Sorry, I was just trying to recall why again I did that. Anyway, when we went to St. John, I was pretty young. I didn’t really understand the true joy in going on a vacation. My childhood routine consisted of waking up at approximately 5 o’clock am (why, Kristen, why?!), waiting for my loving father to pour me a cup of honey nut cheerios (it’s a difficult job), and then advancing up the stairs to sit down and watch some enlightening shows such as Whinnie the Pooh, Arthur, Magic Schoolbus or Caillou. I had life pretty good. So yes, going to the beach was fun, but was it “I actually don’t have to wake up and put pants on before 7 and then force myself to learn something about the irregular conditional Spanish verb tense” fun? I didn’t seem to think so then. Don’t get me wrong, we had a blast in St. John. It’s just that I didn’t really realize that this wasn’t going to happen too often in the future, so I might have complained a little here and there. What can one possibly have to complain about on a beautiful, white sanded, 85 degree beach?, you may ask. Oh, I know! The sand! What else? Yes, once we stepped on the beach, I cried “I told you there was too much sand on this beach!” Oh, yes. The classic overabundance of sand. Maybe I had a phobia of sand. That’s a real thing, you know. It’s called Eremikophobia. Oh, those poor sand-fearers. Ha. Though I didn’t find this too funny when I was crying about my sand castle sinking into all that sand, it’s pretty funny now, and my parents use it as a frequent comeback whenever they can. Oh, good times.
|Look at all that SAND|
|It's a hard life, I know.|