Stories

I Shouldn’t Go On Holiday

Hello,

A few months ago I was lucky enough to holiday in the Caribbean (fancy) with the family, and allowed myself to burn to a crisp (not so fancy). It was an amazing trip, however the day I am about to recall highlights all of the reasons why I should’ve been left in the UK.

Enjoy.


The day started off well-ish; I hadn’t burnt yet (which is always a good start) and I woke up at a reasonable time.

We found a pretty place to have breakfast and ate there: I had waffles with syrup, the typical Caribbean cuisine – don’t ask me what my family ordered, my recollection of random and useless information doesn’t expand that far. The waffles were delicious. So delicious, in fact, that as I stood up to leave I heard a rip from my chair.

Now, at the time, I thought that the most plausible and realistic explanation for the sound was my thighs peeling off the chair that I was sitting on, seeing as the heat is staggering for a little pale-faced British girl. So, like nothing happened, I carried on with the rest of my day.

First on my agenda was reading, because holidays are designed to let book (and sleep) deprived teenagers catch up on desires they would’ve previously pushed away due to, you know, GCSEs.

I pack novels for holidays like I pack clothes: I always bring far too many and end up never use/read them all. So usually out of the twelve books I take on trips, only about 3 are read in their entirety. However, on this particular day I seemed to accomplish my holiday reading capability, in 6 hours as opposed to 10 days. I don’t know how I did it.

It’s a great achievement, of course, but I can’t help feeling that it was such a waste as I decided to stay inside and read for a 6 hours, instead of prancing around in the 30 degree heat and my ghost-white skin. If I’m honest, I could have wasted that time in England where I don’t get judged by nonexistent cleaners for staying indoors for that amount of time.

So, moving on.

After I eventually finished the 3 books, my parents dragged me outside (quite rightly and annoyingly), and left me huddled on the most uncomfortable sunlounger they could find whilst they went to find some fruit.

The wooden sunlounger was pretty stiff, and so I spent quite a while throwing my legs about, trying to find a relaxing position. However, when I did find a comfortable place to put my legs I fell asleep.

But not for too long, as in the 10 minutes of pure roastage I could physically feel my flesh boiling beneath my skin, a sign that you should probably get back inside.
I looked down at the part of my body in the sun (my waist and up was sheltered) and thought it was a joke.

My position of choice was bending my legs towards the saturated heat. Great choice Sofia, great choice.

It turns out that in those 10 minutes I managed to only slightly burn my stomach but completely change the colour of my knees and the tops of my feet to a bright crimson. The colour was so vivid that it looked like I had dipped them in red paint. Absolutely horrifying.

So naturally I went back inside, to hide the shame from my parents and to fall into a spiral of self-wallowing. (Which isn’t a rarity, I have to admit.) And it wasn’t long before it was time for dinner. Hallelujah!

I was still sitting on the side of my bed before my sister came in, looking less visible, shall we say, than me. We discussed the audiobook she was listening to (which was apparently very good), and the low-down on our evening meal plans. It was, as you can imagine, riveting.

Of course I needed to get changed out of my ratty, trashy clothing into something more presentable, so I just changed my top. My shorts could stay. For now.

As I rose, I heard a murmur from my sister, but I didn’t follow it up, nor listen intently as I was too busy addressing my burnt knees/ feet situation.
We ate. I can’t remember what. It was probably some sort of chicken and rice dish idk. But that’s not the point.

It was when my sister and I were making our way back into our room when she decided to tell me that I had a rip on the back of my shorts. Oh joy – the rip from the morning.

Now, I think you should know that it wasn’t like this rip was just a small hole; one that wasn’t really that visible. Oh no. It was a HUGE, GAPING hole at the back of my shorts, right in the centre. You could’ve patched it up with a mug placemat it was that big. It was devastating, and also made me feel the following (we all know how much I love list);

Self-conscious. I got up from that seat in the morning and thought it was my thighs peeling off it, and it turns out it was my fat arse splitting my shorts of course you are going to feel self-conscious. I mean, that is an improvement in the wrong direction.

A bit fat. My shorts were 2 sizes bigger than my actual size. Can you actually IMAGINE??? But if I am honest, this feeling went away after a few days as I remembered what the ice-cream tasted like.

Pissed off. Those were my only pair of decent shorts and I only went and snapped them in half. I still continued to wear them, but even still, I was very angry at allowing myself to enjoying eating what the hell I want to eat (when I walked around I covered a towel around my waist, which in retrospect looked like I was hiding some sort of developing child, but it was handy in keeping my embarrassment concealed behind a piece of vibrant orange material). Although my knees and feet were still on display for all to laugh at.

So, that’s basically what I’m like on holiday in a nutshell: I burn in weird places, eat too many donuts, rip my clothing; which then makes me to cry into a pillow in my hotel room whilst reading some mildly entertaining novel, that presents vaguely relatable teenagers going through similar traumatic experiences, and eventually coming out of them slightly better-off than at the start, all the while being judged prefucely by the cleaner. #cantrelate

I guess it’s a good job we are only going to Dorset for 3 days during the Easter holidays. Hopefully it will be slightly less shit.

Best wishes,

Sofia

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