Dear Spring Break,

I don't normally write these kinds of letters, but something about you makes me want to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) and describe, in graphic detail, all the things that make you delectable. 

Let's start with the length you: ten whole days of freedom.  Ten whole nights of staying up late watching old movies.  240 whole consecutive hours in which I don't have to wear real clothes or even shoes for that matter.  14,400 minutes to take long naps and even longer bubble baths.  864,000 seconds to lose track of--afternoons to get lost in pulp novels, mornings to while away over a cup of coffee. 

But that's not all, Spring Break.  I've only just scratched the surface of your deliciousness.  I haven't even gotten to your luxuriousness, like a mink coat or velvet on bare skin.  Every inch of you begs to be saturated in pure, unadulterated enjoyment.  Yes, you say, to drinking wine on the porch!  Yes to locking away your teacher-self, as you do your teacher wardrobe, in your closet--no need to feel so downright responsible all the time.  Yes to indulging in your introversion! Yes to rejecting firm schedules! Yes!  Yes! You are E. M. Forster's Yes to the everlasting Why.

Spring Break, you are the biggest flirt that ever lived, egging me on with your promises of fun, your coy hints at bottomless pleasure.  Spring Break you seduce me with your no-nonsense approach to hedonism--nothing must be done that is not thoroughly, completely enjoyed. 

Life, you tell me, is a celebration.

Sincerely,

Maria

PS I like you.  Do you like me?  Please circle one: Yes    No     Maybe