Over Spring Break last week, I had the chance to vacation in the luxiourious splendor of the greater San Antonio area. It was a true week of pampering. Minus the small, tiny detail that I was sharing my vacation with 12 children ages 1-16. No big d for this socialite, I've always preferred the kinds of vacations where you need to ask, "What is your discount price for children under 10, we have 6 of them?" Nothing like choosing restaurants based on how noisy they are, or spending a rainy afternoon in a spore-infested jump castle. Ah, the sweet life.

I will admit that toting along children has some serious benefits for those of us a little nostalgic for our adolescence. Looks like the only movie we can see that's appropriate for all ages is, "Hannah Montana: The Movie." Bummer. But not really (guilty smile), because if I could go back in time to any age, it would most likely be 14. Back when waiting for Seventeen Magazine to arrive in the mail seemed "so adult." On this trip, we got to eat at multiple restaurants whose specialty is the cheeseburger, go on a rather elaborate Easter Egg Hunt, eat candy from all 12 children's Easter baskets, and hit up a theme park.

Hmm, theme parks. I'll admit that there is something about walking through those oversized entrance gates that fills the heart with excitement and wonderment. Yet, at the end of the day as you pass back through the same gate, you can barely muster up any feeling other than a headache and pure exhaustion. I'm not exactly sure how this happens, but I was saddened during last week's trip to Sea World: San Antonio when I came to the realization that rides make me sick. I couldn't believe it. It's been coming on for some time. After a monumental trip to Lagoon last year, I pinpointed my illness to the mix of theme park roller coasters and carnival rides. But alas, after one jolt on the "Great White" last week, my head was spinning. What a disappointment. Turns out, all I could really enjoy were the animals. Alright.

The sea life at Sea World is pretty amazing. It was cute to watch my two-year old niece Bella see some of these creatures for the first time. During the whale show, she kept calling out "Whale," as if she was even surprise she could say it. However, during the whale show things took a turn for the weird. It was all fine and dandy as Summer, a Marine Biologist/amateur actress, dressed in an orca-striped wet suit, shared her story of living her dream to work with Killer Whales. Every 11-year-old girl in the audience was right there with her. Sadly, I found myself even more amazed by the trainer's ability to do swan dives off of Shamu's nose than Shamu coating the first 16 rows in salt water from a tail flip. But, it wasn't until the music turned to a slightly slower, and more Romantic Enya-esque tune that I now felt that I was watching a love scene between trainer and whale. Echoed by words on a projector telling us to "BELIEVE!" Believe in what exactly? That human and creature can share a life together in and out of the ocean? Frankly, I was confused.

All in all, it was a great trip. However, as I returned back home to my childless existence, I wasn't thinking that the singularity of my singleness was such a sad story. Sorry marrieds.


"I'm in a hurry to get things done.
Oh I, rush and rush until life's no fun.
All I really wanna do is just live and die,
but I'm in a hurry and don't know why."

The words to that song play through my head at least once a day. No joke. Especially this past week, when I have been putting on a pretty excellent campaign for Teacher of the Year. In the past week and a half I have been in charge of the World's Fair (see impressive previous post), Student Council elections, and of course the Talent Show. Whoo, I am the best. The reason I know this is since my busy-ness has been so public, many kind/humble teachers have sent me congratulations/condolences for my superior work. It's nice to be recognized from time to time. Shucks.

Really, the reason for all this is that I suffer from a rare condition that my friend Ellen told me about many years ago. . .TBD. Too Busy Disorder. I really am writing this as a pathetic means to apologize for any person or event that I have ignored in the past fort night. Knowing myself, and my mom (who does the same thing), I will use this current excuse for at least one more month to get out of any obligation/ward party. Please excuse any poor behavior on my part to return a phone call, or reply to a text message, or even to say "Hi" when we are passing on a non-crowded street. You see, I've got TBD and I'm in a hurry.

Yeah, I know, who's my publicist?

As far as junior high teachers go, this is about as famous as I can get. Thanks to The Daily Herald!

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