Slowly, slowly you settle in. You relax a little more each day. You turn down the offer to read a paper. You forget to charge your phone for four straight days. You forget to check your email. Heck, you forget your email password.
It doesn't matter that the kids are up at 6 every single morning because there's a beach bed under a thatched-roof cabana out there with your name on it. The day's activities consist of wave jumping, amateur sand castle construction, "motorboating" in the pool, and falling deeper in love with your two little girls. Sometimes you even take a break from all the hard work to just stare at the sliver moon in the daytime sky.
At night? Tequila.
(Also a truly surreal bit of "entertainment" in which Mexican So You Think You Can Dance rejects recreate dance routines from movies like Dirty Dancing and Evita. The highlight was most definitely a medley introduced with "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN...A GREAT HOLLYWOOD FAVORITE...THE GREASE!")
You find your routine. You find your mojo. You're on first-name basis with the beach waiters and you know exactly which bartender mixes the best margarita. You're not rested exactly, but you're not anxious either. Soon enough, you're that woman, the one meandering barefoot through the open air lobby as the pale arriving tourists pull up their knee socks.
And the moment that the transformation is complete always falls on the exact day it's time to go home.
Eh, it's not all bad. I've got Julie's virtual shower to celebrate (you're invited too!) and a whole new season of Rock of Love. Plus I get to be a dick walking around with a tan in zero-degree wind chill.