In 27 days, hubby and I will be going from this:



to this:



Yesterday, Peter and I booked a weeklong all-inclusive at the Majestic Colonial in Punta Cana, the same resort we spent a week at two years ago. To say that I'm pumped is a gross understatement.

This vacation is what I'm calling my Sanity Maintenance Plan. Things have been absolutely apeshit around these parts, between work and house hunting and just being trapped in the grips of a gross Canadian winter, and my nightly 3am panic attacks are not a ritual I'm keen on making permanent, so we decided a week of sun, sand, and cervesas is what we need to keep us from legit flipping out.

Before we'd been on an all-inclusive, I was pretty "meh" on the whole idea. "It's not real traveling", I thought.

Maybe not--but let's look at some facts:

-you don't have to pay for anything the entire time you're there. You can get on the airplane with ZERO DOLLARS and you're golden for the whole week.
-the sun shines every day.
-you eat as much food as you can.
-you drink as much alcohol as you can.
-Blackberries don't get reception.
-the towels in your room are folded into animal shapes.
-you get to say HOLA! and people don't look at you like you're retarded.
-you get a sweet tan.
-they have horses.
-you get to pee in the pool next to the swim-up bar and then laugh at all the Jagerbombers who are standing and drinking in your pee.

And so begins my 27-day boot camp, during which I'll be working out four hours a day and subsisting on water, apples and oxygen while slathering myself in self-tanner in a joint effort to ensure people aren't blinded by the sun reflecting off my wide white ass lumbering down the beach.