How to survive a two-week holiday with your ‘rents

Mollie Mansfield /
Nov 23, 2016 / Culture

Lanzarote, all-inclusive, two weeks, two post-50-year-olds, one 20-year-old and that “never ending bond”. My parents’ aim was to give me some relaxation before embarking on my final year of university, but it probably did the exact opposite. Suddenly it was like I was back living with my parents at home, but instead of making sure I’d made my bed, they were constantly checking I’d put sun cream on that blind-spot on my back. And believe me, they’d do it themselves if I didn’t.

But there’s a way of surviving this tedious turmoil of their “baby” coming on holiday with them, and it’s solely down to doing what you want to do. Luckily my hotel had a gym. And luckily out of the two weeks I made it there a commendable three times. Sometimes it’s just worth sticking out the irritation. However if you can actually be bothered to do some exercise, this is potentially the best way to get out of each others’ hair- whether that’s a swim in the frozen abyss that is your swimming pool, or a go in the semi broke-down gym. Just make sure you don’t instagram it, no one likes a holiday fitness-freak.

The perfect escapism for any event is reading. But it seems as though holidaying really brings out the inner bookworm in us all. If you can immerse yourself in a book, or ten, then you pretty much never have to speak to your parents again. Girl on the Train was potentially the best read for me during this ever-so-difficult time, because it gave me a three-day pass on communication. However I’d save this one for a quarter of the way in, when you’ve pretty much run dry of topics to talk about, but before your mum starts asking you about your sex life.

However you can also take it on the chin, accept the free holiday and actually do that “bonding” thing with them. Personally, as an only child I’ve always had a tight-nit relationship with my rents, but sometimes two weeks in their company can push me over board. But with food poisoning incidents, dodgy tan lines and countless stereotypical Spanish waiters asking my parents for my hand in marriage, there was more than enough to keep us occupied.

Words by Mollie Mansfield

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