Beaches, babies and seagull poop

The countdown to spring break is on, my friends.

Just one short week until we can break… The countdown to spring break is on, my friends.

Just one short week until we can break loose of the daily burdens of college life – lectures, papers and exams.

For most, this probably means that this week will be loaded with a hellish amount of these aforementioned stressors. Take comfort, dear reader, in the knowledge that I only have one exam this week and thus can remain calm enough to gently coax you through this difficult time. Here goes: Study hard this week and play harder next week.

This weekend will roll around before you know it, and the chaotic mass exodus from college campuses around the country will commence. Granted, not all colleges, but a decent number. Be it by plane, train or automobile, the mode of transportation is unimportant. With a destination in sight, all other concerns are trivial until it is reached.

My travel method of choice is by airplane. This will be my first solo (well, parentless) flight. I’m not gonna lie; I’m just a tad nervous. I mean, I’ve flown to Alaska and all, but never alone. Hilarity may ensue as I make my way to the Air Force base that my brother and his family live on in Florida. Oh well, it should make for an interesting post-spring break column when we get back.

So, yes, I’m heading to a military base to spend my break with my 23-year-old brother and his family. There is a beach nearby that I will definitely be using to soak up the sun in my new bikini. As any girl with an older brother knows, this should be a nightmare for him, right? The idea of any young, college-age man approaching me generally causes him to grit his teeth and start trembling with rage.

No worries for him this time around, though. I’ll be taking with me to the beach what I refer to as a guaranteed method of “birth control”: my 16-month-old nephew, Lucas. Now, Lukey Fresh is one great baby. He’s just going through a stage right now where if he sees you talking on a cell phone, he must have it. If he doesn’t get it, he generally throws himself to the ground, screams and bites the carpet. Yeah, don’t ask, because I don’t know.

I can see it now. Even if an attractive young man looks past the fact that I’m hanging out with a toddler on the beach and chooses to approach me, the second he pulls out his phone to get my number, it’s all over and Lucas has a mouthful of sand.

The redeeming factor is that one of my best girls from home will be vacationing nearby and the tentative plan is to head to Panama City for a few days. Granted, we’ll be the only two in the group who aren’t 21, but we’ll manage to have a good time regardless.

Still, while this may sound whiny to my friends who are traveling to a less exotic locale for spring break (i.e. Pittsburgh or home), here’s the thing about beaches: I generally hate them. I thought I liked them, and perhaps at one time I did. Prior to last summer, I hadn’t been to a beach since the summer I turned 14-years-old and LFO’s “Summer Girls” song was huge.

The beach was dirty and hot, and sand got into everything. My rule on going into the ocean mandates that I must be able to see to the bottom at all times. I need to see what is in the water with me in order to know how to properly defend myself against it. After approximately two feet into the water, this becomes impossible. So, last time, I spent my time lying on my towel in the sun, gathering my group’s empty water bottles, carrying them to the edge of the water and filling them. At that point, I would return to my towel and occasionally pour water on myself to cool off.

Great plan, until another horrifying aspect of beaches came into play: seagulls. There I am, minding my own business, when a holy terror of a child decides to throw a handful of whatever soggy mess he’s eating in my general direction. Then they attack and inevitably poop on everything. Just like Oakland’s pigeons, I tend to think of them as rats with wings.

Oh yeah, a word to the wise. That summer, when I was 14 and went to the beach, I distinctly remember my friend and me lying to a group of college freshmen guys and telling them we were 18. You might want to consider carding.

So, good luck this week and have a great time next week. One day down, four to go.

Jessica Popovich needs a man slave to pour water on her while she sunbathes. E-mail her at jrp32@pitt.edu to apply.