Currently, I'm on an NJTransit train back from the beach. Fourteen hours ago I was drinking margaritas and playing Settlers of Catan (because I am The Coolest). Twenty four hours ago I was on the beach. So far, the most exciting thing to happen on the return trip is that one of the conductors screamed at a forty-something couple who wanted to bring their bikes on the train, peppering his speech heavily with the F-word, because this is NJTransit, not the elitist off-peak MetroNorth to Greenwich (which, truth be told, has its share of rowdiness, at least while the bar cars were still active)

Probably the worst thing about coming back from a trip is how miserable the return itself is, in sharp contrast to the promise and excitement of your outbound journey. Who cares about waking up early to go TO the beach? Of course there's traffic! Going to the beach is a great idea that lots of people had! You sing songs and play games with the road signs ("Silver alert! Ha ha ha!"), you talk about life and your job and your apartment in broad strokes, and there's a sense of camraderie because your all escaping lame things and responsibilities (see above: life and job and apartment) to go to the beach because you are all geniuses who had the same great idea as 15 million other geniuses stuck in the same traffic jam. Then, suddenly, it's all over and you're running late and maybe missing your train and half your worldly possessions are sandy which means you'll have to do laundry again and you'll probably have to get up at like 4am tomorrow just so you have time to wash your clothes and rearrange all your furniture and still spend a solid fourteen hours looking for a job online that doesn't require and advanced degree and ten years experience and the ability to code in Java and Flash.

Ultimately, though, I should appreciate these little panic attacks because they correct my anxiety equilibrium. Otherwise I'd just spend all day analyzing my sunburn patterns.