Girls Are Hanging From The Ceiling: A Thirtysomething Returns To Spring Break


Last week, a bunch of Too Old For This Shit ladies went to Cancun. I was one of them. We did not witness any drug violence or beer-bonging by teen moms. But we did see the drunkest Pink impression ever.

As a former spring breaker — I went to Acapulco ten years ago, where the foam at a foam party went over my head and, unable to breathe, I had to be rescued — I was hoping to gain some sort of insight into my insecure, wayward youth, now from the pseudo-objective standpoint of an experienced observer.

Reader, I had no revelations. But if I have seen further, it was by standing on the shoulders of Senor Frog.

I took this trip as a sort of reunion with my college girlfriends; I won’t bother with the details as to why a bunch of 30-something women, almost all of whom are married or in serious relationships, went to a Spring Break Ground Zero. While we stayed somewhere far from Cancun’s raucous strip, but we still had a very loud Spring Break-y hotel next door to us. Which was awesome, because we could mosey on over and see this whenever we wanted:

Watching this sort of thing, we were inclined to feel like dirty voyeurs — but the 70-year-old grandpa-types gawking from the corners of the pool area had that market covered. Which made me wonder: Considering we ourselves were not immune to the charms of a dude splashing water on us while we drunkenly gyrated some ten years ago, who was watching us? How many dirty old men were lurking near the swim-up bar? Who knows. We, like these ladies, were certainly too drunk to notice.

But back to a very special night at Senor Frog’s. We couldn’t resist — and good thing we didn’t, or we might have missed this:

Yeah, that’s exactly what it looks like: A drunk girl willingly lifted up by her ankles into the air, fog machine a’blasting, and spun around over revelers like a sunburned Cirque du Soleil. (Not that I’m judging; I might’ve done the same thing when I was 20, though my version would definitely have involved my own vomit.)

And, weirdly enough, there were parents watching the whole time, vigilantly observing the debauchery from a perch in the back. I’m glad that there was some supervision of the under-21 crowd, but standing there watching your baby girl get freaked on a stage by some douchebag while another young lady is being spun above the crowd a la Pink strikes me as a disturbing experience for any parent. Which, judging by the expressions on their faces, it was.

But who cares about some sad dad? I was wasted.

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