Timeshare Junior High

Timeshare Junior High School

Remember the living hell that was Junior High School? Everybody was subjected to some kind of bullying. There was a lot of shaming if you didn’t have the best clothes, best grades or best body. So, imagine my surprise when I traveled to my Mazatlan, Mexico timeshare of 15 years and was confronted with basically the same behaviors from fellow timeshare owners. I never, ever encountered this behavior before the pandemic. Thus, my conclusion is that being inside for two years caused many people to regress emotionally. The good news is I’ve often thought (over a half of century of thinking) about what zingers I should have said while enduring Junior High. I have a quiver full of them.

Being it was still Covid season, albeit with our booster shots, my husband and I grabbed a curtained cabana and stayed to ourselves. We do not vacation with groups. We travel to get away from groups. I love the shelter of my cabana tent, like a couch-cushion-fort facing the water. That is, until your big brother comes in and ruins everything.

With 90-degree temps it meant leaving our sanctuary and going into the pool. And that is when I met the Timeshare Clique. This is how they introduced themselves. “Hi, I’m Bob we’re on the 14th floor”, “I’m Jane I own the Penthouse in the big tower”. “Sue here, we’re in the newest units on the top of the new tower”. Lordy how I hate the nouveau riche. As if the air were more rarified up there. Newsflash: it’s hotter higher up and yes, there is more pollution. And if I want to see the view up high, every floor has a small porch off the elevator banks.  So of course I answered. “Oh, that’s too bad. Your vacations must be filled with visitors and having to cook. My wee unit is on the third floor, just a room with a coffee maker, a bed and a great bathroom. I don’t have a couch so some relative can’t do the guilt trip me with, ‘I’ll just sleep on your coach. I’ll be no bother at all.’ ”

Then there was the brag of how many weeks they owned out of a year. I would look startled and say, “My, my you have to prepare food for all those people how many weeks?” My sarcasm was mostly lost on them. This was especially true for one bouncy little barfly I’ll call Brenda. It was the week that Hurricane Pamela hit the coast of Mexico. As it was bearing down, I was sitting by myself and watching the swirling clouds. Out of nowhere Brenda was three feet from my face and offered in whiffs of rum this gem: “I have prayed that the hurricane doesn’t hit here.” “Well,” I answered, “I’m not sure I deserve that.” “Oh,” Brenda pushed on, “Don’t you believe you are a child of God that deserves everything?” My answer, “I am a child of God for sure, but so are the other people over there in Cabo.” “Oh, but those are the rich people,” Brenda, in all honesty, blurted out. “So, um, what? To hell with them.” I snipped. “Exactly” she gloated completely missing my sarcasm.

I don’t seek revenge, however, if the opportunity surfaces, so be it. After the storm hit our hotel, the elevators were out for three days. Such squealing and screeching as the Timeshare Clique had to schlep to the upper floors after dinner. As I passed Brenda in the lobby I exclaimed, “Isn’t God so good to give you all this exercise climbing stairs?” Yeah, okay, I too had slipped back into my Junior High persona, but now I had comebacks to their snobbery. I’d waited over a half century for that day. And yeah, sarcasm is my superpower.

Sally Franz and her third husband live on the Olympic Peninsula. She has two daughters, a stepson, and three grandchildren. Sally is the author of several humor books including Scrambled Leggs: A Snarky Tale of Hospital Hooey and The Baby Boomer’s Guide to Menopause


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