Intense specks of tan and pink create luxurious diversions from the incandescent purity of the sand's whiteness. Thousands of bikini-clad, nubile bodies join together in an orgiastic celebration of youthful freedom.
Hundreds of miles further north, I am forcibly stretched out in the world's second most vulnerable position, allowing a complete stranger to jab sharp instruments into my mouth.
Last week, as I endured the inane chastisements of a dental hygienist who couldn't quite grasp the concept that attacking my gums in the style of O.J. Simpson is going to induce bleeding no matter what type of floss I use, I couldn't help but think of all the tropical fun I was missing this spring break.
Even though I was away from campus over the past week, my uncanny ability to keep a finger on the pulse of student consciousness was not lost. Like always, I have the inside scoop on the issues of current concern for the student population.
For instance, I know that a vast majority of students are preoccupied because they wasted this month's rent buying tequila shots for a blonde girl in Ft. Lauderdale only to have her pass out in a ditch before they could get her back to their hotel room. In addition, I know that many students are overwhelmingly interested in the events that occurred during my spring break.
Unfortunately, I am in no position to offer assistance to those of you who are trapped in the mire of post-break poverty, at least until I develop that foolproof bank-robbing technique that will be necessary to afford tuition after the impending rape of the university's budget. As a consolation, I will be happy to share the uninspiring story of my week at home.
Since my gut has recently undergone a beer-and-cheese-based Wisconsin enlargement and my appearance in a bathing suit has become unappealing enough to make Ricki Lake look like a Sports Illustrated model, I decided to opt out of the traditional beach excursion. Instead, I traveled home to Virginia, where all of my friends drink moonshine and marry their toothless sisters.
Actually, my home in the D.C. suburbs is not at all like the stereotypical South. In fact, it is a closer reflection of the stereotype of suburban sprawl, where choosing the day's activities consists mainly of selecting one of the area's many dilapidated strip malls, spending the afternoon in the parking lots and seeing how many times you can get kicked out of the Zany Brainy by obscenely asking employees for help with your Erector set.
Before I go overboard in emphasizing my lingering sense of suburban angst, I must admit that my week in the D.C. area offered some opportunity for excitement. Most notably, I had the pleasure of witnessing your beloved Bucks get demolished by the Wizards, a game that included an impressive 34-point performance by the greatest basketball player of all time.
While the fact that I have nothing going for me gives me some reservations about somebody who is so incredibly good at what he does, it was difficult not to feel a sense of awe watching Michael Jordan repeatedly drain his patented fadeaway.
So, for those of you who were wondering how my spring break went, the answer is a complicated one. I may not have gotten to take body shots from the breasts of a gorgeous UCLA student in Cancun, but it's not every day that you get to observe a legend in action. Plus, there's always next year.
