Greetings, faithful patrons of the SJ Hotel! While the world spins ever onward into chaos—March 21 2025, if you’re keeping score—I find myself planted firmly in Knoxville, Tennessee, sipping a cold Diet Dr. Pepper and contemplating the meaning of life. Or at least the meaning of not burning vacation days on a boat with 3,000 strangers who think “all-you-can-eat shrimp” is a personality trait.

My esteemed colleague, let’s call her “Cruise Girl” (because I’m petty and she’s currently floating somewhere off the Gulf Coast), decided to ditch terra firma for a week of seasickness and overpriced margaritas. Me? I’m having a staycation, and it’s glorious.

Now, don’t get me wrong—when Cruise Girl announced her grand plan to sail away on what she called “a well-deserved break” with her family I nodded politely while internally picturing her wedged between a sunburned retiree and a karaoke machine belting out “Sweet Caroline” for the 847th time. She tried to sell me on it, too. “Chris,” she said, eyes gleaming with the zeal of a woman who’s clearly forgotten about norovirus, “you’ve gotta do another cruise. It’s relaxing! It’s luxurious! The one I’m going on has a waterslide!” I told her I’d rather slide down the side of Neyland Stadium on a sheet of cardboard than pay to be trapped on a floating Petri dish. She shrugged, packed her flip-flops, and off she went. Bon voyage, sucker.

You didn’t even pay for the drink package and you’re going on a cruise with your family. Who’s the mark again?

Meanwhile, here I am, living the dream in Knoxville. Day one of the staycation kicked off with a heroic attempt to sleep past 7 a.m., only to be thwarted by the neighbor’s beagle, who apparently moonlights as an air-raid siren. No matter—I rallied with a breakfast of egg whites, bacon and fruit. Complimenting this feast was a cup of coffee strong enough to wake a coma patient. Then it was off to the couch, where I spent a solid hour debating whether to watch Die Hard (a Christmas movie, fight me) or binge reruns of The Office. Spoiler: I did both, because staycations don’t judge your multitasking skills.

Knoxville’s got its charms, you know. I took a stroll down Gay Street yesterday, dodging the hipsters and their $12 lattes, and ended up at the Sunsphere—because nothing screams “vacation” like staring at a giant golden ball and wondering why we thought it was a good idea in 1982. I considered hitting up Market Square, but the thought of fighting a pack of tourists for a seat at Tomato Head made me retreat to the safety of my porch. There, I cracked open a beer and watched the squirrels fight over an acorn like it was the last chopper out of Saigon. Nature’s reality TV, free of charge.

Cruise Girl, bless her heart, texted me a blurry photo of some neon-blue cocktail with a tiny umbrella in it. “Living the high life!” she wrote. I sent back a picture of my dog gazing at me from her cushy bed and captioned it, “Same.” She doesn’t need to know I spent the afternoon conquering three dungeons in “The Legend of Zelda: Tears Of the Kingdom” or that I briefly considered starting a podcast called “Seaton’s Staycation Station” before realizing I’d rather nap. Let her have shuffleboard and conga lines—I’ve got Wi-Fi, a fridge full of snacks, and zero risk of a buffet-related incident.

Look, I get it. Cruises have their appeal if you’re into towel animals and pretending you’re in a floating rom-com. But me? I’ll take Knoxville’s quiet weirdness over that any day. No TSA pat-downs, no dress code, no chance of a rogue wave sending my dignity overboard. Plus, I can get my fill of crazy and people watching with a ten minute trip to the West Town Kroger.

So here’s to staycations, folks. May your colleague’s cruise be smooth sailing, and may my couch hold up under the weight of my profound laziness. Catch you next week—unless Cruise Girl brings back some exotic ship plague, in which case, send help.