Anyone one who has traveled to a warm tropical destination for vacation knows the experience of dealing with the difference between the North American pace of life and well… theirs (Mexican, Caribbean, Spanish, or Thai.) They live their life for different reasons than ours.

We are driven to succeed, over-worked and over-caffeinated; and it takes us a few days to wind down to a pace of life dictated by: what SPF do I use? Is it safe to have ice cubes? Do I want to play tennis, or float in the pool like Dustin Hoffman from the Graduate?

Once we have acclimated to the altitude– no… attitude. We all wonder why it is we can’t bottle it, put it in our ‘carry-on’ bags, and take a swig whenever needed. Because when you actually think about it, that’s how humans are intended to live.

The Duck will tell you, being an Anthropology Master’s Graduate, 2 million years of evolution cannot be undone by an industrial revolution, the automobile, and Starbucks Ventis. The modern experience is the extreme outlier, not our vacation. Our vacation is a return to what ‘human’ actually should be, the bare essentials.

Human beings are not wired for 85 years of worry about our 401k, or EMFs 3 inches from our skulls from our new I-phone. We are wired to eat, sleep, be with our families, and worry about nothing more than the weather or infection. We’ve created so much more to our lives than we need. More, and more, and more. Visit a Wallmart in Houston and you know it. It is not natural. It is not human.

So how do we bottle it? Inject a little human experience every day?

The f*ck if I know. I’d sell it the Whole Food, if I did, and retire. Now.

A little reggae in the iTunes works for a few days. But throw in a little CNN, road rage, and dumb girls with little dogs and big sunglasses, and I am shot. Blood pressure up, and in need of some massage therapy. Don’t even get me started on douche bags like Bill O’Reilly or Sean Hannity. I’d never stop fuming.

I guess that’s why have our escapes. Some people it is drugs. Some alcohol. Some exercise. Some escapes are bad for us, some are good. But they are all a sort of psychological SPF to protect our soul from the blinding glare of insanity from our consumer-based economy. I,myself, am a rock climber. I am one of those lunatics hanging on by his fingers up-side-down from sheer cliffs, courting disaster.

“Why” do you ask?

Because the sheer effort, mental and physical, required leaves you with nothing left. Yes, the danger is subjective, ie. not real, but imagined, due to the ropes. But our lizard brain reacts to perceived threats in an irrational manner, raising alarm bells of impending doom. Our rational mind must override all those sirens saying “NO” to make progress. The force of will to suppress that natural response leaves us drained of energy. Stripped down & simplified.

Our interior monologue is similar to turning the TV to Channel 83, static white noise. Like a soul fresh back from vacation. Yoga works, too. Cycling. But they are all better than drugs and alcohol at achieving the same effect. Quiet.

I could go on about that, but some other time.

Gotta run. I am in need of some Reggae.

Oh one shameless plug!: “The Story of Stuff”. Amazing and explains it all.

Well, factor in the lines…the goats…the general pace of the place and we filed through to security with about 10 minutes to spare. Admittedly, we couldn’t really miss our flight. The airport has six gates…which aren’t really gates. They are podiums. With cardboard signs attached to them designating which airline it represents. And then there is one exit…a door, really…which leads directly on to the tarmac…and you walk to your plane.

The ‘kids’ were the first through immigration and security. I’ve traveled so much I have derobing down to a science at security. Belt. Bracelet. Shoes. I’d rather prance through in my skivvies if it means I won’t be held back for a pat down. Charlie, Andrea and I had some extra currency to blow before boarding the plane, so we made our way to the store (the only one open) to buy sundries.

Incidentally, why does every foreign country sell Pringles? Not that I’m complaining. I, for one, love Pringles. But isn’t it weird? Which makes me think Pringles have some nuclear component to them that allows for overseas shipping, storage, pest resistance, etc. The only other product more prevalent is Oh Henry bars. No joke. I see those fuckers everywhere…

I realized a few minutes later that my parents still hadn’t been deposited on the other side of security. And there was some squawking coming from the one security station. Definite squawking. My dad appeared looking slightly defeated. And then they announced our flight. I wandered over to him…

“Dad, what’s going on? Where is she?” I asked.

Sigh. This seems to happen a lot to him.

“They are trying to take her knitting needles and a pair of scissors from her carry on.” he shrugged.

“You can’t take scissors on a plane, Dad. And knitting needles could make a pretty good weapon, I’m guessing.” I said.

More squawking and some sort of minor tug of war over her carry on broke out behind my dad’s shoulder. Three, rather large, security officers were looking a little exasperated by the squawking.

One thing that makes this scene all the more ridiculous is (and I’m going straight to hell, I know it…) that my step-mother is tiny and Chinese. She still has a fairly strong accent despite living here for more than half her life. There is a theory out there that the accent is actually used to get her way or confuse people…On the other hand, Antiguans have their own heavy Caribbean accent. So, let’s just say there were some major communication issues happening over these God forsaken knitting needles. And they were boarding our flight.

The whole thing eventually got resolved- primarily by security winning and sending my step-mother back to the check in counter to send the needles via cargo. She finally showed back up — fuming and somehow pissed off at my dad. You’ve never seen angry until you’ve spied a small, Chinese woman dressed in sandals and socks without her knitting needles people. Trust me on this.

Thankfully, I was about 6 rows in front of her for the flight.

Later, in San Juan, she barked “Those people…they didn’t even know what knitting needles are! Can’t you believe it?” (I can’t stand when people – other ethnic minorities, in particular- use the term ‘those people’…)

It was my great pleasure to remind her that the average temperature in Antigua is something like 85 degrees. Not a lot of demand for a hand-knit sweater, I’d guess.

Yeah. That didn’t go over well.

I’m not sure I have the heart to see the Sex & The City movie in the theater. It’s like going to your high-school reunion and hearing the hottest guy in your class gained 40 lbs and became a taxidermist. Why can’t they just leave a good story alone? Not every story on the face of the earth needs a 2 hour movie.

What to do with that ‘economic stimulus’ check (don’t get me started on how this makes zero sense given our debt)? iPhone? Bookcase from Crate & Barrel? Plane ticket for my Jasper trip this summer? Send it to Mastercard (that will show them…pay my debt with their debt!).

It makes me sad to think someone would rather be married and miserable than alone. I have a friend (male) that I’ve been emailing with lately. He has two kids. He and his wife are fighting regularly- many times in front of the children…and yet, they believe staying married is the right thing to do. I’m not saying I know it’s not but I am thankful that I never witnessed my parents screaming at each other. My friend is successful, funny, handsome– and young–but he claims to be stuck. I’m sure the custody is the kicker here…but really- no one deserves (wife or husband) to dread going home every night to face your spouse. Ugh.

And then there’s life once you return from vacation. Empty fridge I can’t seem to muster up the energy to fill. No spring clothes that are appropriate for work. I want to bare my legs but weather necessitates the use of tights. It’s raining. And raining. I want to go up to Toronto to see Melanie but the tickets are like $500. I want it to be July so we could be in Vermont every weekend. It’s really that in between time of spring and summer that makes me impatient and anticipatory.

Work is overwhelming. I’m over-committed. I am going to LA in two weeks – which would be fun if it wasn’t for 2 and a half days…or I could come up with an extra $1000 to spend the weekend there beforehand and do LA right. Not to mention, I’m totally unprepared for the actual work portion of that trip. Too many presentations. Too many projects. Too many deadlines. Expectations. I love my job. I’m so lucky. But right now…it’s challenging. A smidge. Not to mention I went to the mall with my manager yesterday and she actually contemplated buying Gucci shoes. For every day use. Where did I go wrong? Or right, I guess. I’d rather spend $500 on one day of travel then a pair of black pumps…

So. Just indulge me today. I’m licking my imaginary wounds. Not to mention, I’m peeling in weird places from where I missed a dash or two of sunscreen. And I have my period. And I’m just cranky. Sniffle. So there.

- The Independent Film Festival was happening this weekend in Boston. So, after another amazing dinner at Gargoyles, Miche and I went to check out the much-hyped American Teen screening, followed by a Q & A with the director, Nanette Burstein. This doc is going to be a hit…who doesn’t love high-school drama? Check it out when it’s in theaters in August.

- Yesterday was the first 5K of the season. It felt good. I’m in much better shape than I’ve been in the past few years for an opening race. Of course, I followed it up with two hot dogs and a cupcake…but whatevs.

- Go read this post. When I finished I distinctly remember sharing this feeling more than a few times in my late-20′s. And it’s not a good feeling. But it’s part of figuring out who you are and what you’re looking for. And it does get easier not to settle, CBS. Trust me.

Mello: If I was there (and I wish I was), I’d watch She’s All That with you and rub your feet. I could paint your toenails and we could eat Kraft Dinner together and I could easily distract you with lengthy over-analysis of some topic, such as…is Britney Spears bi-polar or just spoiled and acting out. I’d pick Audrey up for you and give her a bath. I’d make her supper and tuck her in. I’d give that stinky dog some belly rubs and make you herbal tea.

But that will have to wait until my next visit…once baby arrives. And remember…in no time, we will be swimming in the Lake with the babies and Georgie and Ryan and enjoying the Vermont sunset with a well-deserved Mojito made from scratch. Pump and dump, baby. Pump and dump.

The abridged version of my trip:

- Little brother popped girlfriend the question poolside on the first day. Wedding slated for spring/summer 2009.

- Lots of sailing. Very fun but after capsizing one boat 4 times…I’m covered in bruises and scrapes- which doesn’t offset gorgeous tan I have, unfortunately. Not to mention some sort of sun rash I developed mid-way through the week. Awesome.

- Slept well. Read 4 books. Worked out. Played tennis. Ate well. Drank a glass of wine at sunset every night. Saw some of Antigua outside the resort. Took lots of great photos. Thoroughly relaxed.

- Did not chat up any cute English sailing instructors. But admired them from beach. Unfortunately, I easily had 10+ years on all of them. And I was in bed by 9:30pm every night. Doesn’t leave a lot of room for socializing.

- Did not cry as a result of crazy step-monster. Miraculous. But she did wear on some serious last nerves at times. There are so many ridiculous quotes my brother and I kept tabs on throughout the week…but no one else would ever believe us (Neal, you would…I wish I could have called you to relay them…remind me to tell you the one about the knitting needles being confiscated at the airport).

-Got horrible migraine on way home last night. Which must mean I’m allergic to real life.

Must go deal with that ‘real life’ thing now. Think I could get away with wearing flip flops and a sarong to work today?

The thing is, as a woman in her mid-30′s (ahem), it’s situations like these that make one realize how transformative a time I grew up in. For example, I recently discussed the realization that I was not willing to have and raise a child alone with my mother. For me it’s a very personal decision. I always thought that if I hadn’t had a child the ‘old fashioned way’ by the time I was 35 or so, I’d try to do it on my own at any cost. How did 35 get here so quickly, by the way? But now that it has arrived, I know this option is not for me. My mother listened and then remarked “Do you know that when I was your age I would have never even contemplated that this was an option? Do you realize how big of a deal it is that you even have the option and that society wouldn’t brand you for that choice?“

Lot’s of things seem possible (or relatively acceptable) these days that weren’t in our parents time. Transgender couples having a baby. Gay couples getting married. Women freezing their eggs. Girls making up the majority in higher education and most professional schools. Women getting married in their 30′s without anyone contemplating shipping them off to a nunnery. Kids coming out of the closet in middle school. A black man and a woman running for President of the United States. Fat free potato chips? Who’d a thunk it? We’ve come a long way, baby.

And yet, the tiniest question (Should the man always pay on the first date?) stirs up controversy. The line between good manners and sexism seems to be as blurry as that between German and gay. It’s puzzling, alright. Or liberated confident woman and downright whore. A woman getting a tattoo on her back turns into a pop culture slang word like, tramp stamp. Young girls are going around with their thongs showing and JUICY on their ass. And 14 year old boys are calling their classmates “Bitches” regularly. Have you even watched MTV lately? Thank God I won’t be raising a baby alone…how would I have time for home schooling what with working full-time? (Kidding. Sort of.)

I’ll say it again: It’s not about whether or not a guy picks up the check on the first date. It’s about whether he treats me respectfully and with the utmost consideration. Does he say “Please” or “Thank You”? Does he want to know about my life and asks questions? Do I feel safe with him? Is he really listening when I speak? Does he show up on time or call when he’s going to be late? Does he break his promises regularly or is he dependable? Is he kind? Does he make an effort to get to know my family and my friends? Does he encourage my independence or feel threatened by it? Does he judge me – the 25 year old me- based on my past relationships or poor judge of character? Is he curious about the world outside his own? Does he smile when I enter the room? Does he look you in the eye? And is he straightforward, honest and open?

To be determined, I suppose.

* Please note: I’m on vacation starting tomorrow. Tune in Thursday, April 24th to hear about the trip and see photos. Until then, go lurking in the archives.

Recently, I had occasion to share dinner with a man. It was a date. He invited me. And when dinner was finished, our mouths blotted with napkins and the check arrived…He opened the bill and placed it between us and waited. I, of course, offered to contribute. I always do. I’ve been on some dates with some men who actually get offended at this. I’ve been on some dates that say “You can pick it up next time.” This moment, in all honesty, can be just as awkward as negotiating the first kiss. My dinner date accepted my offer to contribute, handed me cash for his half and went on to explain that he is always willing to go dutch should his dinner companion offer– but would’ve picked up the tab should I had been silent on the matter. I never want to assume the man will pay. And yet, to be totally honest, it was that explanation that annoyed me. He invited me to dinner. Didn’t he initiate my offer by setting the bill between us to begin calculations of our tabs?

At the end of the day, this is what I’ve settled on: I already know I can do pretty much everything for myself. And most of the time, I’m perfectly willing and happy to do so (well, save for assembling furniture…I hate doing that). I pay for my own dinners all the time. I open my own doors. I will probably keep my last name, should I get married. I’d be perfectly happy with a man who stayed at home to watch the children (Ladies, stop calling it ‘babysitting’ when your husband is caring for his biological children!) But what I look for is a man who acknowledges my independence and yet, picks up the check or opens the occasional door as a gesture of consideration. Not because he’s the man. But because of the kind of woman I am.

What’s that sound? Was it Simone de Beauvoir rolling in her grave?

Yesterday, after sitting on a conference call for two and a half hours with no less than twenty-five participants, my team decided to go out to lunch. Spring had sprung in Boston yesterday. It was 70 degrees, the birds were chirping, no jacket required…it’s the time of year we fantasize about. Although, some New Englanders go too far– I saw a dozen girls in flip flops or with bare legs on my way to the office. It was still a mere 45 degrees at that point. But I digress.

Meetings over, spring fever and the whole team piles in cars and drives to Kelly’s Roast Beef- known really for being sign of summer where the lobster rolls are bountiful and the clam rolls are fried, yummy goodness. A brief word on this institution: If you have lived in the Boston area for more than, say, 12 months and you’ve never been there…Shame on you. If you’re one of those people who’s lived here for years and ignore the calling…What’s your problem? And…and…if you’re one of those people who whine and whine claiming “But I don’t like lobster! Clams are icky!”…You should be tarred and feathered. Seriously. Notice the name? Roast Beef? (not that I’ve actually ever eaten a roast beef sandwich there…). Clams are not icky. You could fry crickets in that batter and they’d be heaven. Get over it.

This outing was about 1:30 or 2 o’clock. I typically hit the gym around 4:30. I like to have a good 2 or 2 and a half hours to digest before I run and lift weights. I need lots of water during the day. I’m a delicate flower, what can I say? I am on Weight Watchers- which adds to the delicate’ness. My meals these days tend to consist of anything green and crispy. Clean flavors. I’ve almost successfully cut out cheese that isn’t feta or blue. I only eat wheat bread. I use olive oil sparingly and butter is a thing of the past. Most of the time. But when you go to Kelly’s on the first real day of spring, one must throw all of that out the window. Or sunroof, more accurately.

I ate my clam roll (complete with buttered and grilled hotdog roll) with tarter sauce and lemon. I ate every last one of my fries. I slurped on my Diet Coke (I never drink soda anymore). I imagine it was sort of like the first high a drug addict chases. Everything tingled. My cheeks flushed. I needed to lie down and bask in the fried glory with a big clam roll eating grin on my face. Fast forward to 5pm– I’m ten minutes into running a ten minute mile. OH. MY. GOD. What’s happening? I see trails. I hear banshees. I think I’m having a heart attack. I’m sweating lard. Momma? Are you there? Momma, is that you?

I didn’t barf. But I wanted to. Instead I did 2 miles, not 3. I did 10 minutes of gentle Stairmaster. I lifted weights. Slowly but surely, I felt better. But I think I may have tainted my favorite summer pastime for awhile. Which I suppose is okay given it’s that pastime that got me in the fat pants to begin with. Ugh. I feel nauseous just thinking about it.

Back to the bunny food, people. Bring on the carrot sticks. Burp.