Please don't throw me in the briar patch

When the idea of a resort vacation came up, I was staunchly against it. I wanted my son to know Tuolomne Meadows, the feel of ice forming on your brow in the early morning as you burrowed deeper into your army blankets and silently begged someone, anyone to start a fire for you. To know what it's like to drag a cooler down a dirt road for 1/4 mile only to find that all your baggies have perforated, leaving you with steak marinated in ice water, olive oil and grapes. To understand what truly dirty is, after biking 20 miles, sleeping on the beach, surfing, and then riding home again. Resorts are for wimps, old men with cigars and their trophy wives or children who are afraid of mud, bugs and making their own beds.

And then we booked our vacation at a five-star resort just outside of Puerto Vallarta. I took a virtual tour of the spa...the kids club...the infinity pool with the swim-up bar under the palapas roof. I saw the dozens of beach chairs on the broad sandy beach around a clear, smooth bay, the waiters with trays of creamy piña coladas and their white teeth bared in a nearly friendly smile. I saw a suite with two bedrooms on either side of a cool, tiled living room with a DVD player, a coffee maker that could easily whip up my Peet's lifeblood in a matter of minutes, and the jacuzzi tub in the master bath.

I kept up my protests, though they became weaker with each 60-hour workweek. I secretly tried on my bathing suits and "resort wear" for weeks and checked the weather in Puerto Vallarta religiously. As we approach T-1, I now say who needs roughing it when Amalia from the spa is calling to confirm your Lomi Lomi massage with the happiest ending of all...a piña colada on a white sand beach, a happy kid who's spent the day sliding and swinging and building sand castles, and a husband who smells more like sea and sun than pizza.

Adíos, mis amig@s! I'll be back on the 27th. Until then, have some chips and salsa and think of me.