Cruises: My Floating Nightmare

If there is one word that gives me nightmares, sweaty palms, and the sudden urge to fake my own death, it’s this:

Cruises.

You know the ones—those floating mega-malls stuffed with THOUSANDS of your new best friends, all of them eager to bond over buffet shrimp and shuffleboard. Where every hallway smells faintly of chlorine and regret. And where the cruise director is so young and peppy, you’re pretty sure she still believes in Santa Claus.

I don’t care how “affordable” they are. Or how “fun” everyone says they’ll be. You want me to willingly lock myself on a boat with strangers, line up for food that tastes like beige, and pretend the microscopic pool isn’t a giant petri dish of sunscreen, sweat, and questionable decisions?

No, thank you. I’ve seen Titanic. I know how this ends.

Let’s talk about the “entertainment.” If I wanted to watch an off-key Elvis impersonator in a rhinestone jumpsuit sweating through Suspicious Minds while I sip on a watered-down daiquiri in a room that smells like despair and feet—I’d just go to my cousin Debbie’s second wedding.

The excursions? You mean the guided stampedes where you and 46 other sunburned souls follow someone holding a plastic flower on a stick through a souvenir shop “authentic marketplace” that sells magnets and tequila shot glasses? Hard pass.

But perhaps worst of all… there’s no escape. You’re trapped. At sea. With theme nights.

Theme. Nights.

My idea of a relaxing vacation doesn’t involve dressing like a pirate on purpose. Or pretending I’m enjoying a conga line with a retired dentist named Carl who just spilled his piña colada on my orthopedic sandals.

Look, if cruises are your thing—God bless. Float on. But me? I’ll take a quiet Airbnb, a paperback, and nobody knocking on my door asking if I want to join Zumba at sunrise.

Bon voyage, darlings. Without me.