Endless Summer

Endless Summer By J.M. Snyder A month at the lake in a leaky cabin at a tourist resort is my parents’ idea of the perfect family vacation. Yeah, right. I’m going into my senior year at college, and my ideal vacation is anywhere my parents aren’t. But I still come home between semesters, so I’m considered “part of the family.” I try talking my way out of it, but no dice. When my parents pack up the car with their suitcases, my mom throws mine in, as well. So much for a summer I’ll remember. This is sure to be one I hope I can forget. The week before we left, I scrambled to find alternate living arrangements. Called up my frat brothers, my roommate—hell, even the girl I dated for a few months my freshman year, until she caught me with her brother. No one would take me in. They all have plans of their own…plans that involve hot sun and skimpy bathing suits on exotic beaches, languid days tanning by the pool, endless nights with fruity cocktails and all the alcohol they can drink. Me? I’m in the back seat of my parents’ stationwagon, my iPod up as loud as I can stand it to drown out my parents singing along with Johnny Cash up front. Shoot me now. My last ditch effort to bail on the trip earlier that morning didn’t work—before breakfast, before hello even, my mother told me under no uncertain terms there would be a family vacation and I would be going. “Jason, you’re going,” she said and, as far as she was concerned, that was the end of the discussion. “You don’t have to be happy about it, but you aren’t going to ruin my good time.” “Then let me stay home,” I told her. “I have things to do here.” She just shook her head, and when Janice Mizzoli does that, no amount of arguing will dissuade her. “You need a vacation. Some time away from the books, you know? Get out and live a little before you have to be a responsible adult. You’re going.” Then I got the sob story. We’ve been doing this family vay-cay since I was little. Same car ride to the same lake house at the same tourist attraction. Just another cottage in a small, summer-camp type place with a well-trained staff and enough water to boat, swim, fish…whatever you wanted. My mother liked having a month off from playing house, and my dad liked the free rounds of golf and boat drinks on the deck as the sun set. I won’t deny it—when I was little, I liked going to the lake. There are tennis courts and volleyball nets and swimming, boating, hiking…it’s the perfect place for a family getaway. But I’m no longer eight years old, and my idea of fun isn’t throwing back Jell-O shots with my parents looking on. I don’t want to occupy myself with campy activities, and I sure as hell don’t want to hobnob with my parents every evening. I’m determined this will not be fun. I can think of a hundred better ways to spend the summer—to ‘get out and live a little,’ as Mom puts it—than at some cheesy lakeside resort, playing poker with my parents and learning to line dance and play shuffleboard.