Culture No. 22: Martha's Vineyard

As a tween, I absolutely hated sleepovers. (And if the word had been invented yet, I also would have hated being called a “tween.” As accurate as it may seem, I think the world needs to come up with something less disease-sounding to label that condition.)

Anyrate: sleepovers. I didn't mind the small, one-on-one kind you spring on your mother at the last minute and she can’t deny because your puppy dog face is just that good. (Mine wasn't. I just have a really nice Mom.) Those were okay. Those I rather enjoyed. It was the large, birthday party kind that were planned months in advance and inevitably involved a majority of my middle school frienemies that filled me with dread for weeks on end. I can attribute this dread to three truths concerning my adolescent self:

1. I found the bureaucratic decision-making process of pubescent (also a terrible word) females to be the most frustrating thing I’d ever encountered in my twelve years of existence.
2. I was incapable of staying awake past midnight, which meant that eventually I would be trampled by a herd of giggling peers with wet feet who decided to go outside to spy on someone’s older brother through his window and felt the need to retreat directly across my sleeping bag. I would also wake up first and be bored until someone else’s mother took pity on me and fed me cereal, which meant by the time the 'real' breakfast of pancakes or waffles rolled around, I would no longer be hungry. (I feel like now would be an appropriate time to cue the "Poor Sarah" music. Thank you.)
3. I would be forced to watch a horror movie, which would consequently deprive me of sleep for at least two weeks. (Fun Fact: I once saw a picture of Chucky in a video store and did not sleep with my back to the door for an entire month. An impressionable child? Perhaps. I prefer imaginative…)

(And yes, with slight, age-appropriate adjustments, I will be the first to admit that none of these things have really changed. Apparently, I was born a cranky, old woman.)

The horror movie of choice was usually Jaws or one of its sequels, which I now find nostalgically amusing because Jaws is really nothing compared to most of the horror trash they churn out nowadays. (Oh man, the old woman is out in full force today. Apologies.) So when one of my friends suggested a group of us go to Martha’s Vineyard (aka the filmplace of Jaws) for an entire weekend, my first thought was: I’m going to need a bigger boat.

Okay, no, not really. That was just some fun, Jaws-humor to show you how hip and non-cranky I really am. My first thought was actually: I love these girls so much, why yes, I will face a man-eating shark just to see them.

Thankfully, Jaws was MIA. I also survived the Portuguese Man-o-Wars, the abandoned 1950s artillery shells, the nude beach (in addition to the regular beach – always a feat for Little Miss Pasty), the semi-dry-in-a-nonsensical-way towns (*cough*Vineyard Haven*cough*), and the Vineyard Vines stores, which I was told I could not enter on pain of 'friend excommunication.' (Friends don't let friends shop at Vineyard Vines?) We stayed at the hostel in West Tisbury, which was the first American one I've ever stayed at and definitely one of the nicest yet. It's run by an older couple from Richmond, VA, who were so nice I kind of wanted to take them home. (Mr. Hostel makes amazing whole grain pancakes. Pancake-making skillz are always nice to have around the house.)

And, of course, I got some serious hangout time with my Berkshire crew. I love that no matter where we go or what we do, we always seem to find our way back to each other. Granted, most of the gang still lives in Massachusetts, but we’ve all come so far from the days when we lived within a few streets of each other. I know the Arnold Street potlucks go on without me, but it’s nice to know I’m still part of the group, even in my absence. That’s when you know you have the best friends ever. <3