In response to the steadily-increasing price of travel and the media’s own steadily-increasing use of the recession-symptom euphemism “stay-cation,” I have compiled potential vacation scenarios one could use as their own summer memories.

This is similar to a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure, but more streamlined to fit our contracting economy, so now you don’t actually have a choice. (To receive the vacation memory, circle the Adventure that best suits your family status.)

To St. Maarten’s with Spouse:  Under your beach umbrella, you watch your spouse plucking seashells from the sand and throwing them into a bucket. “We could decorate a table with them, maybe,” s/he says. “Or even jewelry. Clothes! We could dress each other up like mer-people and strut around the backyard to freak out the O’Brien’s.” You laugh at the thought but try to stifle the image — neither of you could pull off seashells these days.

Just then, you see him/her lift a larger shell into the air, his/her head cocking to one side. Red legs poke out of the shell and claw at the air. S/he shakes the shell but the legs just curl inside. Almost instinctually, s/he flips out a pocket knife, selects the blade with serrated teeth, and proceeds to saw the creature out of its home, piece by piece.

You are horrified.

As s/he washes out the creature’s leftovers in the bay, the question suddenly hits you like a boulder to your belly, like a knife into your exoskeleton:

Who have I married?

To St. Maarten’s with Spouse and Kid(s):  [See “With Spouse,” but with kids around so you have to hide your epiphany.]

Two-Week Roadtrip with Four Friends:  You and your friends go on an experimental roadtrip: drive exactly ten days then haul it back home on the 11th day, using only spur-of-the-moment directions decided on by a majority vote.
Democracy in Action.

After three days of cramped spaces, beef jerky and being “accidentally” left behind in a field for four hours, your patience wears. Your friends’ foibles, once endearing, now sicken you.

Half of the couple in the back seat, for example, always rubs his/her partner’s thigh when sitting. Every possible moment his/her hand can be on that thigh, there it is: rubbing, rubbing rubbing their love in your face.

Another friend had control over the stereo for six hours and played nothing but what you would consider “prissy-panty music.” Turns out that when you complain, you are the only one in the car who finds those prissy-panties intolerable and are, therefore, in the minority.

“But, really, c’mon,” you plead, “We’ve been hearing the same crap for the past four hours. I can’t take this. I’m getting nauseous.”

The unofficial leader, exposing his foible, says, “Hey, we’re doing Democracy here, and if you don’t like it, well, maybe you can try to enact some change. But if you’re the only voice of dissent, too bad. Suck it up and wait your turn.”

Moments like these continue for the rest of the trip: side-trips, directions, restaurants, etc. You’re virtually ignored every-damn-time you make a suggestion. When they do finally listen, the “majority” acts against you purely out of spite.

By the end of the trip, you have had your fill of Democracy. You become a practicing communist.

To Campgrounds with Parent(s) and Sibling(s):  Just three blocks from home, the parent driving the car swerves into a trashcan. “A b-b-baby squirrel!” s/he yelps. “D-did you see it? Could’ve killed it!”

Someone exhales loudly and says, “Could’ve killed us!”

The existence of the b-b-baby squirrel is debated over for the next two miles until the driving parent barks, “Enough! One more word about it and I’ll toss whoever says it out of the car.”

You join in on a game of I-Spy. Soon, you I-spy a b-b-better driver. The car abruptly floats across two lanes of light traffic and tailwhips to a stop. S/he storms out of the car and jerks open your door. “Out” s/he tells you.

“Are you serious?” you ask.

“Out!”

You pile your things in your arms and start to leave when the parent clicks on the child lock, says, “Whoops, too late,” and slams your door shut.

In three years everything from the trip will be repressed but this moment.

To Mainland Europe All By Your Lonesome:  You get hepatitis A.

Justin Noga is a senior English major.  Fill his time by sending him your vacation stories at jn108203@ohiou.edu.