I’m on vacation. As David Lee Roth once said, “I’ve got a drink in my hand, I’ve got my toes in the sand, now all I need is a beautiful girl.” I’m as relaxed as the hair on the head of any female lead in an Eddie Murphy movie. Ok, truth is, my toes aren’t in the sand, but I do have a drink in my hand — a big, gaudy plastic cup full of frozen booze that’s decorated with more fruit than the South End. Tonight, I’m chillin’ poolside on a Caribbean cruise.
Okay, I’ll be the first to admit it. Cruises are cheesy as hell. (Note to self: warn sales team you just submarined any potential cruise advertising they were counting on.) But I just needed to get away. I had only one week to plan my trip, very little cash to blow, and nobody to serve as my partner in crime. Hey, times are tough, and finding a
suitable wingman was impossible. I felt like I was selling timeshares on the border of Mexico. “C’mon
… I realize this might kill you, but look at the upside — sunshine and cheap hookers!”
So yes, I’m cruising alone. No big deal. I’m a decent-looking guy, and I can strike up a conversation with just about anyone. Not to mention the fact that they have group activities on board. I’m currently the man to beat on the
upper-deck shuffleboard court. Some guy named Maury gave me a workout yesterday, but his hip started bothering him so he had to concede. Pussy.
Tonight, I’m hanging with a cute younger couple from the DC area I met my first night out on the boat. We bonded over 2 a.m. Jäger bombs and a mutual love of passing judgment on our fellow shipmates. We are attending the
open-air, DJ-led dance party being thrown around the main pool and, of course, we are knee deep in the enjoyment of both of our common
interests.
Standouts include a recently divorced, overly tanned cougar dressed in a gray spandex tube dress grinding more at-sea sausage than the ship’s butcher; a man dressed in a white linen suit wearing a rather wide and colorful Jeff Gordon–tribute tie over a black dress shirt; and a hot Venezuelan cocktail waitress who, every time she brings me a drink, is sure to
remind me of how disappointed she is that staff are forbidden from getting “involved” with customers. Look, I realize they work for tips, but we really have a special connection. She understands me. The way she smiles at me every time she brings my bill — you just can’t fake that shit. Um, right?
After chasing a shot of tequila with a cup of soft-serve ice cream (they have 24-hour self-serve icecream machines positioned at either end of the pool — which I have to assume are there just in case I run out of tanning lotion),
I decide to call it a night. I say goodnight to my new friends, make one last attempt to break the nofraternizing
rule, and then finally head down to the promenade deck to grab a couple slices of pizza at the 24-hour café. I realize a latenight meal of pizza and ice cream is horrifying, but I have a big day ahead of me. I need to load up on
carbs. Word is some guy named Horace from Miami is talkin’ shit about my shuffleboard skills. I think I’m gonna need to bring my A-game.
