Spring Break. The two most magnificently terrifying words that you could ever put together. Look up the term “spring break” in the dictionary, and you will come up with a sentence resembling something like this: “a period of vacation from school, usually lasting about a week.” Ask any college girl what “spring break” means to her, and you will receive an answer resembling something a little more like this: “Diet. Alcohol. Beaches. Gym. Drinking. Boys. Diet. Tanning. Bathing suits. Diet.”
Panama City, Punta Cana, Acapulco, Miami, and the Bahamas are just a few of the most popular spring break spots for us Denidoo campers desperate to get away from campus security, freezing winds, and consistent gray cloud coverage. But don’t worry, this is not an article written by one of those people who hates Denison, but in fact, I am usually one to admit that I have a great time while on campus. After stating that, there is one truth that I cannot deny, and it is this: Just the thought of spending endless hours on the beach, where a cocktail is no more than 20 feet away and it is considered normal to funnel a beer in a bikini, makes me giddy inside (yes, I just said giddy).
As someone who has never truly experienced a “real” spring break (I played a spring sport in high school, and I have always just gone on family vacas the past three years), I am looking forward to endless hours in the sun, and more importantly, to participating in the embarrassing contests that we are all secretly dying to win. Unfortunately, before I can even consider partaking in a wet t-shirt, booty shaking, lap dancing contest, I must face the fact that all of my time over winter-break spent sitting in front of the television, eating leftovers, did not magically disappear once I returned back to the hill. Luckily for me and my spring break self-esteem, I have three extremely good-looking and in-shape roommates. Not to mention the other group of three good-looking girls, a group of Denidoo boys, and some hot Canadians that all plan on going to the Dominican Republic for spring break too. Now perhaps you have come to understand where my nervousness about putting on that Victoria’s Secret bathing suit is stemming from?
As I sit here on the couch of my Sunset apartment, contemplating what I ate today and questioning why I just had to have one more Double-Stuffed Oreo, I begin to realize that I should probably also figure out a few other important, but less obvious details; these include, but are not limited to: discovering a place to get some waxing done (yup, I mean that type of waxing), along with a manicure and pedicure (Oh Em Gee, what color will I get? Even though we all know it will get ruined by day four from the sand), and of course, the final dilemma, how in the world am I going to fit a weeks’ worth of clothing into fifty pounds or less. Any pointers?
As vital as it may seem to be to have the best looking bod on the beach, with the sexiest cover up to throw on when walking out of my all inclusive hotel, I am slowly learning that after everyone has shot-gunned a few beers and sat in the sun for a few hours, it won’t even matter if my bathing suit bottoms are a size L, M, S, or XS—it’s not like anyone is going to check my tags anyway. Slowly but surely I am coming to realize that I should not be attempting to eat healthy and exercise daily simply because of my upcoming trip to the Dominican Republic, but I should be making the trek to Mitchell for myself. Yes, I may de-tag a few pictures in the end, but let’s all be honest, if we don’t learn to be comfortable in our own skin, then we just end up being that girl who sucked in her stomach in every picture. Trust me when I say that you do not want to be that girl. So next time you slip on that turquoise bandeau and the mismatch purple bottoms, don’t be the girl worrying about her weight, but be that girl who is willing to take on a boy in beach volleyball match (and after the match, don’t forget to ask him to rub some tanning oil on your back…hey, you never know, right?)