Here’s the honest truth. I never had a “real” spring break in college. My parents put the kibosh on every trip I was ever invited on: Cancun (too slutty, said my mother), Disney World (not age-specific, said my father), and rock climbing in Thailand (certain death and dismemberment, said my mother). My junior year, my father attempted to appease my anguished attempts at letting loose by offering me a family-oriented jaunt to the location of my choice. I picked surfing in Florida. He took us to a golf resort in Wisconsin—with a pool, he pointed out. The next fall, despite irrational fears my parents would cut off my academic funding, I snuck off for a three-day weekend to Kentucky to drink whiskey and climb the Red River Gorge Geological Area with three guy friends. We arrived at dusk, rolled out of the car, and immediately put on our gear and headlamps. We climbed until 2 a.m. As I reached the top of a 140-foot-tall climb, I stopped for a moment at the anchors to listen to the muffled laughter of my friends, and heard crickets. I let go of the guilt that had plagued me the entire drive down, slowly rappelled to the ground, and started to have fun.
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