core of the cone, the ambiance begins to have its effect on the wonder of all the planning. Everything starts to melt. That which was so glorious seconds before, has now turned into a dripping mess of ever increasing proportions. The flavor of choice becomes a sticky glove covering the hand. The once sweet container of bliss turns into a soft, gooey, object which has lost its ability to retain its contents. It is now not even able to act as a good funnel (one of the many joys of an able cone).

Vacations are just like this. The planning is a lot of fun, pulling out maps and travel guides, thoughtfully scouring the web for neat places to go and things to see. Reading reviews of hotels and restaurants in search of the greatest trip known to man only whets the appetite. Is it four stars or five stars? How many reviews does that hotel have? How close to the beach, to the mall, to the movie theater, to the tourist attraction? Do they allow pets? With everything planned, one sets out and thus begins the meltdown.

I would rather not go over the many facets of “cone destruction” on vacation, but suffice it to say, nothing ever turns out as it was planned. The plane may arrive late, the baggage too! The hotel may say 4 stars, but they meant you can see 4 at night from the postage stamp window in your bathroom that over looks the European ventilation shaft that runs from a center courtyard in the hotel measuring 5 feet by 5 feet (which is the direction of your room with a view facing the other bathroom windows). Not to mention the occasional viewing opportunity into your fellow guests’ vacation bathroom that are unplanned and truly unwanted. Did I say I wouldn’t go over these things?

Then there is the food (“this hamburger doesn’t taste like meat mommy”). When you do get to a restroom, if you do in time, it may not be a pretty scene. It reminds me of a time when the diapers ran out after a difficult, winding road where the back end had caught up with the front end and there was no end to the mess.

All I am trying to say is that vacations might be better experienced in the mind, where moth and dust corrupteth not and the joy of returning to one’s own bed can be had every night with one’s own sweetly tender pillow (not those rocks they give you in every hotel known to man). That’s right, the place where kids behave because they know the belt can come out at any time (because we are not performing for the other tourists). The place where meals are known, food is cheap, people love you and you love them, and where the prayers of the saints are spoken to God after a bath in a tub that fits or a shower that has the shampoo that works on your hair. The place called home, where the yard needs to be mowed, and the trash taken out, and the garage swept, and the grass watered, and the dog feed, and the beds made, and the clothes washed, and the dishes put away, and the floors vacuumed, and the furniture dusted, and the toilets cleaned, and the bills paid and where we get to go to work 5 days a week…

How about them ice cream cones?

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