This weekend, on Sunday, we drove down to the Outer Banks to visit some of Miss Carol’s family who were vacationing there. It’s always great seeing family and catching up with everybody and blah, blah, blablabladeblah ’cause family stuff is family stuff and really, honestly, who else cares?
The thing that always chafes me, though, the sand in my ointment, the burr in my saddle, is that for twenty four hours I become a touron. I morph twice each year, once when we visit Miss Carol’s vacationing family and once when we visit mine.
Each time as I drive the hour and half from our beach to their beach, I can feel my Mr. Coolness Beach Dude oozing out of me and the touroness creeping in.
By the time we hit the NC border I’m wanting to buy anything and everything stamped with OBX. Especially if it’s fluorescent. Oh yeah.
I’m wanting to drink beer while I drive and fling the empties out the window. WTF, mutha’s, I’m on vacation and I’m firin’ on all eight cylinders so ya just better watch out.
But what I don’t see are the locals workin’ at the Brew Thru when we stop for beer and ice and what I fail to feel is the vibe that screams Dude. You’re. Just. Another. Touron. when we gas up at the Wee Winks.
Because I’ve become one of THEM.
And I worry sometimes that maybe I won’t re-emerge, that maybe the touroness will stick to me like a fart in an elevator.
Maybe I shouldn’t never leave home.