When I’m on vacation, relaxation is rarely synonymous with inactivity. Rather, once released from desk duty, I can barely contain myself, heading off to kayak, hike, fish or, at the very least, buzz about some new locale like an over-caffeinated tourist on a quest to show off her Bermuda shorts to anyone foolish enough to look.

But, as it turned out, a week sitting on my ass in Mexico was just what the proverbial doctor ordered, dire warnings from the Centers for Disease Control notwithstanding. So disconnected were my friends and I from the real world, we knew nothing about the whole swine flu thing until we were back at home. I offered to stay away from the office for a couple of weeks after I returned, just to make sure I didn’t bring back anything more insidious than splotchy legs, but no such luck.

Anyway, things were so laid back at the beach house in Baja, I was practically prone. I brought three books with me, but was too busy staring, mesmerized, at the breaking surf to read them. By midweek, I was only half-way through the second chapter of the first book, and I read Chapter 1 at home. What can I say? The ham­mock was calling and it was nap time ” again.

Post-siesta, I sat on the beach or the expansive patio, mainlining guacamole and tequila, sedated by sunshine and the rhythmic crashing of the waves.

My resolve to make liberal use of the well-appointed gym on the premises dissolved faster than my footprints in the sand at high tide. By week’s end, the best I could manage was a slow stroll on the beach, pausing every few feet to examine sea shells by the sea shore.

Then, it was back to a deck chair to scan the water for the multitude of rays and occasional whale launching themselves from the depths. By our final days, I couldn’t even be bothered to hoist a pair of binoculars to my face for a better view, content to watch the action from behind my sunglasses while my self-imposed prohibition on alcohol before noon slipped away faster than my week on the beach.

janet@aspentimes.com